Essay
A Chair From a Cellar, Forty Years Undisturbed
一把在地窖里放了四十年的椅子
The chair arrived in October, tied into a wool blanket and smelling of cellar. The woman who brought it said it had stood in her grandmother's basement since before she was born, first holding jars, then holding nothing at all. One back leg had split along the grain. I set it under the window and did not touch it for three days.
You learn more from an hour of looking than from a day of planing. I turned the chair over and found the saw marks under the seat, the shallow gouges where a chisel had slipped a hundred and thirty years ago, the small unevenness left by a hand that got tired. The man who built it left his errors in.
Reading the Wood First
A machine never slips, and that is the saddest thing about a machine.
I warmed hide glue and worked it into the split with a thin strip of paper, then clamped the leg and left it overnight. Glue made from animal bones is slower than the modern kind, and it comes apart again with heat, which means the next person who repairs this chair will not have to fight me.
What I Did Not Sand Away
The seat had gone dark and smooth where hands had rested, and there were three deep scratches on one arm. The woman asked whether I could make the chair look new. I said I could make it look cared for, which is a different thing and takes longer. She thought about it and chose the second.
Those scratches are not damage. Someone rested a hand there for thirty years.
Finishing took a week and almost none of it was work. Linseed oil thinned with turpentine, one coat a day, rubbed in until the wood stopped drinking. Then beeswax, warmed in the palm before it touches anything. The grain lifted slowly, the way a face does when it stops being photographed and starts being looked at.
When she came for it she stood in the doorway for a while without speaking. Then she put her hand on the back of the chair, exactly where the scratches were, and left it there. She paid in cash, counted it twice, and apologised for counting. I said the chair had waited forty years; one more week would not have hurt it.
After she left I swept the shop and opened the door to let the October air through. There was a small pile of shavings under the window, pale against the dark boards. I keep them in a jar. Not for any reason I could defend to anyone, only that the shop smells of them for days and I like to know what I spent the week on.
中文译文
十月里，这把椅子被一条羊毛毯裹着送过来，带着地窖的气味。送它来的女人说，从她出生之前起，它就一直立在祖母家的地下室里，先是托着果酱罐，后来什么也不托了。一条后腿顺着木纹裂开。我把它放在窗下，三天没有碰它。
看一个钟头，比刨一天学到的更多。我把它翻过来，在座面底下看见锯痕，看见一百三十年前某把凿子滑出去留下的浅坑，还有一只手累了之后留下的不均匀。做它的人把自己的失误留在了里面。
先读木头
机器从不会失手，这是机器最让人难过的地方。
我把皮胶加热，用一片薄纸把胶送进裂缝，然后夹紧，放一夜。用骨皮熬的胶比现代的胶慢，但遇热还能拆开——下一个修这把椅子的人，不必跟我较劲。
我没有磨掉的东西
手扶过的地方，座面已经发暗发亮，一条扶手上还有三道很深的划痕。她问我能不能让椅子看起来像新的。我说我能让它看起来像被好好对待过，这是另一回事，也更费时间。她想了一会儿，选了后者。
那些划痕不是损伤。有人在那上面搭了三十年的手。
上油前后花了一个星期，几乎不算干活。亚麻油兑松节油，一天一遍，揉到木头不再喝为止。然后是蜂蜡，先在掌心里焐软才碰得上去。木纹慢慢浮起来，像一张脸不再被拍摄、开始被注视时的样子。
她来取的那天在门口站了一会儿，没有说话。然后她把手放在椅背上，正好是那三道划痕的位置，没有移开。她付现金，数了两遍，又为数钱道歉。我说椅子等了四十年，再多等一个星期不算什么。
她走后我扫了地，把门敞开，让十月的风穿过去。窗下有一小堆刨花，落在深色地板上显得很白。我把它们收进一个罐子里。说不出什么像样的理由，只是这些刨花能让工房香上好几天，而我想知道自己这一周花在了什么地方。
