The Chair Artist

The building is nondescript, but the weathered old sign hints of treasures within: “Max Woody’s Chair Shop ... Handcrafted Chairs for six generations from 1800s.”

“I’ve sold chairs to folks from every state in the Union,” says Woody, “and to people from 10 or 12 foreign countries. I’ve been blessed.”

He sits down on one of his trademark chairs, a handsome wood straight-back Colonial, with high finials and a woven fiber rush seat.

“There’s a two-and-a-half-year wait for one of these,” he says. His face creases into a grin. “Of course, now that I’m 72, I’m just working half time. You know, 12 hours a day.”

Two years is a long time to wait for a chair, but yes, they’re that good. Woody owes most of his success to simple word-of-mouth promotion.

If he hired apprentice labor, he could turn the chairs out faster, but it’s as important to him to make friends as to make chairs—and he’s a master at both.

Each chair is custom-made to fit a specific individual. Is the person tall and narrow, or short and wide? How tall does he like the back? What wood does he prefer: cherry, maple, walnut, oak, ash, or pine? What shape does he like for the back slats and posts? If the chair’s to have arms, how high should they be? If it’s to be a rocker, how far back should it tilt? He prefers his customers come by the shop, if possible, for their custom fitting.

“I was just destined to be a woodworker,” says Woody, who opened his chair shop in 1950. He rubs his hand over an old toolbox that belonged to his father. “Daddy died when I was 15, so my granddaddy did most of my teaching. And he learned from his daddy, and so on and on. Right now my two sons make more money by working in a plant. But they’re both good chairmakers, so someday ...” His voice trails off.

Over the years, Woody has made only a few concessions to technology. Instead of smoothing the wood by scraping it with glass, (an old method) he uses sandpaper. And while he depends on muscle-power to run many of his machines, some of which are more than 100 years old, electricity powers others. But each chair is air-dried and “contains no metal at all—no nails, no tacks, no brads.” Instead, wood pegs ensure a tight fit.

Woody, whose wife died eight years ago, lives outside Marion, N.C., a town of about 5,000 people. His home, just a few miles from his woodworking shop, is an old two-story log cabin surrounded by 60 acres of forested mountain. “No TV. No phone. No electricity. But, yes,” he grins, “there’s a bathroom.”

Not that he’s lonely. He’s got books piled high on the shelves lining his bedroom—his current favorite is Tuesdays with Morrie, a heart-warming true story about the passing of a friend—and he’s been playing the fiddle at Thursday-night jam sessions for as long as he can remember.

But mostly he has a habit of inviting friends to spend the night. It’s the people who keep his work fresh, and he’s always in the mood for sharing time and conversation with his friends.

Every summer he hosts youth from the Bronx in New York who wish to experience mountain living as part of an Outward Bound program. He gives them a strong dose of his down-to-earth philosophy—how it’s good to have goals and bad to have debt—and sometimes teaches a smattering of woodworking skills. The many thank you letters these children have written him are among his most prized possessions.

Woody is too modest to talk much about the other folks he’s helped, but he admits he often makes chairs to be auctioned at fund-raisers. His list of people and organizations to help is eclectic and includes an old friend who ministers to prisoners, as well as a Christian ministry group of local basketball players who work with at-risk kids.

When asked what he considers his biggest achievement, he answers without hesitation. “I’ve been able, with God’s help, to accomplish more than I’ve ever dreamed,” he says quietly. “I’ve been able to touch a lot of people’s lives.”

Andrea Gross, of Asheville, N.C., is a regular American Profile contributor.

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