A Journey from Disposable to Durable: One Craftsman's Path to Sustainable Furniture Making

The Moment That Changed Everything

It started with something as ordinary as assembling flat-pack furniture. I was helping my daughter put together a simple bedside table she'd purchased from one of those ubiquitous large furniture retailers—the kind you can find in shopping centers around the world. What began as a straightforward afternoon project became something far more significant: a moment of reckoning about consumption, quality, and waste.

As I worked through the assembly process, I was struck by what I was holding in my hands. The materials felt insubstantial. Particle board, thin veneers, plastic fittings—everything about it whispered of temporary. I remember thinking, as I tightened the final screws, that this object wasn't designed to last. It wasn't designed to be cherished or passed on. It was designed to be replaced.

That realization proved prophetic. Within two years, the bedside table was falling apart. Drawers no longer slid properly. The surface had warped and faded. Rather than repair it—a task that would have cost more than the original purchase—we had no choice but to discard it. Off to the rubbish it went, destined for landfill, joining countless other pieces of furniture that had reached the end of their disposable lives.

Of course, the old saying goes: you get what you pay for. But this experience planted a seed in my mind. It led me to ask a different question: What if I stopped accepting disposability? What if, instead of being a consumer of cheap furniture, I became a maker of lasting pieces?

Down the Rabbit Hole

That question set me on a path I never expected to take. I dove deep—and I mean deep—into the world of woodworking and furniture making. Late nights spent watching videos. Blog posts bookmarked and re-read. Forums scrolled through until my eyes were tired. I was consuming everything I could find about joinery, wood movement, design principles, and technique. It was intoxicating, this world of craft that existed just beyond the periphery of my everyday awareness.

But it was one discovery that truly changed my trajectory: Paul Sellers, a master woodworker who practices his craft using almost exclusively hand tools. No workshops filled with screaming machines. No electric sanders or table saws. Instead: planes, chisels, handsaws, and the sound of wood being shaped by deliberate, thoughtful work.

I was captivated by his philosophy and his approach. There was something deeply appealing about the idea of returning to hand tools—not as a romantic affectation, but as a genuine return to quality and intentionality. I began to invest in the basics: my first plane, some chisels (admittedly cheap ones to start with), and I was hooked.

The first time I used hand tools to shape a piece of wood, something shifted in me. The quality of focus required was different. The environment was different—no screaming machines, just the rhythmic sound of tool meeting wood. Working in that quieter, more intentional space became my sanctuary. It still is. In a world that never stops, that feels increasingly urgent and loud, there is something profoundly restorative about spending hours in a workshop with nothing but hand tools and a piece of wood.

A Philosophy of Reclamation

Everything I make comes from reclaimed timber. This is not a marketing angle or an afterthought—it's fundamental to my practice and my values. Where does this timber come from? Anywhere it exists and has life left in it: old furniture that's no longer repairable, timber salvaged from building demolitions, wood that would otherwise be reduced to mulch or sent to the tip.

The point of working exclusively with reclaimed timber is straightforward: to preserve the longevity of a valuable resource. A tree takes decades—often a century or more—to grow to a size where it can be harvested. To then turn that tree into a piece of particle board that lasts two years before becoming landfill feels like a betrayal of that resource. But to take that same wood and fashion it into a chair, a table, or a shelf that lasts for generations? That begins to honor what that tree was.

There's also something philosophically satisfying about it. When you work with reclaimed timber, you're not just making a piece of furniture. You're extending the story of that wood. You're saying: this tree has already given us years of service—let's make sure it gives us many more.

The Collaborative Magic

I've been fortunate—genuinely lucky—to meet Scott Geddes of Auckland Tree Services, someone who shares this philosophy completely. When he and his team are called out to remove a tree, it's rarely a moment of celebration. Trees have to come down for many reasons: disease, storm damage, safety concerns, development. But rather than accept that these trees should simply be reduced to mulch and wood chips, Scott had the foresight to develop relationships with a local network of craftspeople: furniture makers, timber turners, blacksmiths, and other artisans.

When Scott removes a tree, he mills it. He preserves it. He extends its life through the hands of people who will craft it into something meaningful. This partnership has been transformative for my work. Instead of waiting to stumble upon reclaimed timber or paying premium prices for salvaged wood, I have access to a steady supply of locally milled timber, each piece with a story.

And what stories they have. Every piece I create can be traced back to a specific tree. That oak table came from a tree that stood in someone's backyard for fifty years before it had to come down. That walnut cabinet? It came from a tree that was removed during a development project downtown. When I hand over a finished piece to a client, I can tell them where their wood came from. I can tell them about the tree it once was.

This transforms the relationship between maker, object, and owner. It's no longer anonymous. It's no longer disposable. It becomes something with genuine meaning.

The Work Itself

My approach to making furniture is deliberately slow. Every piece is hand-finished. Joinery is cut by hand—dovetails, mortise and tenon joints, the kind of connections that have held furniture together for centuries. This approach takes time. A simple table might represent weeks of work. A more complex commission might take months.

But this slowness is the point. It forces intentionality at every step. Can I make this joint work without screws, relying instead on geometry and fit? How can I work with the grain of this particular piece of wood rather than against it? What would make this piece not just functional but beautiful to use?

The result is furniture that is designed to be lived with. Not merely possessed, but genuinely used. Handled. Appreciated. The kind of pieces that develop character over time—patina, the wear patterns of daily use, the deepening of color as wood ages.

Available for Commission

I welcome commission work. If you have a vision for a piece of furniture—something you've imagined but couldn't find in retail stores, something made from sustainable materials by someone who cares about the work—I'd like to talk with you about it.

I also have pieces available for direct purchase. These are pieces I've made on spec, created because the wood and the design called for them to exist. And I can create pieces to order, working with you to understand your space, your needs, and your aesthetic.

Every piece comes with a story: where the wood came from, what tree it once was, how it was made, and the time and care invested in its creation. These are not investments in trend or fashion. They're investments in durability, beauty, and meaning. They're the kind of pieces you pass on to your children—not because you need to throw them away, but because they're worth keeping.

That's a different kind of furniture altogether.