The Book With the Hole In It, Part 2

"Brian only speaks the truth."

Around 1973, I answered an advertisement for a freelance carpenter (see Part 1 here) to work on a retail store restoration on 3rd Avenue in the 20s. I arranged to meet and interview with Max, the new shop owner. For some reason, he took an immediate liking to me with an inexplicable level of confidence, in spite of my lack of experience.

In the course of the interview, he became fixated on knowing whether or not I had ever fallen on my head. His assertion was that this typically opened a person's "third eye," apparently something he was looking for. I decided to play my cards carefully and responded in a vague enough manner to let him believe what he wanted. I was immediately hired and soon promoted to be in charge of the entire construction project - something I was clearly not qualified for in any way. No matter, however, since this project was to derail rather quickly.

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The Book With the Hole In It, Part 1.

In the early 1970s, I worked as a freelance carpenter. At the time, numerous small agencies existed for small jobs - some only requiring a day or even several hours of work. Jobs were immediate and plentiful. Virtually no experience was necessary. Of course, better skills, feedback from clients, and reliability all factored into getting more and better jobs from the agencies.

Those who were ambitious could parlay their experience and get affluent clients, repeat work and even very long assignments with great perks. One friend managed to get a position for months at a time as handyman at the Connecticut country home of a New York City resident. His employment included living at their country home for what essentially amounted to an all-expense-paid summer vacation with added pay. Affluent clients were typically quite generous and appreciative of those willing to do skilled and unskilled labor and indulge their whims and fancies.

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It's Perfect

I was once led to visit an artist on Broadway, only a few blocks from my office. Not knowing whether my destination would be of interest, I paid no mind to exactly where I was going or who I was visiting. I have no idea what her name was to this day, but we had a conversation that left an indelible imprint in my mind.

Her work was quite unique - furniture as art. What particularly struck me was her use of machinist's tools and equipment. Her work was impeccable - I had never seen anything crafted so perfectly and I told her so. She did not take the complement but instead corrected my choice of words. Precision she said, not Perfection.

Touché. A distinction very well made. We had a conversation about it, but she was preaching to the choir. I have reflected on her comment a myriad of times - often when I work or whenever the word "perfect" is used emphatically in praise of a product well made.

When it comes to man made articles, it is quite true. Perfection does not exist, only tolerances and precision. Given measuring devices accurate enough, anything manufactured will vary from its specifications. Certainly the eye or hand will be unable to perceive variations within tolerances in a finely crafted article, but the lack of perfection is there nonetheless.

I'm not sure what surprises people most - what I do for a living or that I do it in Manhattan in a prime SoHo location. I do maintain a machine shop on Broadway. In the photo, I am machining a part on a 1951 LeBlond lathe.The machine is a real workhorse, made at a time when American machinery was built to last. This machine will likely outlive me.

I often wonder how many lathes are left in New York City, particularly Manhattan. I only know of a couple of machine shops. In the 1990s, there was a small machinist who occupied an entire one story building on Crosby Street around the corner from me. At one time, numerous other small manufacturers dotted the area, even entire buildings were occupied. I never appreciated the luxury of strolling to a machine shop and in minutes discussing a project, leaving drawings and picking up parts in hours or a day. The place is now a carpet shop.

My lathe was purchased at Grand Machinery Exchange on Lafayette Street in a area once known as machine shop row. There were 40 machinery dealers in the area north of Canal Street. Grand Machinery was the last of these dealers and relocated to Long Island in 2006. I very much would have loved to do a story on them, however, I only learned of their closing a few days after their move. My visit there was only to press my face against dirty windows and peer into an empty industrial ground floor space.

I do love machining a metal part. It is so satisfying to produce something with a high level of precision in a world of the unpredictable, uncertain or mutable and riddled with poorly made articles. When I take a beautiful gleaming metal part off that lathe, check it with my Mitutoyo digital caliper and find that the diameter is exactly what I wanted, there are no thoughts about that artist on Broadway and the nuances of perfection versus precision. It's perfect.

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