Jim Steele - A Tribute
Jim and Val Steele in the workshop, September 2023
My fellow chairmaker and friend Jim Steele passed away last month, after a short illness. You can read more about the two of us here, but I thought I’d share a few memories. I only knew Jim for a short time towards the end of his long life, but he was a big influence.
On my first visit to his workshop, Jim asked me to bring a chair for inspection. He sat down immediately, shifted his weight around a little and solemnly pronounced - “that’ll do”. This, I began to learn, was the assessment that really mattered. Form follows function. At each subsequent trip, I’d bring a chair I’d made and we’d take turns sitting down.
With a cup of tea and the woodburner ticking over, Jim’s workshop was a comfortable place to sit. Our conversations ranged far and wide, from time spent in Hong Kong during his National Service in the 1950s to our shared love of trees and timber. We’d often discuss his tools. Not shiny new gadgets from websites or catalogues. The old ones, those that had stood the test of time. We’d feel their weight and balance, practise their angle of attack.
Many were homemade or adapted, such as the travisher Jim passed on to me with a tightly curved blade. He’d use this for saddling his deeply carved seats, and now it’s used for mine. A little bit of craftsman’s DNA, heading down through the generations.
Travisher, made by Jim from spalted beech
On one occassion, after apple pie and custard, Jim’s wife Val dug out the accounts. Records of chairs made and sold, stretching back decades. They reminisced about difficult deliveries, tricky customers. This is what I needed to hear. Anyone can pretend to be a craftsman; you can buy shiny tools, upload a few pictures to social media, even wear the uniform (if you’re into dressing up in workwear). What Val showed me was that it’s still possible to be the real thing, and she’d kept the receipts. We usually had as many conversations about selling chairs as making them. It’s all about meeting people and sharing your enthusiasm, after all.
In January last year, Jim told me that he’d started work on his last chair. I knew that he’d kept some pretty special timber, squirrelled away for this final job. He confessed that it was turning into a struggle, that carving the seat was hard work and taking a long time. When we arranged to meet at the Bodger’s Ball I wasn’t sure if I should ask how it was going, as he’d be disappointed not to enter the competition for best Windsor.
Walking into the marquee, I spotted Jim’s chair immediately. The timber he’d used for the seat was familiar, full of wild grain which must have been awful to tame. The turnings sharp, spindles perfectly tapered. No corners cut, no concessions to tired hands. And yes, when I sat down, it was supremely comfortable. “That’ll do”, I thought.
I managed to find Jim amongst the crowds and congratulated him on his efforts, teasing him slightly about the strength of the competition. He was typically modest, but I knew it meant a lot when he took first prize. Rightly so, it was a magnificent chair - a symphony in elm, ash and yew.
Jim’s last chair
Like any craftsman, I’m sure Jim would want to be remembered for the quality of his work. I’ll also remember him for the quality of his character - funny, kind and enthusiastic. He’ll be missed.