The story of a chaise

Some time ago, I acquired a chaise that was looking very sorry for itself. It came (as so many of my pieces do) from someone who had planned to do something with it, but had never got that far.

Very sorry for itself

It looked very sad. Like Corduroy the bear, it even had a missing button. More than one, in fact.

Missing more than one button

Clearly, it needed some TLC. Fortunately, it had come to the right place.

I toyed with ideas. Was I going to do something outrageous? Was I going to go for an upmarket, elegant look?

As most upcyclers will tell you, the first step is to see what you've got, by stripping off the outer layers.When I took off the fabric, it became clear that this was going to be much more than just a re-cover job: the webbing was perished and friable. I could literally crumble it between finger and thumb. Not what you want from the very thing that is going to support your weight!

The webbing was perished

The foam was okay-ish, but I thought that I might as well replace it too, while I was at it.

The foam was okay-ish

The finish on the frame was pretty badly damaged. So I sanded that back to see whether it might be worth going the clear wax route. But the wood, while good quality, was such a mishmash of colours, that I thought it would be better to finish it with a coat of something-or-other.

Such a mishmash of colours

By now, I was leaning toward the more elegant end of the scale, so I opted for black ash. I chose an exterior wood treatment finish, simply because it would be more durable.

First coat of black ash going on

Then I replaced the webbing, and the foam, adding a layer of new wadding (made from recycled fabrics).

New foam and webbing

And of course, I covered it all with a layer of flame retardant calico. Because safety!

Flame retardant calico

Because mustard yellows are so on trend at the moment, and look so great with black, I had subconsciously found myself gravitating that way on my (many) visits to my favourite fabric shop. And because I wanted that luxury look, I had to go with velvet.

I had to go with velvet

But I wanted to add a touch of mischief or levity or quirkiness or something. After all, why be ordinary? I had decided to use buttons only on the back of the chaise. I don't know about you, but I don't find it comfortable to sit on buttons. I decided these were going to be a tad outrageous. I went with covered buttons, for which I used a bright, floral fabric, cutting the covers from different sections of the fabric to make sure no two were the same.

Covered buttons

I also decided to replace the screw cover cap/plug doohickeys (see how the correct terminology just trips from my fingers?) with more of the covered buttons.

More covered buttons

Of course, I covered the staples with some lovely trim.

Et voila. Now for sale for £450.

Thinking about value

Wall art from reclaimed wood

As an upcycler/restorer, I make pieces out of things that other people were planning to throw away. Pallets that were to be consigned to the fire, have become wall art, or dog beds. Items of furniture that had been damaged by damp, have gained a new lease on life.

Before

After

I am also commissioned to restore things. Patio sets for two different clients, a candelabra for another, tables, counter tops... all manner of things. Even a picture. Fret not, it's not the art work I'm restoring, or we might have a repeat of this!

Failed restoration

What I have discovered is that there is no predicting what has value to people.

In the book version of the Harry Potter series, there is a very touching insight into Neville Longbottom that wasn't included in the movies. Having been tortured by Voldemort's bunch, his parents reside permanently in a mental hospital. Neville and his grandmother visit them there. Each time, as they leave, Neville's mother presses a shiny sweet wrapper into his hand, with the air of someone bestowing a gift of great value. Neville treasures those wrappers - not for what they are, but for what they represent.

Just because an antique dealer would turn his/her nose up at a reproduction table with a plywood top, is not to say that it doesn't have great sentimental value to someone who grew up seeing that table every time they went to visit Granny and Grampa. Just because it would be cheaper to chuck out a little patio set and buy a new one made of PVC, doesn't mean that it isn't worth restoring to the person who bought it with their very first pay cheque. Just because a picture is a print in a damaged frame, doesn't mean it isn't the most precious piece of art to someone for whom it brings back memories of a late, much loved relative.

It is up to me to see these things through the eyes of the owners. The people to whom these things are so valuable that they are prepared to pay me (or someone like me) to do everything I can to extend its life and to make it look pretty again. It is up to me to handle them like the treasures they are.

Working with other materials

For the most part, as you may have noticed, I work with wood (or facsimiles thereof like MDF, laminates and laminated chipboard). But I also work with other materials. I have a studio at home, where I carry out handcrafts that don't involve power tools: sewing, beading, decopodging...that kind of thing.

Tray table - before

In the typical manner of a creative person, I tend to start out with one goal in mind, and wind up in a slightly different place, as inspiration moulds the project organically. So I seldom work entirely within my comfort zone, and most projects stretch me at least a little. Oddly enough (or perhaps not), this is exactly the approach I employed when I used to design learning solutions in my previous life.

Then from time to time, I am given the opportunity to explore new territory.

I was recently commissioned to restore a metal patio set that had seen better days. A two-seater bench and a little tray table. It had great sentimental value to its owner. I knew that I could strip it and sand it back by hand, before painting it again. And I knew it would be a long, slow process.

Two seater - before

At the same time, I was also given a candelabra made of twisted iron rods. The cups for the candles had pretty much rusted away, and the client gave me carte blanche to let my imagination run riot. Once again, this would involve stripping and repainting.

First things first, though - those rusted candleholders had to come off. This sort of work gives me time to think, so it is during the purely manual parts of a project that inspiration tends to strike. It dawned on me - maybe I could have the rust sandblasted off instead.

I found a local sandblasting firm and approached them. For them it was a small project - they usually work on huge pieces, but they were keen on the idea and agreed to do the work for me. They sanded and primed all three pieces.

Screw-in eyes

In the workshop next door to the sandblasting firm, is a metalworker. He works on Rolls Royces and vintage lorries. But he was happy, too, to weld screw-in eyes onto the candelabra for me (he also made a new drip tray for our gas barbecue, but that's another story). I think the work felt like a holiday to him.

During conversations with the sandblasting man, we discovered that we could form a mutually beneficial relationship in respect of some of the stuff he throws away. I will save him the trouble of disposing of it, and it will provide me with the basis of some interesting pieces going forward.

Once that was done, I painted all three pieces in accordance with the clients' instructions, and reunited them with their happy owners.

Patio set - after

Candelabra turned lantern tree

The point I'm making is that it's worth having a go. It's worth talking to other local tradespeople and crafters. It's worth asking. People can always say no, but often I find people enjoy the opportunity to do something different. Especially if they get to be a little creative in the process.

So you've never tried x thing before. Give it a shot. You might surprise yourself. And you might make some interesting new acquaintances into the bargain.

On not knowing that it can't be done

There's something to be said for a certain level of ignorance. It has certainly served me well in my life. Years ago, when I sang in a band, I didn't play an instrument, and I would want to go straight from one song into another. The instrumentalists would tell me it couldn't be done, and I'd say "Like this..." and sing what I wanted. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Nobody died.

The first piece of user-driven 'e-learning' I ever created was done using PowerPoint and a screen capture tool called SnagIt. Apparently that couldn't be done either. Except I did it. And it worked.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not describing a level of defiance here. It's not that people say a thing can't be done and that then fires me up to prove them wrong. It's that I think of something I want to do, and decide on a way to do it. Sometimes I find out before I begin the actual work that it (allegedly) can't be done. Sometimes it is only after I've done it that I find out it can't be done.  Sometimes when people tell me a thing can't be done, they're right. Sometimes I say "But what about..." and it turns out they weren't right.

I seem to have an overdeveloped 'how hard can it be' gland (perhaps it takes up the space where my schadenfreude gland is supposed to be, because those who know me will attest to the fact that I am singularly lacking in that area).

That same blithe lack of realism is found in most areas of my life. The work I do with my hands is no exception. There are so many examples of things that I didn't know couldn't be done before I did them.

Pine, rickety and in need of TLC

Today's post is about one small example of that.

I acquired a little stool from a house clearance not far from my home. It was pine. It was rickety. And it was strung with hideous green nylon twine. I know it doesn't look hideous in the photo, but trust me: it was.

First I took the twine off. I Freecycled that to a keen allotment gardener for his peas and beans.

Then I made it a little less rickety by sanding off a lot of excess of glue, previously applied for no doubt the same reason, and re-gluing it. One tip: new glue doesn't generally stick very well to old glue (does that make sense?), so if you need to re-glue something, take the old glue off first.

Then I painted the frame a lovely duck egg blue, and gave it a good waxing.

So far, I haven't mentioned anything that 'can't be done', have I? Well, here it comes...

What was I going to do about that top? I could just screw on a plank of wood. I could put a piece of wood with a cushion on top. But I liked that woven look. And how hard could it be?

How hard could it be?

I bought cotton ribbon in duck egg blue and cream. Two different designs. Then I cut lengths of it and wove a new seat for the stool. Starting in one corner and alternating between north-south and east-west. I pulled it as tight as I could and stapled it with my trusty staple gun. Then I covered the ends and staples with some calico strips, much as I do when I'm reupholstering a chair. And hey presto! A stool for teddy.

It never occurred to me to think that the width of the ribbon and the dimensions of the chair would be a mismatch...and they weren't. It worked perfectly. It was only when I put the item up on my Folksy store and Facebook page that I found out that it was tricky to do a seat like that and easy to get it wrong.

Hey Presto! A stool for teddy

I say again: there's a lot to be said for not knowing something can't be done. I'm sure there's a lot of deep philosophy that can be extrapolated from this, but it's just how I work. Perhaps I'm just in permanent denial. Don't disillusion me, will you? I seem to get more done this way.

Upcycling, recycling, freecycling, makeovers, restorations....

Chair with Shweshwe fabric

There are so many terms being bandied about, and there isn't consensus as to where the boundaries lie between them. I don't think it matters that much, as long as we're making an effort to chuck less stuff away and to reuse things as much as possible.

But last night, I participated in a tweetchat in which someone was definitely spoiling for a fight on the subject.  So this is my take on what all the various words mean. You might have a different view. That's okay. We can still be friends.

The tweetchat was about upcycled items and the theme was colour. A few of us posted pictures of things we had worked on recently. One person wasn't convinced that they all qualified as upcycled. Some of them had just been restored. She was probably right. For example, this chair, with which I am insufferably pleased, is hardly upcycled. It started as a chair and ended up as a chair, albeit with a new seat pad, new coat of paint and new fabric on the back and the seat. But neither did I restore it. If I had done that, I would have made it look as it did when it left the factory (kind of like 'restore factory settings'). So I would say I gave it a makeover.

On the other hand, this hanging rail I made out of a vintage potato crate, in my mind, qualifies as upcycled. It started out as one thing, and ended up as a another.

Hanging rail

 When I take my scrap metal to the recycling plant, and it is melted down to make school chairs or fighter planes. That's what I would think of as recycling.

And when someone gives an item away to someone else. That's freecycling.

I will tell you something for nothing, though - freecycling can be a bit hit and miss. People have widely differing views on what constitutes a quality item. Just yesterday, I went to collect a small unit that the man told me was 'solid'. What he meant was, it was heavy. It was made of chipboard and metal and was in pretty rough shape. It went for recycling.

On the flip side, today, I picked up a small chest of drawers for the princely sum of £5. It was a vintage Stag piece. Possibly 1930s, I have to do a bit more research. It has been painted at some point, and the paint is chipped. But I will restore it...mostly, and maybe throw in a bit of a makeover, just for good measure. More of that anon.