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Miss Clamdigger, Part 1

Lines drawings for Miss Clamdigger ( aka Sprite), designed by Atkin & Co

I invented a motto when I started out as an artist that continues to inform most everything I do or make: All vessels originate with an imagined voyage. The motto flows naturally from my lifelong obsession with wooden boats, whose deep history and continually evolving technology are foundational to my development as a craftsman, regardless of the material or context at hand.

While my preferred medium is wood, my work as a sculptor and artisan/designer takes many forms, almost always as public art- cast bronze, welded aluminum, cast GFRC and FRP, ceramic enamel and glazed ceramic lenticular murals. Whatever my current project, I’m always simultaneously dreaming of building a boat, studying plans, hunting for obscure texts and histories. In many ways, I think of the boat-dreaming as the ‘real work’, and it often has profound impact on the forms I’m commissioned to make in cities across the country. This impact is not necessarily visually evident, but is more like an ethos, more of an approach to making. I can trace this ethos most directly to the working craft of the Eastern Seaboard where I grew up- clam skiffs, lobster boats, lifeguard boats and seabright skiffs, marina launches, fishing and utility boats. The common, often home built boats I loved as a kid just seem to belong on the waterways of their origin, timeless in their purpose, elegant in their simplicity. Also, their proportions and methods of construction say as much about local material streams, know-how and resources, as they do of the conditions of weather, wind and wave. I’ve tried to internalize this ethos, and codify it into a set of principles applicable to everything I make. I call this set of principles Deep Craft.

Looking back, it appears that I build a boat about every twenty-five years. I’ve built two so far, each one marking a significant time in my life, the focus required of boat-building serving as a kind of meditation or even as a rite-of-passage. I built the first boat with the help of my now wife when we first met in the late 1980s. We were living in a one-room cabin perched on a sea wall on the Eastern bank of the Hudson River near Hyde Park. I was apprenticing with a traditional house builder nearby and salvaged wood and hardware for the boat from a modified, timber-frame house we were building further north in Germantown. The boat was a flat-bottomed sharpie for oar and sail based on a design by Steve Redmond. I was drawn to the design for its simplicity, versatility and light weight, perfect for car-top gunkholing on the Hudson and on nearby bays and coastal estuaries. With an LOA of 15’-6” and 42” beam, the design was also perfectly suited for construction on our long and narrow front porch overlooking the Hudson. The boat’s lithe proportions promised speed under oar and nimble handling under sprit-sail, leeboard and rudder.

Calabash, a 16′ lightweight rowing/sailing sharpie

Most important, my newfound love and I got to know each other as the boat took shape over the course of about six months of evenings and weekends working together. It became emblematic of our bond and the optimism and enthusiasm we shared for our future lives together. I named her Calabash, slang for ‘girlfriend’ in the West Indies. We launched her one summer evening directly from the porch into the slack tide of the Hudson directly below, lowered by ropes and pulleys from the rafters of our porch. For our maiden voyage we rowed Calabash ten miles north on the Hudson to Rhinecliff and back with the changing tide. We married in late summer of the same year and took Calabash along on our honeymoon on the Jersey Shore, dreaming of circumnavigating Brigantine Island. When we moved to Providence, RI the following year we sailed Calabash around the urban edges of Narragensett Bay and along the shallow shores of Point Judith Pond, beaching on mudflats to picnic and snooze. Like a tiny Navy, we became expert deckhands, captains and crew, knowing just where and how to sit for optimal trim and balance, when to point upwind and how to ride a following sea. The boat became like our first real home during our nomadic early years together, eventually following us cross-country to California.

Calabash in her current incarnation, on the banks of Tomales Bay, CA

Fast forward twenty-seven years. We still have Calabash and use her primarily for single-handed rowing on Tomales Bay near the Pacific Coast north of San Francisco. The conditions on our primary waterways nearby, Tomales Bay and Bodega Bay, are much rougher than those to which we were accustomed on the East Coast. The water and air here are much colder, winds stronger and more constant, tides more swift, with steep and frequent wind waves and white caps. Calabash is better suited to mellower conditions, but she still makes for a lively and able rowing skiff when single-handed in rougher seas, despite her age and delicate disposition.

I’ve been dreaming of building a boat better suited to our local conditions since we moved our home and studios from Oakland to the Sonoma Coast just over ten years ago. I imagined a small but seaworthy craft for fishing, crabbing, and exploring the remote beaches along Point Reyes. Ideally, the boat could handle the occasional passage offshore under favorable conditions when the salmon are running. I vacillated between a traditional Dory, after John Gardner, and something more like a traditionally planked seabright skiff, like those developed post-war by William and John Atkin. I now had a full woodshop and the space to build a larger and more ambitious boat. I even had the trees to mill, a barn to dry the wood, and a good friend with a woodmizer to do the milling. I just lacked the dedicated time.

I felled and milled a split trunk incense cedar from our property for the planking

Whether skiff or dory, I knew I would be building a lapstake hull between 14’-16’ LOA, so a couple of years ago I had the foresight to fell and mill an incense cedar tree that grew on our property, and neatly stickered the full width planks for drying in the barn. Incense cedar is not thought to be a preferred wood for boatbuilding, but the grain was tight and resinous, knots free of bark, and the wood had surprising flexibility and stability across the grain. Plus, the tree grew and matured on our land, was essentially free, and was perfectly dimensioned for planking a small boat, so it had ample intrinsic value. The trunk of the tree even grew in a slight S-curve, so the grain followed the contours of a typical lapstrake plank. My daughter and I used some of the shabbier boards to build a chicken coup during her summer break from college, in order to test the material for strength and workability. We found it to be remarkably supple, strong but very light, and not prone to cupping, splitting or twisting. I’m certain that slowly air-drying the material in our cool, shady barn added to its performance.

Around the same time as building the chicken coup, we decided to sell our sailboat, which we had kept at the Berkeley Marina for several years as a sort of floating crash pad for excursions into town, our own ‘pied a mer’. We had not been using the boat enough to warrant paying the dock fees, so decided it best to localize our energies and not spend beyond our current needs. I decided to sell the boat, a 1978 Hunter 25, without the motor, which I had recently purchased new and had only run for 10-12 hours. It’s a 6 HP Yamaha long shaft outboard, which would be perfect to power the small boat I had in mind. Having the motor on hand, along with air-dried planks in the barn, helped me to narrow my search for the proper boat to build. I carefully studied Gardner’s flat iron skiff and other dories modified for outboard power, but they all seemed to compromise the performance of rowing or sailing, without adding much to performance under power. Then I stumbled upon an article by Mike O’Brien in Boat Design Quarterly #4 from 1993. The article profiles Sprite, a flat-bottomed outboard boat by Atkin & Company. I had seen the boat plans before, but Mike emphasized aspects of its design that held more resonance for me now. The Atkins designed Sprite for maximal stability and performance for 6 hp, capable of handling rough water. At about 14’-10” LOA and 4’-10” beam, the plans would make perfect use of my 16’ cedar planking. I wrote to Pat Atkin and purchased a set of plans, not sure if/when I would have time to build the boat despite my material readiness.

My dad in Westbrook, CT, when he was in medical school, 1959

Also around the same time as building the chicken coup, my aging dad was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. A retired family doctor, he had been living on his own since the sudden death of my mother about six years prior. He was otherwise healthy and has a family history of longevity, so my siblings and I were all quite unprepared for this tragic turn. He was given anywhere from three weeks to three months to live, and was put under immediate hospice care in his home. I traveled to Philadelphia to help my siblings navigate next steps, and essentially to say goodbye to my dad. There was not really anything any of us could do as he slowly lost his ability to move or to take care of himself, which was shear torture. It seemed a blessing and a curse that his mind remained sporadically sharp. He lost the ability to talk, but knew the date, could recognize people, and retained his signature composure and quiet dignity. We were all devastated. I returned home to California but had difficulty concentrating on my work and needed to postpone or delay current projects. Three months came and went and my dad’s vital signs remained strong; he was in stable, if slowly failing, condition. The doctors stopped trying to put a timeline on his eventual death, although they agreed it was highly unlikely he could live out the year (this was at the end of July).

I decided it was time to build the boat, as much for me as for my dad. If he was going to hold on for dear life, and as long as his mind and sensory perception were functioning, I would give him something to think about and help to send him on his way. Building the boat would also show him that I was OK, that life was moving forward, and that he taught me well. He appreciated small boats as much as me and was an accomplished oarsman as a lifeguard in his youth. We were both certified in ‘Basic Seamanship’ by the Coast Guard Auxiliary when I was a teenager, and spent summers exploring and fishing the back bays of South Jersey in our Boston Whaler. I calculated that if my dad could hold on for another couple of months, I could probably have the boat ready to launch by the end of October, or Thanksgiving at the latest. I would build the boat solo, and could realistically devote 2-3 days a week to the endeavor.

Joanie, my mom, the original Miss Clamdigger, 1971

Before lofting the offsets I decided to name my boat Miss Clamdigger, in honor of my mother, who was crowned Miss Clamdigger in Westbrook, Connecticut as a teenager in the early 1950’s. She grew up on Long Island Sound just up the coast from Noroton, where the Atkins drew the plans for my boat in 1953. I reasoned that small wooden utility skiffs like Miss Clamdigger were once ubiquitous along the shores of Long Island Sound, and had similar merits as my mother- good-looking, reliable, stable, low maintenance, elegant but practical, fun. I knew I would be thinking of both of my parents as I built Miss Clamdigger, remembering their stories, their laughter, friendship and wisdom, and feeling thankful for all that they gave me, including a sensitivity to the beauty of traditional wooden boats. I sharpened my chisels and planes, stocked up on the best pencils, and set to work.

Setting up the backbone

Laying chine logs over the molds

We rarely experience rain or even heavy fog along the Sonoma Coast between August and October, so I set up my backbone outside, on a level deck outside my woodshop. My dad had helped me shingle the woodshop when my parents came out to visit soon after we bought the property about ten years ago. He also helped me build the deck during one of his more recent visits, so he was already with me in spirit as I laid up the forms on heavy timbers running parallel to the length of the deck. I knew my dad would appreciate seeing how the cedar shingles and cypress decking had silvered over the years. I decided to use long timbers in lieu of a horse, knowing I could pivot them to form a ramp to the ground when the boat was ready. The finished boat would be pretty heavy, around 250 pounds, and would be awkward to carry, with very little extra space for people to maneuver around it on the deck.

Shaping the stem and stem-knee

With the forms set up at their stations along the timber foundation, I carved the stem from a solid piece of yellow Narra. I generally avoid using tropical hardwoods, but had acquired a store of Narra by accident when it was buried inside a unit of Monterey Cypress. The dimensions and grain quality of the rough Narra were perfect for my requirements, and I carved the stem from a single piece, then scarfed it to a stem knee I had made of Monterey cypress. I cut my transom from a single board of Deodar cedar I had been saving, having learned intimately of the wood’s attributes from another project. With the stem and transom secured in place along the backbone, I was ready to fit my garboards and lay up planking. To be continued…






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Procedural Style: Parametric Emergence, Part 1

Wowhaus grew out of our ongoing conversations, beginning when we met in 1988

Ene and I never thought of Wowhaus as a style. We always framed it more as a way of life. But over the years as we’ve realized such a broad range of projects in such wide-ranging media and locales, a kind of style is beginning to emerge.

I first took notice of this when we consolidated our studios and home by moving from Oakland to rural Northern California just over ten years ago. I began to pay more attention to our public process more consciously, and began to document my own thinking strategies while making things in the studio. I called the endeavor Deep Craft and was awarded an Investing in Artists grant from the Center for Cultural Innovation to give it form. Over the next four or five years I published a blog chronicling my craft-related thinking and making processes, culminating in a kind of manifesto of my most salient and transferrable observations.

Somewhat unconsciously, I internalized many of these observations and organized them into a kind of mental algorithm to more rigorously guide my designing and making. Our projects as Wowhaus began to deepen in scope, form and content. Ene applied her own tactical strategies with complementary focus, particularly as regards collaboration, community engagement and project management.

We became known for innovating within very tight parameters of site, budget, and functional and aesthetic constraints. Our work began to take many forms, almost confusingly so– sculptures in cast bronze, or glass mosaic over ferro-cement; ceramic lenticular murals; sound-producing and interactive, kinetic sculpture; public seating in cast GFRC and FRP. Deep Craft also began to take on a life of its own as a kind of brand, garnering furniture and architectural commissions, pop-up retail experiments in skate and surf culture, artist residencies, teaching and speaking engagements. While the range of work may have confounded our prospective clients, we did not make much distinction between outcomes. To us, the consistent style was one of process, not of product. I think of ours as a Procedural Style.

Site-generated treehouse project, Cazenovia, NY, 2002

Our Procedural Style grew naturally out of an approach to living we had developed in the early days of Wowhaus. We saw our public projects as an extension of our private lives, specifically as an extension of our young family’s meandering inquiries into both nature and the built environment, and the role of community in shaping/being shaped by either. We invented three guiding principles to help frame our working/living aspirations:

  1. What makes a good day?
  2. How do things, places and relationships acquire and retain meaning?
  3. What makes things last?

In many ways, the more recent Deep Craft Manifesto is a fine-tuning and elaboration of these basic tenets, informed by years of actively realizing a string of public projects. I maintained the blog as much for myself as for the public. I wanted to be able to track how projects unfold to find redundancies and increase efficiency, but I also wanted to illustrate the consistencies of process underlying our projects, despite dramatically divergent outcomes.

I discovered that our Procedural Style is more evident in the ample documentation of our working process, which has mostly taken analog form—physical meetings and workshops, site reconnaissance, historical research, proposal writing, drawing and model-making. Scrutinized for their inherent, if accidental, aesthetic content, the archived records of our working process is remarkably consistent and recognizable as having the same author(s). Also, because we prepare at least two to three times as many proposals as commissions are awarded us, we have a robust collection of prototypes, models, technical schematics, spreadsheets, renderings and slide shows. So it’s easy to see the consistent hand throughout the process.

The finished products of this handmade process initially appear to be far more divergent and disconnected, one to the next. Mostly taking the form of permanent public sculpture, the final products are all highly integrated with their sites, both programmatically and architecturally. In many cases they are also partially site-generated in some way, either through their manufacture (form) or through direct community engagement (content). Because of this, and as a result of our finely tuned Procedural Style, the finished work appears to belong, to have always been there, as though organically emerging from the site.

I think of the results of our Procedural Style as something like Parametric Emergence. Our very consistent system of generating form and content by deconstructing the specific parameters underlying each unique project leads to a continually evolving, ever-changing outcome. After twenty years we’re just beginning to codify these outcomes into typologies, or formal frameworks, where the medium and method of manufacture are consistent, but the specific content is variable and adaptable to the particularities of site.

While our work is not well know and only moderately profitable, it is highly successful. Our public projects invariably become beloved icons within a community or neighborhood. They become interactive destinations that are seamlessly knit into the web of contemporary, pedestrian life in American cities. Ironically, because of this success, our projects have proven to be something of a failure for our midterm prospects. It has proven very difficult for us to quantify or to verify the cause of these cumulative successes, their being so gradual and modest, and seemingly inconsistent in both form and content. Each new project requires that we sell a client, which typically consists of a committee with divergent goals and expectations, on an entirely new and unfamiliar concept. Despite our impressive track record, each new concept is invariably seen as a potential risk until its completion and inevitable success, at which point credit is dispersed and we are perceived more as agents or orchestrators of an elaborate collaboration, and our authorship gets a little blurred in the process.

So, we do indeed see it as a success, and it is our intention, when one of our creations seamlessly integrates into the complex conditions comprising a particular place, like the most enduring vernacular architecture. But it has proven challenging for us to scale our approach without due credit and recognition for these successes over time. We get stuck in a kind of bureaucratic loop of finding new opportunities and making proposals, which lately commands about a third of our time. If our work were better known, and our process more featured as integral, we could devote more time to innovation, while maintaining the Wowhaus/Deep Craft ethos that is so central to continued success. We are ready for the clients to find us for a change, instead of us constantly trying to find new opportunities.

The core of the realization here, and the core of our practice as Wowhaus/Deep Craft, is that style should be emergent as opposed to imposed, especially when the overarching goal is to achieve a kind of meaningful timelessness, or enduring value. By ‘meaningful timelessness’ I mean that any particular thing—a sculpture, building or piece of furniture—is viewed more as a vessel for a recognizable and relatable ethos, a belief system emblematic of a sustainable relationship with place (or use), rather than emblematic of an idealized, or in most cases, technology-driven set of rules. The latter is more recognizable, more universal in intention, and thereby more commodifiable, like High Modernism; while the former is more situational and variable, like pre-modern vernacular design and architecture.

Exceptions to both include instances where the underlying ethos of a built thing is in sync with the technology that brought it into being, like in Shaker design, which is both universally recognizable and regionally and temporally variable. It’s just that the products have outlived the ethos that brought them into being; same with High Modernism. Our interest as Wowhaus/Deep Craft is in developing and promoting a body of work where the ethos outlives the products. A part of this strategy is to begin to reveal our process more as product through publication, exhibition, and any other available means. Now that we know how to do it ourselves, going back to our initial three guiding tenets, we want to create and share a kind of operations manual.

I may be getting ahead of myself here, so here is a little preamble. In the fall of 1997 I initiated a project I called Wowhaus. I had passed the previous two and a half years as a fulltime, stay-at-home dad, raising our daughter from infancy to her first day of preschool. The term ‘wowhaus’ came from her. It’s what she called the tiny cabin I built in the garden behind our bungalow in North Oakland as soon as she could form a sentence, “Papa’s in the Wow House!”. I built the structure, which I used as a design studio, when we needed room in the house for the baby’s crib and converted our only spare room from my studio into a nursery.

The original ‘wowhaus’, Temescal, Oakland, CA 1996

Just prior to our daughter’s birth I had designed and built a community garden in Berkeley, a ‘stair tower’ in Noe Valley and an outdoor dining room for a restaurant in San Francisco’s Marina District. I also had several active furniture commissions after exhibiting some experimental prototypes. I designed the new furniture commissions and made models in ‘the wow house’ and fabricated them in my basement woodshop beneath our bungalow.

The common thread linking all of these projects leading up to the formation of Wowhaus, was my ongoing research into the self-authored built environment, or vernacular architecture. I was at the time, and remain, most interested in the potential for invention within tradition, and the potential to articulate a kind of formula for invention under the combined constraints of geography, material resources, labor/production models, belief systems, communication systems. I wanted to make something like what I understood to be, and loved about, almost all of the vernacular architecture I had encountered and studied. At the time, I was calling my approach ‘materials-based design’. I looked to the inherent properties of materials, specifically wood from trees that reflected the bioregion, because I had woodworking skills and could test my hypotheses fairly easily and inexpensively. Plus, the results of my experiments found a place in a new marketplace at the time as ‘art furniture’. To be continued..

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Night Blues


My dad and I started going out for night blues when I was about twelve or thirteen. My mom packed us sandwiches and we’d stop at the liquor store for Slim Jims, ginger ale and beer. The boat left the dock from Atlantic City just after sunset. It was a party boat and our shipmates and crew were all men, mostly what my dad called ‘old salts’. There were older black gentlemen too, quietly leaning on the rails smoking Swisher Sweets, and rowdy young guys from South Philly getting loaded. I was the only kid.

You might get seasick if you stayed below while motoring out with the droning diesel fumes and a rising swell on the coal black sea. My dad called them rollers. We opted to stay out on deck and watched the crew prepare baitfish and chum to make a slick. With razor sharp fillet knives they sliced whole butterfish into chunks and tossed them into a motorized grinder, making a reddish oily pulp in a huge vat. I’m pretty sure my dad wanted to eat the chum himself. His mouth always watered around baitfish. He smoked a cigarette and sipped his can of beer while I watched schools of squid darting through the phosphors in the boat’s wake.

We’d watch the lights on shore slowly fade and disappear and the captain would cut the engine in the blackness. The fishermen prepared their lines in silence, baiting hooks with hunks of fresh bunker while the crew sprayed oily chum into a slick with long-handled ladles. All was silent save the ratcheting of reels and lapping of waves as the boat rocked and adjusted itself to the current, finding its drift. Sometimes you could see schools of bluefish flashing silver close to the surface, thumbs on reels waiting for the skipper’s signal to drop a line.

Then the baited hooks went down in a whir and the blues hit ferociously, almost immediately. We’d pull in one after the other, our arms like rubber by the end of a run. “Keep ‘er head up!”, my dad would shout. Bluefish in a feeding frenzy put up a tough fight and I prided myself on handling my own rod and landing my own fish. Soon the decks were covered with flopping blues, blood and fish scales. The night air turned cold and clear, our lungs filled with the salty sweetness of summertime Atlantic. I once hooked a very large bluefish that my dad entered into the boat’s pool. As we motored back to shore towards dawn the crew set up a scale on deck. My dad quietly slipped a six ounce lead sinker into my fish’s mouth and dropped it down the gullet. I didn’t agree with the idea but needed the money to buy a CB so went along. It didn’t matter, mine was still not the biggest fish on board.


The Cosmic Rhyme of Fives

sea star

Alone among a mussel cluster

a sea star glows in stillness,


like a smile

like sunshine while

the sea grass sways.



I stand in cold tide pools

because that

is where my bare white

feet make sense, alone among

the cosmic rhyme

of fives.


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Within Within


Within Within

When I turn the radio on
I want to turn the radio on
I want to turn the radio on
within within
I want to turn the radio on
I want to find a frequency without
a frequency without
to tune to
I want to find
a frequency
a frequency

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Vernacular Scale

I realized on a recent trip to Virginia that what I still glean from experiencing the pre-industrial vernacular architecture of the Eastern Seaboard is a sense of appropriate scale. My definition of scale here incorporates relationships between people, between resources, and between the commerce, enterprise and production that connects them all.

Despite the obvious (and nefarious) social inequities comprising this sense of appropriate scale, is that it appears to be in balance with nature, self-sustaining, self-regulating, and thereby sustainable. Ironically, it is the very balance of relationships and resources that led eventually to a kind of prosperity, or surplus, that yielded conditions conducive to innovation, which became the undoing of said balance.

In many ways, I feel that the human psyche is still looking for the sense of scale exemplified by the basic tenets governing all pre-industrial vernacular architecture. This leads to misplaced nostalgia, or sentimentality, a romanticization of times past, and a cognitive dissonance with the present and future conditions. Given that this cycle appears to be a recurrent part of the human experience, I’ve tried through my work to develop an inner sense of scale that allows me to glean from the present and anticipate the future, using a deconstructed past as a template.

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My Bonfire Coat

bonfire coat

My Bonfire Coat dries by the fire, draped over a shovel handle

My Bonfire Coat is a herringbone Harris Tweed from the 1960’s. I found it at an AMVETS in Chicago in the early eighties and wore it everywhere for about the next decade when I moved from city to city to country to city. I built a house and a boat in this coat one very cold winter in upstate New York and cleared land and burned brush in Exeter, Rhode Island that spring. I met my wife while wearing this coat at the Aldrich Estate in Annandale-on-Hudson on October 1, 1988. I’ve kept the coat in my woodshop since we moved to California and mostly wear it on chilly mornings while I get a fire going in the woodstove. I also wear it for our annual bonfire, a seasonal ritual born of accumulated apple prunings, wood scraps and giant fallen ‘widow makers’ from the redwoods. The coat keeps me dry in a light rain while shielding the sparks and intense heat of a roaring fire. This year I noticed a disturbing cluster of moth holes and was tempted to throw the coat on the fire as it burned down. I think I’ll give it one more year.

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