Ingrained: The Making of a Craftsman
If this consistently lovely memoir has a shortcoming, it is that, funnily enough, Robinson misses the forest for the trees. The best books about work manage to transcend the individual author’s experiences; we learn from them not just the lingo of truck drivers or the jargon of geobiologists but something about the changing labor market in which all of us consciously and unconsciously operate—the exploitative economics of low-wage domestic jobs, say, or the fraudulent tactics of bond salesmen. Ingrained mostly shies away from the broad view...Craft and craftsmen are by far his best subjects, and he is eloquent not only on how he makes the things he makes but on how he himself was made—the tender if thorny relationship between father and son; the stabilizing yet propulsive forces of marriage.
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[A] sensuously written, impeccably detailed memoir ... Robinson’s immersive recounting of that difficult but ultimately gratifying experience, interspersed with flashbacks from his childhood in a rambling 18th-century farmhouse and years apprenticing his father...proves he’s equally skilled at turning a phrase as turning wood.
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By the end of the first chapter, it’s clear that Robinson doesn’t just have a way with wood, he has a way with words too. Ingrained is described as 'a love letter to trees, timber and craftsmanship - and finding you own voice.' It’s an autobiography which could just as easily be categorised as nature writing, so keenly observed is the author’s passion for woodlands and the creatures (and people) who rely on them ... a must-read for any woodworker, craftsperson or artist on the highs and lows of being a creative in the modern world. But its appeal goes further. Humorous and heartfelt, and at times achingly sad and sorrowful, it’s a compelling tale that combines nature writing and memoir in a deeply personal and memorable way.
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