Making is such a personal experience. For me it’s when I am most grounded and, while I remain incredibly present, what I am making is in a state of unfolding with its sights set on the future. As my hands work and mind rests, a tangible form takes shape and begins a life of its own. It’s both a humble and powerful feeling, knowing your technique intimately, dancing quietly with a raw material, guiding it to become something more, and knowing when to allow it to lead. Standing back to admire its finished form, you can’t help but feel you have contributed something meaningful—that you have left your mark.
Whatever shape or form the mark is made in, the practice of each individual maker is usually fueled by a combination of elements. In my case, I have a lingering fascination with the past. Maybe it’s not so much a fascination as a sense of nostalgia; either way, I feel compelled to see it exist fresh-faced in the present and able to stand tall in the years to come. Despite many traditional making practices being lost through the centuries or modernized by technology, I love that makers today, whether they realize it or not, are essentially carrying on the legacy of those who made before them. Of course, every maker’s mark is theirs alone, but the foundations of the modern maker are rooted in history. As a maker myself, this thought provokes in me a true sense of camaraderie – of belonging to something significant.
The differences between us modern makers and our medieval comrades are substantial but on a fundamental level we couldn’t be more connected. Making, when embraced and nurtured, is like winning the lottery of self-fulfillment. The delight in bringing something beautiful into existence with your bare hands is as rewarding today as I’m sure it was hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago.
In an added layer of sentimentality, I also have a tendency to identify more with the makers of the past who crafted pieces specifically for their homes and the spaces of others. From rickety three-legged wooden stools and rustic tin dinner plates shaped by humble makers, to intricately carved four-poster beds and finely built porcelain tea sets formed by master craftsmen, I cannot help but feel inspired and in awe of past makers who forged the way, intent on bringing comfort, beauty, and individuality to where and how they lived.
Humans have been makers since the beginning of time. And, in light of the early troubleshooting we needed in order to simply eat, sleep, and protect ourselves from the elements, we were also incredible designers. Granted, the output of those early makers—predominantly stone tools, weapons, and utensils—is seemingly naïve. On closer inspection, however, the techniques formed in response to available materials illustrate just how proficient we were with our hands right from the get-go. Let’s face it: makers are a bunch of impressively clever folks.
As time passed, our skill, along with our maker’s eye, developed and we went from making for survival, to considering pleasure, expressing status, and applying comfort. In terms of creating a home, when early makers began to discover and appreciate the value of aesthetics, making took on a whole new meaning and was expressed through the introduction of surface decoration, precious materials, and intricate forms. As our capabilities progressed, so too did the ease with which our daily tasks could be performed, leaving some of us with time in the day to make for enjoyment.
William Morris, 1834–96, was the founder of the British Arts and Crafts Movement and a passionate advocate for the makers’ output following the Industrial Revolution.
Now picture this. . . it’s the Middle Ages and making, which until now has been a free-for-all, becomes controlled by the individual guilds that are formed to represent every handicraft within all towns and cities. Due to their geographical scattering, country folk are exempt and remain as entrepreneurs trading under the term “cottage industry.” But city dwellers across Europe are now required to operate under guild regulations. Monopolistic in nature, the guilds are a ticket to riches for those who determine the laws and have the power to grant who makes what, where, for whom, and for what price. The makers have these laws imposed upon them and, well, they are somewhat bummed. The learning maker now faces years as a beginner apprentice, followed by many more years as a middle-level journeyman, before producing a masterpiece that will hopefully gain him the title of Master Craftsman, full admission to the guild, and permission to trade. Focusing on the positive, it is certainly a favorable move in the creation of standards for craftsmanship.
Fast forward to the late 1700s as the Industrial Revolution swings into action. Machines are taking over the making of everything we need. Like collapsing lines of dominoes, makers are quickly made superfluous, guilds start to fold, and our household furniture and objects become aesthetically utilitarian. It seems the value of craftsmanship and the maker will be lost, until the heroic form of an English architect arrives to save the day. Enter, in 1860-ish, William Morris, a man who desperately loves the makers’ output and despises what the Industrial Revolution has done to craftsmanship. In an effort to change attitudes in Britain he sets about reviving traditional crafts and production methods by establishing Morris & Co, a super-hip decorative arts firm. Making and selling highly decorative tapestries, wallpaper, fabric, furniture, and stained-glass windows, Morris’s efforts result in a crusade that is labeled the Arts and Crafts Movement. His statement “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful,” unknowingly heralds the arrival of the makers’ liberator: modernism, in which utility is as important as beauty. While Morris does an awesome job of bringing attention back to the maker and the unique decorating of a space, the price of craftsmanship still has unbeatable competition in the form of affordable machine-made goods. Alas, it seems as if things can only be produced one way or the other.
Something has got to give and indeed it does, half a century later in 1919 at the hands of another architect, Walter Gropius. This innovative thinker cleverly introduces a modern “less is more” approach to design. A fan of Morris, Gropius opens a school in Germany named Staatliches Bauhaus. It becomes known simply as Bauhaus—the name translates to “house of building”—but strangely its teachings are not focused on architecture, but rather the combining of craft with fine arts, which has traditionally been a bit of a no-no. Bauhaus students are taught to look at household objects with a fresh eye, merging craft with technology. The Bauhaus message that form should always follow function, that design should be reduced to its most essential elements, and that there is a way to make peace between mass production and craftsmanship produces furniture such as a set of minimalist nesting tables crafted from solid oak and lacquered acrylic glass. The Bauhaus teachings become an influential design movement and, although the school is closed down in 1933 by the Nazi government, many of its faculty emigrate to the USA and continue to spread and practice its ideologies. Influencing the output of icons such as Charles and Ray Eames, for example, the Bauhaus philosophies continue to provide makers with a solid foundation on which to use good design, craft, and technology to make their output unique and affordable.
Historian I am not, as you can now attest, but this tale of guilds, revolution, and modernism illustrates that we modern makers are a lucky bunch—those who came before have done all the groundwork, leaving us armed with incredible raw materials, technologically advanced tools, and an awareness of good design and technique.
Walter Gropius, 1883–1969, was the force behind the Bauhaus teachings, responsible for the fine marriage of craftsmanship and technology applied in modernism.
Makers have a certain way of looking at the objects around them: a tendency to study them visually, exploring and deconstructing until they make sense, until it’s understood how the object was formed and from what, stopping only when a connection is formed to the hand that made it. Curious creatures when it comes to the tangible, makers are like chefs who instinctively pinpoint ingredients with their tastebuds while eating another’s food. Over time a maker’s eye is developed unknowingly, quietly adding to their understanding of techniques, materials, and design. But how do we even know what craft is the right one for us, or which raw material we will have the deepest connection to? Before you can develop your eye you need to develop a level of self-awareness.
Obviously the modern maker of yore both have inspirational driving forces—things that push them to choose a particular craft or practice—but what they might not have in common is what those forces are. For example, the driving force of early makers was survival, while medieval makers added comfort, pleasure, and status. Modern makers on the other hand are downright spoiled in this department and have the freedom and luxury to be driven by their deepest, most heartfelt inspirations. The more you allow yourself to be aware of everything, from your core values and personality traits, what inspires and challenges you as an individual, to what colors, textures, and shapes resonate with you, the more a craft, or at the very least a category, will speak to you.
Let’s face it, as with anything, to have an authentic experience you need to know what floats your boat. Walk in nature, visit exhibitions, watch films, fill sketch books: do whatever you need to find some space to know yourself inside and out.
The second key to developing a maker’s eye is nurturing skill. Discovering your craft is only the beginning and, just like the medieval makers operating under guild laws, you must give yourself time to bond with your material and technique, discover its strengths and weaknesses, and experiment to achieve mastery. Finding a good teacher and affording yourself time to learn, develop, and explore all make a great difference to the maturing of the maker’s eye, and therefore the authenticity of their output. Teaching yourself isn’t a bad thing of course—a lack of formal training and impressing of rules has offered many a maker (myself included) the freedom to develop their eye unfettered; just don’t let this option hinder the nurturing of real skill. Craftsmanship, or skill, is what gives you power as a maker. It lets you trust that your hands will work diligently to form what you see in your mind and feel in your bones.
You can spot a maker by their tenacity, worker’s hands, overwhelming need to create, and tendency to collect making paraphernalia. Their output, however, is a different matter completely. Despite our standout traits as a collective, we are all incredibly unique, so I certainly don’t intend to pigeonhole the modern maker, but there do seem to be distinctive maker “types.” Distinguishable by their output, the eyes of these makers have been developed by shared drivers and skills. There are many different types of makers, but three examples I am personally drawn to are the innovative modernist, the foraging naturalist, and the imaginative revivalist. There are also rebel makers who blur the lines, merging or even transcending type to stand alone.
Whether the maker is driven by advances in technology, a connection to nature, the desire to give vintage a second go, or something else entirely, it is always a combination of inspiration, individuality, and skill that determines the maker’s mark.
THE MODERNIST
is a risk taker who has his or her finger on the pulse, is a pioneer in the development and use of raw materials and techniques, lives for innovation, sees things in terms of sustainability, pushes the envelope, and breaks new ground.
THE NATURALIST
is a gentle soul, has an overwhelming connection to the seasons, is privy to the source of raw materials, loves to forage, sees his or her output as an extension of nature, plays with organic form, and is guaranteed to make imperfection desirable.
THE REVIVALIST
is imaginative, has a knack for taking dated materials and techniques to a fresh place, is a big fan of redesign, loves to shake things up, sees new in the old, plays with merging eras, and is determined to rewrite the rules.
Making gives you the incredible ability via your hands to create a space that is yours on a very personal level. The same could be said for the treasures you collect for your home and the way you style them, but the act of actually having created those treasures takes the space to a deeper level; it goes beyond collecting, beyond decorating. There is incredible soul in a kitchen whose table was built by the person eating at it, or whose bed is made warm with a quilt stitched by the person sleeping under it.
I am a renter, and being the homebody I am, I never quite feel secure knowing that at any time I could be instructed to move on. Considering Australian renters are unable to paint walls or make other cosmetic changes, the thing that has saved me is making. The fact that I live in a space that doesn’t belong to me is blurred by the energy of the pieces that fill it, in particular the pieces I have made. I connect so deeply with them that no matter what wall they hang on, or corner they light, I am home.
I’m not suggesting that you attempt to master all crafts and fill every room in your home with your own harvest, never to buy a pre-made item again. It’s not about cutting yourself off from enjoying the output of other makers, the beauty of inherited or found pieces, or even the convenience of mass-produced items. It’s about injecting a very intimate part of yourself into the mix and quite literally “making” your space yours.
The following chapters feature many of my favorite making practices, the output and words of admired makers, inspiration, and hard information on taking the common aspects of any interior such as wall art, objects, textiles, ceramics, lighting, and furniture to a deeper level via making. Each chapter closes with an introductory project directed at aspiring makers as further encouragement. Definitely not to be considered as DIY, these projects are focused and simple in purpose, in an effort to allow you to think for yourself, to make from feeling, with only the fundamentals to guide you.
