Monday, December 2, 2013

IRONING OUT THE DETAILS


There's nothing I hate more then working on Saturdays.
 After a job I did a couple of Saturdays ago, I stopped by Salvage One on my way home.
I was shooting the breeze with Collin and Marcus at the front desk, and I had mentioned how I had been studying these industrial ironing boards. I was going on about their design, and how great they were, and Collin says "we have one on the 3rd floor, it's been here for like 2 years".
 Up to the 3rd floor I go, and down to the shop comes a industrial ironing board circa 1930.
Ironing board top...removed, shitty brown paint...stripped, base post,,,cut down to desk height, stitched up top intended for something else...cut down and installed, cut off from top...cut down for a side shelf...voila'!
 There's some finish work to be done, and I'll be posting pictures of the completed piece very soon.
Here's why I chub up about these industrial pieces.
 There was a elegance that piggy backed function in these industrial pieces from 1920 into the late 1950's.
 It was a time where people took great pride in their craft. It was also a time where employers cared about their workers as much as they cared about their profits.
 If  someone had to stand in front of a ironing board for 8 hours a day, the employer provided them with a bad ass ironing board. In turn, the employee takes ownership of that tool, and pride is born. With pride, comes quality.
 That got lost somewhere, and the result is evident.
Look how GOOGLE treats it's employees...Chef provided  meals, work out facilities, spa's, for the love of God they even have a GOOGLE bus that picks them up and takes them home.
 This treatment works, and I bet you never hear someone at the water cooler bitching about how "this place is bullshit!"
 I did a job for a couple that relocated from Dubai last week. I had to install a large wall unit entertainment piece that they had shipped from Dubai.
 They were so hospitable, and by their location and quality of the furniture in their home, they had god money.
 The gentleman watched me put this thing together. That shit usually drives me crazy, but I didn't really mind this time because he seemed so interested in the process of making this thing happen.
 When I was finished, he said "judging by the quality of your tools, I knew you were a craftsman when you walked in, and your precision and execution confirmed that."
 I was flattered. Like, super flattered. Usually customers just say "how much?", cut a check, then lock the door behind me.
 In typical "ME"/ ugly American fashion, I blurted out "I AM a motherfuckin' Craftsman".
 

No comments:

Post a Comment