It had been a while since I carved an ale bowl, so it was fun to make another recently, in this case an ale duck. I’ve written several posts about ale bowls, including some that go into my carving process, but this one inspired a couple more thoughts about making these things.
The form is complex enough that I still have to think about how it all will come together. For example, it’s difficult to visualize the final curves around the tail in the early stages of roughing. Then I remember not to think of such details until much later in the process; to cross certain bridges when I get to them — whether it’s a new design idea or a version of one I’ve done before. Take care of the overall form before any details; don’t worry about where Broadway is until I’ve found my way to New York.
Once the form is established and 95% of the wood to be removed is already on the shop floor, a whole new phase begins. The wood is dry and the form itself is there, but that last handful of fine chips can make a big difference. Time slows down a bit and I focus on the final flow of the lines and the surface cuts. In his 1945 book How I Make Woodcuts and Wood Engravings, Hans Alexander Mueller expresses working in a “delirium of concentration.” That describes this stage well.
This one was 10 1/2 inches long and 6 1/2 inches wide, in black cherry. Lots of fun. One of several bowls I’ve been working on that are already spoken for, then I’m ready for some freestyling.
I keep a few beaver-chewed sticks in the shop, and I marvel at the lovely pattern left on the surface, better than the tool marks left by any gouge. I even made a bowl once on which I left the handles and rim straight from the beaver’s teeth.
When you screw up or things just aren’t going right, take a walk. You might see a beaver while you’re out, or a sunset as you near home to help put it all in perspective.
About a year and a half ago, at Greenwood Fest 2016, Jögge Sundquist taught a class on carving a Swedish distaff, traditionally used for holding flax or other fibers while spinning. As Jögge explained, when a man proposed marriage to a woman, he carved an ornamental distaff as a gift for her. The skill reflected in the carving would be a reminder of his qualities as a potential partner and mate. If she accepted the gift, all was set, no need for words or a jumbotron proposal.
I had started a distaff then, but hadn’t gotten around to it since. I’ve finally finished it as a little Christmas gift for my daughter, my wife having been fooled, I mean wooed, by me many years ago.
Many of you know that Jögge’s biggest woodworking hero is his father, Wille. Wille’s book, Swedish Carving Techniques is a must-have book if you’d like to carve spoons and bowls.
And before I leave the subject of carving books, I’ve got to suggest another great one, just published. 
