I had my first panic attack on New Year’s Day 2022. In the months that followed I experienced more of these episodes and increasingly craved serenity. Woodworking emerged in my mind as a place I might get some reprieve from the new psychological maze I was stumbling through after a traumatic event changed how I experienced the world.
The call of the timber was undeniable. I landed on the Victorian Woodworkers Association in North Melbourne for its price, emphasis on craft and the pedigree of its tutors. Here I was able to take an open class that let me make whatever I wanted from day one.
When I entered the basement workshop for my first class I was expecting monastic peace, slow craft, soft timber grain and the wisdom of ancients.
Instead, a multi-year hazing ritual awaited my frayed nerves: limb-severing machinery, loud noises, amateur’s embarrassment, compromises and mistakes.
My first class began with a workshop tour and mapping out my first project on a large, thin, MDF panel – the first of three cabinets to house my record collection, turntables and DJ mixer. I wanted to avoid power tools and pictured dove-tailing my way to recovery – that is, creating joints that don’t require screws.
My new master, Isabel Avendaño-Hazbún, a hilarious sculptor and textile artist, was willing to show me but convinced me otherwise – people practise dovetailing for 20 years, she cautioned, jokingly, and mine was not going to look like that. I had to set my aspirations aside – power tools were the only way to go.
I quickly learned it’s always best to listen to Isabel if I want my body to look the same exiting the workshop as when I enter. When she yells “Buckley, what are you doing?!” from across the machine room, it’s to stop me cutting off my hand or impaling someone with a projectile. Castigation stings less than amputation. Her supporting tutors, Jess and Brandon, are also excellent.
Over three years I’ve made slow progress. I’ve learned to select timber, then use a jointer to prepare the boards for gluing into larger panels; and a thicknesser to mill the panels to the desired, well, thickness. Using salvaged blackwood to match the housing of my Condesa DJ mixer has necessitated countless hours of sweaty mask-wearing to protect my lungs from the timber’s lung-shredding fibres.
I can now confidently use drop, cabinet, band and panel saws; “biscuit” and “domino” machines; drill presses; and hand and table routers. The lathe remains daunting and the handheld belt sander hates me.
Maiming jokes aside, the workshop is a safe space. The classes are decidedly mixed, with people of different genders, ages, sexual orientations and political beliefs working bench by bench. I’ve noticed my tutors’ oversight relax with my developing proficiency, and that trust makes me feel capable beyond the workshop.
At first my mental state made it hard to keep up with Isabel’s passion and pace. I find her approach to mixing materials incredibly inspiring, as is the way she blends precision with roughness and experimentation. Against my natural inclinations she’s teaching me to accept things as they are.
One of her works – a scaffolding of dowels, braided rubber inner tube and cylindrical sawdust bricks – resembles something the hand of Dune’s Paul Atreides might endure during a Gom Jabbar test of humanity. The book’s litany is applicable to my life in and out of the workshop: “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.”
Progress is slow, frustrating and impatience invariably leads to damaged work. In three years I’ve completed just two of my three cabinets. Still, I adore them. My favourite design choices on the cabinets are the light-catching, brass plate record dividers; and the base of rounded, stacked and mitred battens – people always comment on those.
Woodworking helped reconnect my mind to the physical world and reminded me that when I apply myself I can make beautiful things. Over the most distressing period of my life, woodworking was the one good thing I could count on each week. I’m getting better at leaving my emotions at the workshop door.
I thought serenity would be my cure but learned exposure therapy was the treatment my panic attacks really needed. It’s been a year since my last episode.