Joints you can name.
Every piece is held by joints with names older than the workshop — mortise, tenon, dovetail, wedge. If you can't name what holds it, we didn't make it.
Three pieces · one oak · no metal, ever
Furniture · oak · one workshop
Every piece is held by joints with names older than the workshop — mortise, tenon, dovetail, wedge. If you can't name what holds it, we didn't make it.
Three pieces · one oak · no metal, everA screw is an apology. Glue is a secret. A joint cut right is a sentence the wood can read — and it holds for two hundred years.
A tongue cut on one piece, a pocket cut in the other. The oldest joint we know and still the one every leg meets its rail with.
Legs go through the seat and are wedged from above — you can see the joint, run a thumb over it, and know exactly why it doesn't wobble.
Every rail meets every leg the old way. The top floats on buttons so oak can move with the seasons without splitting — the joint that lets wood breathe.
Tails and pins sawn by eye, no jig. The corners lock against the direction a drawer gets pulled — the only joint that gets tighter with use.
Oak is cut in winter
and waits seven years in the stack —
so it can hold still for two hundred.
Quarter-sawn oak from one forest, dried under the eaves for seven winters, cut by hand and finished with oil you could eat. Every piece leaves with a card naming its joints and the tree it came from.