Wait for a future that might never come.
Those were difficult years. There was not enough of everything to go around, Except for Humanity. Up to this day, my mom often mentions to us the gratitude she felt when a relative came by our home, casually dropping off a precious sack of rice, a bag of cookie, a bunch of bananas...They were looking out for us, knowing that my parents have seven kids to feed. There was also a lot of Inhumanity that went around, but that's a different story. The kids eventually came back to school, but all the adults were unemployed, except for some gig jobs here and there. The new proletariate society had no function they can entrust to white-collar people from the old regime. We lived on the government's miserable food ration. We tried to survive by selling whatever we could, down to a set of dictionaries--a well-utilized treasure of my parents as educators--by the kilo for scrap paper.
Yet, those were the most carefree years of my life. We all lived a rat’s life, but there was no rat race. We didn't have a future, but we had the present. One day at a time. Most importantly, we had one another. Life offers a strange comfort when it collectively hits rock bottom: it is, certainly, a very stable place! There is no danger of an "existential crisis", since existence was distilled down to its purest essence, uncontaminated by the past or the future. At the end, the future came as a set of visas to the US, thanks to my uncle, who sponsored us over via the Family Reunification program. The day I touched down on US soil, I felt the tangible weight of the future and the obligation to siege it with a vengeance. I have been trying to capture the American Dream ever since, for myself, for my family, for my kids. How very busy have I been!
I was living in the cocoon of that Dream when this pesky virus exploded into our world, shook me up and showed me how fragile and ephemeral Dream can be. It brought to the surface this Uncertainty that we all try to suppress or mitigate. It asserts the fact that future, by definition, is never certain. No matter how thick the cushion of our wealth or how many insurance policies we own, the risk of unemployment, separation, failure, illness, death...are here all along for everyone of us. The thing we call "normalcy" is but a very thin veneer. Apply a bit of pressure and it will disintegrate.
How terrifying! Yet, how liberating!
For awhile at least, the pressure of maintaining the statue-quo suddenly lifted. The weight of the future lightened. In this chaotic force of uncertainty, families have to hunker down together, caring for one another, living more in the pressing present. In the past few years I kept telling myself to spend more time with my kids. But there was always an art show coming up and I didn't have enough stock, so to the wood shop I went. In the past few weeks, I have shut down my work completely but I am not feel stressed out about that, since it is no longer a "matter of consequence" (to borrow Saint-Exupéry's expression). The problem is, my kids are teenagers now. They prefer to spend time with their electronics rather than with us parents. But that's OK. I can tend to their needs and retreat to my room, saying Hello to my inner self: Long time no see! How are you? Hang in there! Stay alive! We have been through this before. We will be OK.
]]>It was a delightful addition to my miniature collection. I never suspect that it contains magic, until I tumbled onto this article while searching for information on Red Sandalwood:
http://waynesword.palomar.edu/plmar97.htm
I learned that in India, the shiny red seed of Adenanthera pavonina were used to produce good luck charms known as "Magical Seeds" or Manjadikuru: "The [hard shell] seed is slit across the top, hollowed out, and left to dry. Then a series of elephants is then carved from bone—usually camel bone—and placed inside, with a slightly larger elephant carved to seal the mouth of the tiny container. The idea is that the owner of a Manjadikuru will be granted one wish for each elephant contained in the seed" (quoted from http://elephantaday2.blogspot.com/2013/09/elephant-no-6-manjadikuru.html.)
I felt a rush of anticipation as I got out my own Manjadikuru, pulled out the elephant stopper, and shook out all twelve white elephants from the tiny red seed! All perfectly carved with minute details.
It was such a thrilling, accidental discovery! This little red seed with the magical elephants is definitely the coolest thing that I have ever came across. Such whimsical container! Such awesome content!
Now, to put things in perspective, I do make tiny bead-size containers with a screw-on cap and am very proud of the intricate threads on teeny boxes. But this herd of elephants is an order of magnitude more complex. We are talking about incredible craftsmanship here.
I was so taken by this little surprise that I went on the internet and searched for these magical seeds. I found a source on Ebay (Yes, Ebay is such a great place for obscure thing like this!) and purchased a dozen more just for fun. I learned that not all Manjadikuru are created equal, some have an elephant as the stopper, some just have a knob (like the one I purchased). Some contain carved elephants with elaborate 3D details, others only have flat slivers of crude elephant shape.
I realized that my original, very well made magical seed is a rare specimen, a cultural artifact, and a lost art. But above all, it is such an inspiration for someone like me, who uses traditional, non-computerized tools to create intricate pieces.
]]>I was down there, alone. He was up there somewhere, with her!
And that trip was supposed to be our time together, not one of his rendezvous that I just happen to tag along! Seeing the tourists strolling hand in hand, talking, laughing, eating, enjoying their time together only exacerbated the situation. I felt so acutely the intrusion of this Cyclops into my marriage.
To date, I still don't know how to make it work for the three of us. At home, he is a sweet, devoted husband and father, a man without any vice (except for his infatuation with this Cyclops). At home, she knows her place and just stands quietly, unobtrusively in a corner. She is even useful sometimes, documenting our memorable moments with a couple blinks of her lone eye. Only when we go on a trip all together that tension ensues. Many times, I want to give my husband an ultimatum: leave her home on OUR family vacations. But I know he would be at a loss without her spongy tentacle wrapping around his neck. He would not know what to do with his empty hands. He would be so dejected and would miss her terribly. So, I conceded. My husband is more aware of the three-some problem now. He is trying his best to stay focused on us instead of running off with her when we are on the road. But her lure is strong. Relapses happen. Just one wink from her, he'd be lost to me. I'd find myself left alone with the kids on the hiking trails, desperately trying to deal with their complaints of heat, cold, boredom, fatigue, hunger etc...while he was enrapturing with her elsewhere.
Look at them! Kissing under the cover!
They even had a love child together! My husband had been pregnant with that child for the past 20+ years (yes, that's what happen when you hitched a Cyclops, you carry the load; she gets to keep her slim figure). He recently gave birth to a chubby, 7+ lbs baby. What an exquisitely beautiful thing it is!
http://www.treasuredlandsbook.com
Looking at that child brings back fond memories of the time we share at some of the most beautiful spots on earth. Reluctantly, but I have to thank her for that. Without her insatiable thirst for a change of scenery, my husband--and thus, us--would not have ventured out to enjoy all that natural wonders. This child brings a redeeming quality to my husband's affair with the Cyclops, but it also ensures that she is here to stay. I guess I have to learn to accept this three-company. Only if she could also supervise the kids, cook and clean, then the situation would be much more tolerable.
So, please tell me what am I supposed to do? Perhaps, the best solution is for me to start dating a Cyclops myself???
]]>2) No, there aren't any sexy crossdresser's clothing in there, either. I am a mother of two naturally born kids, with a husband, who naturally happens to be a very nice guy (he took the below picture, and tons more). Some of our best friends, though, used to be in closets...
3) No, I am not even hiding in there, but have been tempted many times to do so, only if I could find a space to sit amongst the grand mess for a few moments of peace and quiet (rare commodities when you have young kids).
So... what's brewing and oozing out of that space I called my closet? Just some innocent, hand crocheted garments
...Sorry to disappoint you, but if you are looking for sensational excitements, listen to the news, search on the net, read the tabloid headlines while paying for your groceries...
I have been having fun selecting fibers, combining them, making and shaping fabrics whenever I have the time away from my wood lathe. I enjoy wearing my creation to the local art shows. But when people starts to ask where I got my garments, dishes out compliments, expresses interests. I began to think-May Be...
I learned to knit and crochet during the summer vacations I spent with my grandparents, in the small coastal town of Vung Tau.
She was a great teacher, my grandma. She taught us only the fundamental: how to form the basic stitches, how to shape the fabric with increase, decrease, short rows, how to estimate size and pattern by eyes. Then she told me I can make anything now, create my own patterns, right out of my head.
That's what I have been doing. I still use the most basic (and slowest) single crochet stitch to create my fabric. I enjoy trying out new fibers as I have enjoyed using many different species of wood in my wood work. I incorporate the color and texture of the yarns into my pattern instead of fancy stitches.
My design principals: simple, soft, light, comfortable, easy care (I am a mom, I don't do dry cleaning and hand washing).
So, here they are, another form of containers, not to store your possession, but to wrap yourself up in them. I have mostly women's garb right now (since I am using myself as the mannikin), but I am a firm believer in the Equal Opportunity Policy, so I am working on something for the men, too. I hope I can come up with something more fun than the classic sweater men receive every Christmas.
Stay tuned!
So, I was sitting at my booth, looking at the jittering crowd, waiting for things to happen. As we all stand for the pledge of allegiance and the national anthem- sung acapella over the loud speaker- a strange feeling washed over me. Sure, I always get teary listening to anthem, always moved by acapella singing, but there was also a realization that this America is what my children will call home.
This America is my Home.
As a transplanted Vietnamese, I don't feel at home any where, not here, not there. I have been happily floating around, like duckweed, with roots, but no attachment. This duckweed was momentarily snagged on a river bank here at Redwood City, watching a stream of people floating by, celebrating the birth of a nation. The parade went on, an endless succession of organizations, services, volunteers, charities, interest groups... forces that defense, protect, maintain and operate this society.
I watched as people from many different background-some wearing their national attire-marching by with the American flags held high. Where else on earth can a hodgepodge of people get together and
create such a powerful nation? Sure, this country has it's own problems, internal, external, some chronic, some acute...but it is still a land of hope and dream... and freedom within boundaries.
This is the land that I exhale and relax after coming back from overseas travels.
This is the land that I feel grateful to be part of, knowing the alternatives.
Heh, is that what a home supposed to feel like? I suddenly felt glad and proud to be right there, right then. I was no longer watching. I was celebrating.
Happy birthday, America!
]]>My daughter loved to play with them, for awhile, then moved on to different toys. In the while, I did the same. I moved from a wood collector to a wood turner, from hobbyist to a shop owner.
I remember on a particular Valentine Day (back when I still made a fuss out of it) I went out of my way searching for a rustic, natural looking wooden heart as a Valentine gift. I couldn't find it anywhere so I had to settle for a metal one (that was pre-Internet, pre-Amazon, pre-Google, pre-Ebay, pre-Etsy time). That incident prompted me to make keychains out of a few hearts and offered them along with my other turnings.
I was surprised to see that there is a demand for them. So, once in awhile, I make a batch. Those hearts are labor intensive, with a lot of hand sanding, filing down what's left of my finger nails in the process. It's not exactly my favorite activity, but there is great satisfaction to transform something that look like this:
to this:
Then, for the love of my daughter, I made hearts. Now, for the love of woods, I keep making hearts.
This piece came from Australia, via a wood exchange operation with a fellow wood collector (thanks, Vern!). Looking at this large junk of wood, I know I have to revise my mental image of this "little house plant." I jumped on the Internet, search for images. Sure enough, the species can grow to very impressive size. Interesting how technology and mass commercialization can warp ours perspective about the nature of things. But this wasn't the first time I see a poinsettia in a different light. The first transformation happened a few years back in the lobby of a local hospital.
Copyright © 2012 Plantscapers,Inc
It was Christmas time, the lobby was decorated with a large Christmas tree full of big red velvet bows and glittering gold strings. Cheerful red poinsettias in gold foil covered pots formed a ring around the base. I sat there in a comfy sofa, looking distractedly at people coming and going.
A red moving dot suddenly caught my eyes. It was a tiny poinsettia, in a small plastic pot, fit entirely in the palm of an old man. What struck me was the way the man held on to it, lovingly and protectively, as if it was the only poinsettia in the world. He bended over, holding it close to his chest, shielding it from the converging crowd, while shuffling into the crowded elevator.
The scuffy poinsettia looked so pitiful, compared to these gorgeous ones under the Christmas tree. But I immediately realize that is is indeed, the only poinsettia that matters at this moment. It will bring warm to a person's heart, not just sitting around, looking pretty. I bowed my head, and offered a silent prayer to whomever that man was visiting.
Poinsettia with Bocote cap
]]>
And, of course, I remember looking up into that beautiful umbrella canopy of the tree, loaded with dangling red balls and dearly wish I could reach up and pick them right off. That wish must be very strong; for it had internalized somehow in my sub conscience and and resurfaced as recurrent dreams. In those dreams, I reach out and pluck the Fish Egg fruit, with intense excitement and satisfaction, tinted with apprehension and guilt. That what Eve must have felt when she yanked off that Forbidden Fruit!
Eve and the Forbidden Fruit
The frustrating thing is, for one reason or another, those dreams always ended before I have the chance to taste the fruit of my labor! May be that's why this dream keeps returning. Maybe some day, I will be able to eat the fruit in my dream.
Dreams aside, I have occasionally ran into that tree while traveling to the tropics. I always feel so happy when that happens, like running into old friends on the street. I make the point of reaching/jumping up and grabbing a fruit or two. I make sure I eat them, dust and all, right on the spot, all the while, feeling a bit embarrassed and silly.
Thanks to the limitless information on the Net, I had identified this obscure species as 'Muntingia calabura'. I even obtained a small piece of it's wood for my collection. The wood is plain, but "sweet dreams are made of these". Chances are, you have already know this tree under a different name [Calabura, Jamaican cherry, Panama berry, Singapore cherry, Sabah cherry, Bajelly tree, Strawberry tree; (Spanish) bolaina, yamanaza, cacaniqua, capulín blanco, nigua, niguito, memizo or memiso; (Indonesia) kersen, talok; (Vietnamese) (cây) Trứng cá; and (Filipino) aratilis, and sarisa]. If you ever come across one, try a fruit for me, will ya.
Slim Box from Trung Ca and Mun Ebony cap
]]>
and/or photos of me working in my own workshop. The general requirement is "you have to make the art yourself", not just design it on a piece of paper or computer screen, but also have your fingers/toes dapple in the making of the product.
This requirement safeguards the show against import/buy and re-sell merchandise, but at the same time it creates the false impression that all "art" has to be created by the artist's hands him/herself. I can name many famous artists, with works selling for mucho, mucho bucks, and a whole army of "assistants" to produce "their works" for them. I guess, when you already established your name as a well known artist/artisan, all you need to do is to sign a piece to make it "yours", since you do need to touch the work at least in one place in order to sign it. But I digress. Now, if the jury decided to accept you into the show, there is a booth fee (~$200 to $2000+ for a ~10'x10' space). More often than not, you need to bring everything to convert that bare space into a mini show room for the weekend. So off I went (online), shopping for shelter and display paraphernalia.
I used to be a backpacker, so the light weight, multi-purpose mentality had a lot of influence in my gear selection. I ended up with the lightest 9'x7' pop-up canopy, and the lightest folding tables. My display stands and trays doubles as carrying cases. Con: I have the only booth in any show with a mini-skirt style canopy that covers only a portion of the 10x10 space.
Despite the added height my home made weight anchors provided, 10% of the population taller than 6'+ has to duck down pass the canopy skirt to enter (I always feel compelled to apologize when that happens!). Pro: my entire booth packs down to fit on a folding roller cart. I can set up/take down everything by myself at a leisurely pace in less than 1 hour. Better yet, I don't need to drive my car into the frantic mess at the beginning and the end of a show; I just roll everything to and from my parked car.
During my first show, there was a constant flux of family, friends and relatives, coming out to show their support. My brothers, sisters camped out at my booth, joined by their friends, they sat in a row on the opposite curbside, just "chilling". I felt so grateful, and nervous. At this rate, my show was already at a lost financially: if I were to add up the wages of those Bay Area professionals, the time they spent rallying around my booth already well exceeded the cost of my entire stock! So, I insisted that I do not need any help, setting up or taking down, and that I would be totally fine by myself.
As a one-woman show, I do need an easy set-up so the process does not kill me. I have not been making a killing, either, but it was such fun! Here at the booth, my customers can actually see the colors and patterns, feel the weight, touch the smooth surface, smell the aroma, try out the threads...I really enjoy meeting my customers and chit chat. Many took the time to share with me things they made themselves, or art pieces that impressed them, their hobby and interest... Some even came with present (many thanks: Isabel for the stylus, Maximilian for the aromatic powder, Phil for the drink!). The greatest present is seeing them coming back again and again, offering the gift of friendship. Fellow woodworkers and wood collectors offer the most interesting conversation, they spent the longest time at my booth, examine the different timbers I have, and compliment the workwomanship :). On top of it all, the company of fellow artists and vendors truly make the experience enjoyable. Super nice people! They are always ready to lend a hand, to share their art show knowledge, to offer words of encouragement, and automatically dish out deep discount, or even refuse payment all together, every time I want to buy their creations. There is also a side-benefit: durability testing of my products. So far, my inventory has been exposed to full sun, temperature fluctuation, repeated handling and miss-handling, occasional dropping, greasy and/or wet fingers, spilled drinks (soda from the kids, wine from distracted grow-up) so far, no casualty (knock on wood!), nothing a little bit of polishing can not fix.
Yes, it's stressful and tiring sometimes. Yes, I do feel guilty not spending the weekend with my kids. But overall, I am still honeymooning with art shows and think it all worth it. Check back a few years later and see how we fare. For now, I am coming back for more!
There are many colorful gums out there: black gum, white gum, red gum, blue gum, rose gum, salmon gum, rainbow gum... They are not the gum that you exercise your jaws with (unless you were a Koala), but trees in the Eucalyptus family. I have something to say about a specific species of blue gum: Eucalyptus globulus.
I've known and loved the scent of this eucalyptus for many many years before ever knowing what the tree looked like. When I was young, Eucalyptus ointment (dau khuynh diep) was very popular as a cure-all. Headache? No problem, rub some on your temples. Tummy ache? Massage some on your belly. Stuffy nose? Sniff some...the list goes on.
The wide spread use of this ointment was due partly to its pleasant, almost addictive scent, partly to the popular herbal medicinal approach, but mostly to the fact that ointment was the extent of pharmaceutical industry there and then. I could not find the same extract in the US (here, people have more potent, colorful pills to put into these lovely acorn pill boxes), but have access to its source. Blue Gum is abundant here. Every time I pass by one, I try to grab a few leaves, crush them up, and enjoy the aroma.
Eucalyptus was introduced to California during the Gold Rush, with the hope that these fast growing trees would provide a renewable source of timber.
People later found out that the wood was almost useless due to extensive splitting. Another annoyance about some eucalyptus is their tendency to suddenly drop their heavy branches. Despite these drawbacks, Eucalyptus have many uses (paper pulp, ornamental plants, honey production,...to name a few) which make them economically important, ointment aside.
I have many eucalyptus species in my wood collection, but this one is near and dear to me. It holds special memory of mom's warm hands rubbing my belly, trying to erase my discomfort with a bit of Eucalyptus ointment... Do you have a memorable experience involving a eucalyptus? If yes, I hope it wasn't due to a branch failure!
"Hollow form" is an interesting term, often referring to a hollow vessel with a very small opening, relative to the size of the object. It is advanced turning that requires special hollowing tools. The danger comes when I try to hog out the inside of the piece. It's hard to judge the vessel's thickness through that small opening, so hollowing is a series of blind cuts. One cut too deep and the thing blows up! I would end up with two halves instead of one whole. It is very sad when that happens... Yes, there are laser guided apparatus for hollowing, but these systems tend to be too large for a mini lathe.
Of course, hollow forms, with their challenges, are often used to demonstrate and gauge the skill of a woodturner: the thinner the wall, the deeper the form, the smaller the opening, the better.
As I turned hollow form, it occurred to me that this was the most folly and vain of all woodturning activities. Here I am, transforming a piece of useful timber into a useless fragile vessel, with an opening too small to fit anything in. By throwing away 90% of the useful material, I locked that piece of wood into this 3D form, preventing any future reuse or re-purpose. But then, that's just the rational, practical half of my brain speaking; the other half knows that when an object just sits on it's bottom, looking pretty, good for nothing, it's "ART".
No, I am not referring to light reflecting off polished surfaces, but ideas bouncing around the synapses within my head about surfaces.
I am always intrigued with things unpolished. What surprise lies beneath the surface? I often wonder. In woodturning, polishing up a piece is my favorite step. Here, the natural beauty is liberated, the intricate detail revealed. But it is not enough to simply remove the outer layer. A surface is always necessary for protection. I opt for one that does not mask the intrinsic look, no matter how plain.
Be aware of surface protection, though.
The invention of paints and stains for surface protection is the main contribution to the messy, dilapidated look of the modern decay in some inner cities.
On the other hand, ancient ruins always possess that dignified, genuine atmosphere, for there isn't any surface to partially flake off...
What most fascinating to me is the surface(s) on people I meet everyday: some are thick, some thin, some masking, some transparent, some in layers like an onion, or interchangeable like clothing. I keep guessing and wondering...
Once in a while, people cross path and stop for a while to shed a bit of their facade and share a bit of their inner self. I called such interactions the "encounters of the true kind", where the impacts are sometimes strong enough to nudge one a little off course. Some could be strong enough to make one turn 180 degree around in the way one acts or thinks.
At some of these meaningful encounters, were lasting inspirations instilled, true friends made, true mate found. I treasure these instances, however brief. Thank you for stopping, trusting, and sharing.
]]>
"The house in Tra Vinh has columns made out of mun ebony." I was told. That ancestral home belonged to my great grandparents. My grandma grew up there. My mother spent part of her childhood there. I also spent many hours of my childhood vicariously walking about in that old place, following my grandma footsteps down her memory lane.
From her stories, I could visualize the long, narrow house, with an outhouse way back in the garden, amongst the soft green banana stands. I made the point to visit that house on my trip back to Vietnam. Gotta check out those columns of ebony. I saw them alright. But why are they so blurry? The whole house looked blurry. What I saw very vividly was the mental image of my grandma here and there in that ancient place. I missed her so much! Painfully so.. Darn tears! They robbed me the one and only chance to take in clearly the sight of that family's relic. A few years later, the old house was sold. They would probably tear it down and replace it with the ubiquitous multistory building. What would become of those ebony columns? I often wonder, thinking about the multitude of chopsticks I could make out of them.
Yes, Mun ebony chopsticks: the object of my desire. Mun ebony is the material of choice for chopsticks, it gets blacker, shinier with use, the dense wood does not absorb water and get moldy in the hot, humid environment. I did search for them in many markets and stores back there, without success. That was about 18 years ago, when the elitist, luxury Mun chopsticks has no place in the idealistic proletariat Vietnam. But now, they start to come back, along with intricate, hand carved furniture from various precious timbers. In the economic and political twilight post-embargo, a super class (even richer than the upper class!) emerged from the supposedly class-less society. They go to no end to keep up with the Joneses, or should I say the Nguyen's. The demand is back. Old grown trees up rooted from ancient forests and transport to manicured gardens (many of these trees are on the Red list, but enforcement is another story), exotic wild animals encased for the collections of the riches. I often wonder where they got the Mun from. I was told back then that there were no more Mun left in Vietnam. Perhaps, these Mun chopsticks did come from columns of old houses like my ancestor's after all.
Thanks again to the internet, I found a source here in the US for Mun Ebony. Imported from Lao, where the natural range of the species extends. But according to the wood vendor, all they can get were stumps, leftover from the logging of these ancient forests. The good stuff were sold mostly to China, by the truck load. I better hold on tight to a few Mun sticks I managed to find!
Lidded box from Mun Ebony with Betelnut inlay
]]>As I turn vessels after vessels off my lathe, I often wonder what kind of content they will end up receiving. One thing I know for sure, there are more vessels out there than the type of materials that can be packaged. As a box maker, I am acutely aware of the differentiation between a box and its stash, between format and content. I end up seeing boxes everywhere. The most intriguing of all is the type of boxes we use to carry our ideas and emotions: Languages.
As I got exposed to different languages, I acquire a deep appreciation for each one, with its own uniqueness, idiosyncrasies, and beauty. Languages are vessels that have been built by many, through generations, so ideas and emotions can be packaged, passed around, shared. The content, surprisingly is quite similar, across space and time: the way we feel and think; what we deem comic or tragic; the sense of humor, sarcasm, wit...
Pheasant Wood (Senna siamea) is an interesting timber from the tropic. Here, it is occasionally available from Hawaiian specialty wood vendors. It got it's name due to the shimmering grain that look like pheasant feather.
I have never seen a pheasant up close, so I don't know how good is the resemblance. The pattern of this wood is, nevertheless, pleasing.
The tree is also known as Kassod, a beautiful ornamental with panicles of bright yellow flowers. There was a nice Kassod tree in the front yard of my childhood house. I used to hate it because of an unfortunate incident.
This was what happened: My auntie brought a small Kassod tree home one day, cleared out the flower bed and planted it there. She did not realize that amongst the things she cleared out of that bed was my beloved tomato plant.
I was so proud of that tomato plant. It was the very first thing that I had ever planted. It already had four flower buds...and I was six years old...
Of course, I cried buckets when I saw what happened. My auntie felt so sorry, she went out under the heavy rain, dug out the tattered tomato from a pile of trash and tried to re-plant it in a pot. But it was too late. Oh, I still remember that sense of helplessness while facing the irreversible.
So, I held a grudge against the Kassod. I secretly nipped off a few of it's young shoots, cut off some flower buds, ripped off its leaves...without realizing that I just helped it grew stronger and bushier with my "pruning". A few months later, I forgave the tree. My six years old heart wasn't yet robust enough to hold a heavy grudge for long.
By the time I left that house, the tree was way taller than I was, covered with blooms most of the time. From that Kassod tree, I learned my first lessons about loss, resentment, revenge, and forgiveness.
Pheasantwood bowl
]]>But in the overpopulated, agitated and hostile environment within my mom's handbag, the holder's cap tended to fall off and spilled its gut. Engineering solution called for a more secure, threaded cap, so off I went trying to figure out how to cut spirals.
A researcher by training, it did not take me long to gather all the information about wood threading. I learned about jigs that claim to thread all kinds of wood in a jiffy, and the hand chasers, simple cutters with teeth that required a steep learning curve to master. Jigs sound easier, but they all look kinda clunky for a mini lathe, too big for my limited real estate, and too expensive for my limited bank account. With such a set of limitations, my viable option was to obtain the skills rather than procure the tools. Compared to those jigs, the simple hand chaser looked a lot more appealing.
So, how did I acquired the skill? I went to England, searched for the best Wood-Chasing Master, and apprenticed with him for five long years--like the martial art disciples in Chinese Kung Fu movies... Nahhh, just kidding! I jumped on the internet, searched for thread chasing, then followed the links. Blessed are those who teach on the Internet! Like learning how to bike, this wood threading business is easier than it sounds, but more difficult than it looks. You have to advance the tool at the right speed against the slowly rotating wood stock so that all the teeth fall into the same groove, chasing each other up the spiral. Sounds impossible, considering all the variables involved, but looks so easy watching the Master's demo.
So, I got the chasers, mounted an expensive boxwood block on the lathe, mumbled a sacrificial chant, and began cutting away. Several blocks later, I started to get it. Several months later, I passed the point-of-no-return and became a twisted spiral addict. "Stuck in a groove" took on a special meaning. It is such a satisfying feeling when the two threaded parts fit together smoothly!
Unlike the friction fitted lid, threaded parts just hold on to each other with minimum stress to the timber. The secured cap does add portability to the piece, as proven inside my mom's handbag--the on-going beta testing site. So far, so good...Until I hit a series of speed bumps.
This time, the obstacles are the timber themselves. There are only a hand full of woods that accept threading easily, most are expensive. But as a wood collector, I have more than a hand full, most are beautiful or rarely seen. It is such a waste if I limited my work to a few timbers, so I tried to thread everything: soft woods, porous woods, fibrous woods, and then all kinds of palm nuts. I tried stabilize the woods, tried straight cut, cross cut, angled cut, whichever way work. It's R&D all over again (the thing I used to do in my previous life). Pushing the envelope comes with reward and frustration. Sometimes, I spent the whole time in my workshop and had nothing to show at the end of the day. I went to bed frustrated, dreaming of spirals.
But when I look at the collection of exquisite threaded boxes that I bet you can not find elsewhere, it's all worth it. Up until now, I am still learning the art of wood chasing and enjoy it tremendously.
By the way, my shop logo isn't a self-portrait of me stooping over my lathe, despite the striking resemblance.
Those hands with fingers are actually my threading tools, an end-teethed one for the outer thread and the side-teethed one for cutting the inner. The logo also figuratively spells "LVo," my artist signature. It took me a few designing attempts to come up with such an elegant logo, impregnated with meaning...Well, I better stop right here, to prevent a self-inflicted bragging overdose!
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It was during those hard years, post 1975, when there wasn't enough of anything to go around. Her wish was granted, plus a lot more. I was pretty sure. Since after a few years, the whole neighborhood, up and down the street, owed her money. During my summer vacations spent at their place, I witnessed how that happened. The gates of their house were never closed. During hot days, people quietly got themselves inside and slept under the front porch, where the cool tiles offered some relief, then quietly left. Once in awhile, they went inside. Young and old, they just dropped in, searched for my grandma, then spilled their marital complains, their financial troubles... she listened, she consoled, she advised, she "lent" money, knowing that they would not be able to pay her back. When nothing can be done, she cried with them.
I was just a small kid then, almost invisible to the grown-ups, so they did not mind me snooping around during these episodes. I observed, I listened, I remembered...and then I realized--many years later-- that my grandma was the richest person I had ever known--despite the fact that she had to sell off part of that house tin roof as scrap metal in order to survive, after she had nothing else to sell. Thanks to the coconut-mango magic, she was always rich enough to share, whether it's her time, money, or just rain water from her cistern. As a bonus, the trees did bear many seasons of fruit. A few years after my grandpa passed away, she sold the house and moved to Saigon with us, leaving these magical trees behind.
Later, we migrated with grandma to the US. One thing that pleased her tremendously about this new place was when she looked around, no one was poorer than us! As for my grandma, and also for my parents, they were never poor, they always knew how to count what they "Have". "Be thankful, it could be much worse", I was often told. When I want to start something but think it would take too long, or when I wish I could have a bit more of this and that, I think of grandma's trees.
Acorn from spalted mango with coconut palm cap
]]>On top of that comes even more arcane etiquette and the superstitions: hold the sticks at the upper half, far from the working end (that makes it even more difficult); don't stab your food with it; don't dip it in the common sauce bowl; never use just one chopstick under any circumstance; never use a mismatch pair; never stick the pairs upright in a bowl of rice; don't tap your bowl with the chopsticks; don't lay it across your bowl, unless you are done eating...and watch out for cross traffic. I mean, as if life weren't complicated enough!
I had a hard time as a kid learning to operate the chopsticks. It was a tricky business, but even more so because I am left-handed. I kept clanking chopsticks with my table neighbor, like we were having a duel! After a lot of splosh, splash, clunk, clank, I managed. I had to, because it was a matter of survival.
Now, I am a chopsticks expert. And when you get up to that level, food would not taste as good with any other utensil, trust me. I suffer chopsticks withdrawal every time we forgot to pack it on camping or backpacking trip.
As mentioned elsewhere, chopsticks are the catalyst for my foray into wood turning. With my stash of timber and my faithful lathe, I can rest assure that I will never run out of chopsticks.
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