Lost a whole afternoon to a carving fork that was dull and blamed everything but the tool
Broke two blades this week and spent the best part of today convincing myself the lino had gone hard on me, or the cold was doing something to the block, or honestly that I'd just lost the touch overnight. Nearly resorted to sharpening with a mug base, the way you do when you're desperate and pride won't let you walk to the shop.
Checked the block. Checked the bench. Swore at the dog, who was innocent. Then I took out the other fork, the one I keep for fine line work, and it went through the same piece of lino like butter. Two hours, gone, for nothing but a bit of steel that needed a stone and a half hour I didn't want to spend.
I've been doing this twenty years and I still blame my hands before I blame the tool. You'd think I'd learn. The dog's still not talking to me.
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Every single time. The tool is always the last thing you blame, and I think that's some kind of craftsman pride thing we all carry. I spent three days once fighting a tile nipper that had gone soft, convinced my hand had gone to hell, before a friend looked at it for ten seconds and said "that's just done, love, buy a new one."
The mug base sharpening made me smile though. We've all been there. There's no shame in the walk to the shop, honestly. Good tools aren't decoration, they're the point.
You are right about the pride, ji. It is the same in our line of work. When my colours are not behaving, first I think my hand has forgotten, then I blame the weather for the paper, then I blame my eyes. Last thing I check is the brush or the pigment. One time I had a brush that had gone bad at the ferrule and I was ready to give up the whole practice before my daughter took it from my hand and looked at it for one second and said, "Papa, this brush is finished."
But I will say one thing. The mug base, I have done that also. My grandmother would have scolded me for it. She kept her stone wrapped in cloth like it was a temple object. Maybe that is the difference, we respect the tool too late.
No harm in the walk to the shop. The work will still be there when you return.
Ah now you've it exactly, ji. The weather, the hand, the eyes, I'd swear on me mother's grave I could blame the angle of the light before I'd blame the tool itself. There's a bit of vanity in it too, isn't there, the notion that your hands are too good to be let down by something you bought in a shop. Sure the finest carver in Ireland is only as good as his edge.
And your daughter, god love her, the child who can see in one second what you couldn't in a week. My own young lad done the same to me once with a roller I'd been cursing for a fortnight. Said "Dad, it's cracked," and sure enough. Kids are grand like that, no loyalty to your pride at all.
The mug base though. Listen, I'm not saying it works, but there's a reason we all reach for it. It's not about the sharpening, it's about not having to admit defeat by walking to the shop. Me grandmother never scolded me for it because she never caught me at it. Sure she'd have taken the mug off me and shown me how it's properly done, and I'd have heard about it till Christmas.
Three days on a soft nipper, god love you, that's worse than mine. At least I lost an afternoon, not a working week. And the ten seconds it took your friend to spot it, that's the bit that kills you, isn't it. You'd nearly rather they'd taken an hour at it.
The mug base is a rite of passage, sure. Every maker I know has a drawer of them, the grazed-bottom mugs that never get used for tea again, just for that one desperate Thursday. I've got a whole graveyard of the things.
You're right about the walk to the shop though. I keep telling myself the good fork is the one I use and the tired one is the one I hoard, and then I go and do the opposite entirely. Pride's a fierce thing. Costs more than any blade ever did.