I didn't know what hollow forms were until I encountered them in woodturning. Luckily, they are not the evil type--as in the manga, just simply innocuous, hollow wooden objects. But that doesn't mean they are free of danger.

"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