Many folks imagine that a framebuilder spends most of her day basking in the glow of a welding torch, safety gear in lock-down, perhaps some flame retardant PJ’s under the shop clothes. That’s a rather romantic image, but not the entire picture. In reality, there are hours of design, mitering, tube preparation and finish work for every hour brazing. By the time I have my work fitted, fluxed, and ready for flame, I’ve done mostly left brain work.
Of course, when I light that torch is when things really come together. My focus narrows - which, when you see the eye goggles and fume mask I wear, you understand is somewhat inevitable. Still, I really relish the state of intense concentration as I watch the flux change from pasty greenish blue, to dry and white, and finally wet out to a clear gloss as I move the heat around the joint. Knowing when to add brass and how to manipulate it is an act of observation and restraint as much as an act of willful doing. Even the brazing sequence (the order in which I braze joints) has a rhythm as much as logic.
When I turn off the torch, the meditation is over.
I recall the first book that I read in architecture school “The Nature and Art of Workmanship” by David Pye. He wrote about the value of craft being in the risks that it entails. Manufacturing leads to predictable, repeatable results or “the workmanship of certainty.” In contrast, making things by hand allows for something unplanned to happen at any moment - “the workmanship of risk.” But the real value of risk is the opportunity to work with what you observe, rather than merely operating on an object you think you already know. This simple act is one of the things that makes every Sweetpea Bicycle different, and is just one of the reasons that learning something simple can take years or even decades to master.
