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The Barn on White Run
The polissoirs I commission from a local craft-broom-maker employ the materials with which he normally works, namely broom straw (sorghum) and nylon twine, with woven outer sheaths. It makes perfect sense given the scale that Polissoir, Inc. has become; he needs to use materials and techniques with which he is familiar and facile, and for which he has (for the moment) a sorta-reliable supply of raw materials.
The only variance from this is the Model 296 polissoir first commissioned by Thomas Lie-Nielsen for sale through his enterprise. In this version, made as close to the original description in L’art du Menuisier as is practicable, the outer sheath is a wrapped linen cord rather than woven sorghum.
In reviewing the sorghum polissoirs (and To Make As Perfectly As Possible) marqueteur Yannick Chastang chided me for mis-identifying the fibers used in traditional polissoirs, asserting that the genuine article used a wetlands rush rather than sorghum, and that sorghum broom straw was an inferior material for polissoirs. The first point is certainly a fair one, the second is a judgement/preference call I will discuss in a subsequent post. It’s like saying a Ruger 10/22 rifle is superior to a Smith and Wesson .50 caliber revolver. It depends on what you are trying to accomplish with the tool.
In the original text, Roubo uses the term “de jonc ordinaire” (common rush; the connection of “de jonc” to “Juncus” is not a great leap) for the plant fiber used in polissoirs. Our dealing with that term highlights the difficulties of a translation project (and explains the reason this is a very slow writing process), especially when the primary meaning of words mutates over time. Although French was probably the first codified modern language, it has changed little in the past three or four centuries, the hierarchy of definitions for words has definitely shifted. Words for which the first definition might be XYZ in one time period might find definition WYZ to be the second, third, or even eighth-ranked definition in an earlier or later dictionary. This is a struggle Michele, Philippe, and I wrestle with continually as we work our way through the original treatise. Dictionaries roughly contemporaneous to Roubo declare that the word “de jonc” can mean reed, rush, straw, grass, hay and several other definitions I cannot recall at the moment. But Yannick’s assertion that I chose the wrong word in English based on my editorial discretion is certainly not unfair.
With that idea in mind, I set out to explore the topic more fully. One problem, though, resides in the question, “Which Juncus?” After all, this is a huge genus consisting of several hundred species.
And, where would I find it?
With the shed roof line as straight as we could get it (there was still a tiny bit of dip but I was fearful of literally tearing the building apart if we went any farther based on the screeching coming from the building itself) we began the steady process of assembling in-place the laminated post-and-beam to replace the sagging wall.
We started by assembling the posts complete from three laminae of 2x8s with the center board being off set the width of the beam dimension and notched a couple of inches to serve as the tenons so that the beams could be assembled in-place fairly simply. This also provided good purchase for the concrete we were using as the footer ex poste.
Since the rear corner being the highest, we shot for everything eventually becoming level with it. So as the posts were constructed moving forward, we had to dig out holes in order to make all of them the same length. Once the structure was complete I began the gentle lifting of the front corner with a post and hydraulic bottle jack. Even I was astounded to recognize that the front corner needed almost 16-inches of raising to get everything level-ish.
With that I filled each footer hole with dry concrete mix, and old trick I learned from a deck-builder friend of mine, who said that you could use dry concrete in holes like this and it would absorb moisture from the ground and set in fairly short order. I have used this method numerous times in the past and it turns out he was right.
The following week I dismantled the original wall and salvaged almost all of the material to use as the new 3/4 wall. That new configuration, along with the new structure, has transformed the space from a sagging, foreboding cavern into a robust and airy storage space for the tools and machines necessary for maintaining the homestead. For the moment I have left the rear section of the wall un-built as we are debating the desirability of a door opening there.
Back in the mezozoic era when I was in college, I hosted a late night jazz show on the college station. My theme song was a Dave Brubeck piece (as would be the case with any civilized person in that situation), in this case Unsquare Dance. For whatever reason this tune, or more precisely the title, leaped into my head when I first saw the juxtaposition of the new and magnificent stone wall with the whomperjawed lean-to attached to the ancient log barn behind the root cellar/granary. I’d always recognized it was a bit off-plumb, but goodness the comparison was sobering. My desire to get it straightened out needed to become action.
About that time my younger brother came for a week-long visit. We are pretty much two peas in a pod, although he is a better marksman than am I. He is an excellent carpenter and builder, so once I knew his schedule I ordered some 2x8x8′ pressure treated SYP to use in building the new wall structure.
The strategy was to assemble stick-built laminated beam to serve as the top plate for a post-and-beam configuration, about a foot inside the original wall. But first we had to jack up the roof to some semblance of planarity, which we accomplished with hydraulic bottle jacks and extra 2x8s to wedge the roof to the height we wanted. It took a day of gradual lifting, but we finally had it ready to work on. The foot worth of swale was as gone as we could get it, and it was time for the hard work to begin.
The final day of bridge building involved cutting, painting, and installing the decking, which was made from the same 1×6 material used for the beams. Prior to installing the decking I mounted electrical wires to the underside of the structure. These are the wires that 1) carry electrons from the solar panels on the cabin to the power system, and 2) will eventually carry electrons back to the cabin from the system.
A little debris clearing, including the old plank walkways, and the job was done for now. I’ll let the paint weather a bit, then wait for a warmer sunny day to sand it and apply another coat of paint, sprinkling the sticky paint with play sand to give it better traction.
Between the new stone wall, arched bridge, and new wall on the lean-to on the old barn (more about that later), the vista from the side deck has been transformed.
Our task for Day Two was to complete the two structural beams of the arched bridge, so we simply continued building up the glued-and-screwed laminations until each of the curved beams got to the full 10-inch depth I wanted.
After that I affixed the cross-ribs to tie the two beams together. The end result was something with near-zero vertical deflection under load, but a little too much lateral wiggle for my taste. I solved that in the very end, but for now the structure was done.
Before laying on the decking I painted everything I could reach with polyurinate paint, which is actually the appropriate application for this product.
The root cellar on the homestead is just across the creek from the cabin, about 100-feet from the back door. Well, technically, it is across two creeks, one coming from a series of springs way up the hill and the other emanating from the spring that is about halfway between the root cellar and the cabin, and used to provide the drinking water for the cabin until the artesian spring was discovered 350 feet up the mountain in the 1980s. For the past dozen years or so the access to the root cellar was across two increasingly rickety plank bridges, and I had become increasingly concerned about the footing there as Mrs. Barn is usually the one retrieving vittles from the cellar.
The time had come for an updated structure to (re?)establish ease and safety for the trek. Since I’ve made a number of curved beam structures before, both bridges and arbors, this was the route I chose to take here. The total span of the space being covered was 25-feet, and one of the issues for the logistics was rendered irrelevant by the choice of an arched structure; the two end points were not level with each other.
With my long time pal Tom visiting for a few days, I decided that the time had come. I ordered some sweet 1x6x16′ pressure treated lumber, and it turned out to be nearly “Select” grade. We ripped each of the 1x6s in half, then used them to build the laminated arch in place.
With each end point determined by the site of the creek banks, I used concrete blocks in the center of the span to define the apex of the gentle curve and establish the form of the arch itself. Placing dead weights on each end of the laminae as we built them up, a near perfect arch was formed and replicated with each new layer. By off-setting the 1x3x16′ pieces when we glued and screwed them together, the arch was well accomplished.
Each lamina was attached to the preceding one with decking screws @ 6-inch spacing, and excess Titebond III weatherproof glue.
The result was right on target.
The goal for the first day was to finish each beam to a bit more than half height, which we did.
About eighteen months ago I contracted with Popular Woodworking magazine to write a pile of articles, and the final one of that batch was featured on the cover of the current issue.
This article was the feature on Jim Moon’s recreation of the HO Studley tool cabinet and workbench, which was indeed masterful.
The image of that new treasure has been popping up in disparate places. It deserves the widest possible dissemination.
The conclusion of the finishing workshop at the Anthony Hay Shop of Colonial Williamsburg was rubbing out the finishes we had already completed.
Given that my normal routine of using Liberon 4/0 steel wool and paste wax was not an option as steel wool was not part of CW’s vocabulary, we instead concentrated on those things which were typical for that era; pumice powder, tripoli powder (rottenstone), and pulverized chalk (whiting), delivered in slurries of mineral oil, naphtha, and diluted paste wax. The latter would probably have been some formulation of beeswax, turpentine, and tallow.
The first step was to make new polishing pads analogous to the spirit varnishing pads, with the difference that the stuffing was comparatively unimportant.
Then the work began with pumice, followed by tripoli.
The results were splendid.
We are not the first woodworkers who ever wanted to tweak the coloration of our pieces; the ancients routinely augmented their work with the addition of colorants to both unify overall tonality and accentuate details. Among the most common colorants of the past were asphalt, that useless contaminate that percolated up from the ground, and pitch, which is the residue from the fractional distillation of pine sap into turpentine solvent and colophony resin.
For this workshop I showed and the CW crew used asphalt as a toning glaze. My source for this was some non-fibered parging tar left over from the barn basement construction. The three gallons I have left are all I and a thousand friends need for decades. I thin the asphalt with mineral spirits, and occasionally add a bit of boiled linseed oil.
The asphalt glaze can be applied to the surface and manipulated with bristle brushes to achieve an overall uniform appearance. For carved surfaces it could be applied the same way with the highest points rubbed with rags to remove the colorant and emphasize the three-dimensionality of the surface.
Asphalt can be overcoated with shellac as soon as it is dry to the touch.
One of the frequent challenges for finishers is the undulating surfaced — carvings, moldings, and similar. In reviewing the historic methods for the CW crew I emphasized the problems of square-tipped brushes for this process, as the corner tips of the brushes often squeegee on the raised surfaces being varnished, resulting in excess varnish and runs dripping down the surface. This result often causes hair pulling and pungent language.
In the past the ancients often used oval or even round brushes similar to sash brushes, and thus reduced the problem. In our time, we not only have these brushes to rely on but also a form used by water colorists, the Filbert Mop. The tapers oval tip of a Filbert makes varnishing a vibrant undulating surface a piece of cake. Not only are there no brush corners to deposit excess varnish where you do not want it, but the tapered oval tip drapes the surface excellently.
The preparation for carved surfaces is essentially the same as flat surfaces; good tool work followed by scraping as necessary, and finally burnished with a bundle of fibers.
After that it’s simply a matter of applying the varnish by brush, and not too surprisingly this crew tool to this like a fish to water.
After the initial application dries, the surface can once again be burnished with the carver’s polissoir, a tool I designed for my broom-maker to fabricate along with all the other polissoirs he makes for me. This was followed by second round of varnishing, and the pieces were ready to be rubbed out with beeswax and rottenstone (grey Tripoli).
One of the exercises that raised the most eyebrows was the practice of pad polishing a shellac varnish over the beeswax grain filler. The molten beeswax was flowed onto the mahogany surface and allowed to cool, then scraped off with plexiglass scrapers that were polished to a crisp square edge. Historically this task would have been accomplished with metal blades embedded in wooden handles, but the plexi works perfectly and is easier to obtain.
The first step in pad polishing was to make a pad, using cotton wadding as the core, wrapped with flexible bandaging, all combined into a golfball-sized sphere. This core remains the heart of the pad for many years, only the outer linen or muslin sheath is replaced as needed.
With the pads finished and the cores charged with <1 lb. shellac varnish, the padding began in earnest s the building up stage was underway. I think some of the participants touched the face of the pad with a small bit of mineral oil on their finger tip to lubricate the process and make it easier to rub.
Before too long the shine of a padded surface began appearing all over the place.
As I recall everyone took a break once the varnish deposit was pretty substantial, yielding a shiny surface that was too soft to work further. After a couple hours’ wait allowing the solvent to flash off and the varnish to firm up, they were back at it.
By the end of the day there was all kinds of shiny filling the shop. For the Hay Shop crew this was a familiar process, but I believe for the crews from the gunsmith, wheelwright, and joiners shops this might have been new territory.
In preparing for the sessions at The Anthony Hay Shop of CW I decided at the last minute to toss in the materials needed to make sandpaper, not knowing whitener or not there would be any interest. It turned out that a lot of the participants were indeed interested, and several told me a very common question from the visiting public was some variation of, “Did they have sandpaper in the old days?”
So I’m glad I had what was needed.
We started with moderate weight rag paper, albeit machine made, not hand cast (maybe next time).
Wetting the paper both sides relaxed it so it would pucker less when the hot glue was applied to one side.
We were using 135 gws glue since it had plenty of adhesion properties plus was much more flexible than higher grades, making it more usable since it would not fracture when bent.
Once the glue has been on the paper long enough such that it is tacky but not wet, the surface is sprinkled with fine frit, the ground glass that was often used as the abrasive for some ancient sandpapers (hence the common terminology of “glass paper”). You want the glue tacky enough to adhere the frit, but not wet enough to soak into it and turn it into a big chunk on the surface.
The glued sheet with frit is shaken or brushed so that the frit covers the whole surface, and the piece is set aside. Once the glue has hardened adequately the excess frit is brushed or shaken off and the sheet is allowed to dry fully.
And voila’, you have a genuine new piece of antique sandpaper about 180 grit.
“Cold wax” grain filling with a rush polisher was integral to the finishing practices of the ancients. It was primarily used to finish solid wood cabinetry as opposed to the hot wax method, which was generally restricted to fancier work like marquetry.
The process is so simple that there is almost no explaining to do. The precursor step is to plane, scrape, and in some rare instances scour the wood with abrasives like sharkskin, glass paper, or horsetail rush. Then, the wood surface is scrubbed with a block of beeswax until there is a generous, but not continuous, deposit.
Taking the fiber polisher in-hand the surface is rubbed with as much pressure and vigor for as long as you can manage, first working at a slight angle to the grain, then its opposite angle, then finally with the grain. The friction developed at the point of contact between the tip of the polisher and the wood generates enough heat to turn the wax buttery and presses it down into the grain, filling it.
In some instances, as I had them do in this exercise, the surface is sprinkled with a colorant, usually powdered pigment or resin that has been ground into a fine flour. In this case I had them use some raw umber pigment to accentuate the technique (in the real world the colorant would be selected to best fit the coloration of the wood).
When finished any excess wax would be scraped off then the surface buffed with linen and wool rags until there is a uniform gloss.
For most plain solid wood furniture and cabinetry, this actually sufficed as the finished surface and nothing more would be done. You can see the resulting surface at the upper left corner of this sample board.
One of the aspects of finishing that has occupied the interests of woodworkers for centuries has been the quest for executing a smooth and glossy surface. Part and parcel of that effort has been to diminish the texture of the wood itself, hence the need for grain filling. Its importance and vagaries were such that I have introduced two disparate exercises into my teaching, both of which were pretty explicitly described in the historical literature. As done by the ancients, the quest for a non-contaminating grain filler with both enough hardness and flexibility to fulfill the task led them to employ purified beeswax as the backbone for the fill material.
The first exercise was to prepare the base for spirit varnish pad polishing, sometimes known in our vernacular as “French polishing.” In this instance the objective is to flow molten beeswax onto the surface, then scrape off any excess in readying for the pad polishing. Historically they would have used a tool similar to a roofers’ soldering iron, albeit a bit more flattened at the end such that it resembles more closely something like our modern electric tacking iron.
So that is what I use. First the molten wax is drizzled onto the surface by rubbing the hot iron against the block of beeswax, followed by working the iron over the entire surface.
When the entire surface has been saturated with molten wax, the heel of the iron is used to squeegee off any excess and the piece is allowed to cool. Then using a scraper sans burr, the surface is cleaned fully down to the wood fibers. Historically this scraper would have been steel or brass, but equally viable now is a piece of plexiglass with a nicely prepared edge.
With a final buffing with a piece of coarse linen or something similar, the end result is a surface ready for the spirit varnish pad polishing to come.
I’ve decided to trek to Covington KY this coming Saturday to sign Roubo and Studley books at the Lost Art Press storefront open-house (and pick up my own copies of the Deluxe version of the new Roubo volume). I should be there from mid-morning through mid-afternoon if you want me to sign your book.
Actually, I’ll be there even if you don’t want me to sign your book.
The hurdle of working out-of-order on some exercises was one the CW folks had no problem with, an accommodation I credit to their being interrupted almost minute-by-minute when the shops are open. Apparently the concept of continuity is nearly irrelevant for much of their work. I am particularly impressed with their ability to work in in such a crowded, dimly lit space. I know I was having trouble photographing them.
One of the concepts I was trying to persuade them to incorporate into their work protocol was burnishing the surfaces with a bound bundle of plant fibers, a recent addition to my tool kit as a result of copying some of Roubo’s techniques employing a tool he called a polissoir. The same tool is known across the globe, going back several centuries in the Orient and certainly known in Occidental workshops for almost as long, making it a perfect fit for their interpretation of the English mid-18th Century Anthony Hay Shop in Williamsburg.
I had plenty of sorghum polishers in hand so everyone got their own to prep and use.
As is always the case the results were impressive as the tips were prepped with a sheet of fine abrasive paper, and then the raw hand-planed surfaces rubbed with the smoothed bundle.
BTW, one of the videos I am thinking of shooting is titled The Compleat Polissoir, which will be a much more in-depth exposition on the topic than I addressed in my earlier video.
The prepped polissoirs were employed later on as we explored the role of wax grain filling.
The syllabus for a two or three day workshop is necessarily limited to those practices that can be accomplished within that time frame, excluding anything dealing with oil-based finishes. Accordingly I restrict the materials covered to include only spirit varnishes and wax.
The first exercise begun is applying a premium brushed finish with shellac. Since I have scads of it we used Lemon #1 shellac dissolved in either 190 proof grain alcohol or premium alcohol blends (I am testing a custom blend solvent sample from a proprietary manufacturer based on my input, and thus far it is looking good.) We mixed our solution with the general proportions of one part powdered resin to two parts solvent, which yields a roughly 2 pound cut.
My technique of brushing includes a surprisingly small brush applying the varnish in sections arranged in a serpentine pattern over the complete surface, blending the margins of each sector along the way. A detailed verbal description would take several paragraphs if not pages, you’ll just have to see me do it some time. When done, if the starting point is not wet, repeat the application process until the starting point is still wet when you get to the end of the application. I call this unit “one inning” of finishing, which can be as many as a half dozen consecutive applications depending on the situation, and a complete brushed shellac finish usually takes three or four innings to get to the sublime.
Given the schedule for this workshop, the first inning was at the beginning of Day 1.
A light sanding of the first inning and the application of the second inning at the end of Day 1, (note the wetness being ascertained via direct touch; if the surface is tacky, do it again. If it is wet, you are done.)
and the second light sanding and the third inning at the beginning of Day 2.
With this approach we were able to get a great foundation of a hand-rubbed surface that glowed at the end of the workshop.
Immediately in the aftermath of my frustratingly brief presentation at the last annual Working Wood in the 18th Century at Colonial Williamsburg, I received two invitations from Hay Shop Master Kaare Loftheim to return.
The first of these was for a two-day closed workshop for CW artisans last month where I would present demonstrations and hands-on exercises for my approach to historic finishing. I was delighted to be there, as craftsmen from the Anthony Hay Shop, the gunsmith, the housewrights and joiners, and the wheelwright shops packed into the Hay shop for two days of intense work on transparent finishes. Normally I like to make it a three day event, but two days was all they had so we worked with it.
Over the next several posts I will recount the exercises that are my normal syllabus.
The finished fourth floor was fairly late addition to the spatial configuration of the barn. Originally I was content to leave it open all the way to the roof peak, providing almost 30 feet of soaring space from the main floor.
About 3-1/2 years ago Mrs. Barn suggested that I go ahead and finish off the entirety of the fourth floor instead of leaving it as some cobbled together staging for high work. She being the smartest woman I know, I followed that advice.
I used the space for a subsequent Groopstock gathering but ever since it had served only as a place to put junk for which I could not find another home. Ironically the completion of the floor deck made the space inside the barn seem even larger than before.
With the evolving ideas for undertaking video as a teaching tool, completing the space became a priority whose fulfillment was fairly straightforward. One day with John and another by myself was all it took.
The video enterprise is less simple from a business perspective. My very tight content model provides for professional production at a comparatively modest cost, but it is not free. Even though I do not necessarily need to derive substantial revenue from video, it’s just a bit too expensive for me to treat it as a hobby to create any more than an occasional clip, and my vision of providing substantive learning resources was a fair bit more than that. I am still mulling over a number of models for how to move forward with the project from a financial perspective. They are by no means an exhaustive survey, mostly because my perspective on this is so limited.
The first option, and the one apparently favored by some woodworkers posting video on line, is to create product with essentially no production value or scripting, and simply give it all away via Youtube or Vimeo. In some cases this works magnificently, but others, not so much. Since I am committed to doing this first-rate if I do it at all, this was not something I gave any real consideration. I might create short videos on occasion as free content that is not the route for fulfilling the objectives I have in mind.
Second is the option of trying to find advertisers or sponsors for the web site as a whole and/or the videos in particular. I find advertising footprints on the web to be aggravating, and since my subject matter is so arcane it is probably not a likely avenue for me.
Third might be the option of placing the videos behind a subscription paywall available for members only. Frankly I do not know enough about the technology and psychology involved, and need to converse with video bloggers who have trod this path. I suspect that having a subscriber base renders one a complete slave to those subscribers who want more and more and more content. Yesterday. I subscribe to (and pay for) a couple news-ish podcasts, and while I appreciate and value the content it still sorta rubs me the wrong way for reasons I cannot fully identify. I only hope it is not some incipient residue from living in an entitlement society.
Fourth, given the structure and content I am noodling for the videos, I am finding the Pay Per View concept to resonate most strongly with me. I am envisioning a series of periodic videos produced at my own pace — about a dozen topics thus far — that are perhaps 90 to 120 minutes long, divided into quarter-hour-ish chapters. Perhaps each chapter could be downloaded for 99 cents and the entire continuous video for $6.99-$9.99. I’m pretty certain that this model would require teasers to be on Youtube and Vimeo.
Given my unfamiliarity with a lot of the attendant technology and marketing for these types of ventures, I am sure there are a multitude of creative ideas along these lines and I look forward to pushing back the boundaries of my own ignorance.
If you have any productive morsels to threw into the stew pot, let me know here to start the conversation.
Mrs. Barn calls it ADD, I call it Hyper-curiosity. Whatever it is, it means that sometimes I have a tough time turning my brain off, which in turn has an ancillary side effect of insomnia. And, an inability to concentrate fully when I’m watching a movie or such (tonight it’s an Eastwood bullet-fest — obviously Mrs. Barn is out of town) and I usually have a note pad nearby to capture my fragmented musings. A few of these and I have an idea, a few ideas and I have concept, and a concept usually turns into a project of some sort.
Here are some landmarks on the conceptual map that is taking shape for one possible future project for The Barn based on observations, whimsy, and experience. Consider the following:
- I’ve had the amazing opportunity over a great career spanning almost five decades that enabled aggressive learning and allowed/required creative, interdisciplinary problem solving
- I retired five years ago with plenty of fuel left in the tank. Since then I’ve published three books (with at least five more manuscripts in the pipeline, maybe even as many as a dozen if I get back to writing fiction), filmed three videos, and created a unique exhibit.
- Now freed from the immediacy of most deadlines (I’m still writing a ton, but the deadlines of the Roubo and Studley books were imminent and the Studley exhibit deadline was inflexible) and recovered from two serious injuries, I can now let my mind wander and creative juices flow unfettered
4. I have a big barn in a beautiful setting and have been encouraged to organize workshops to pass on what I learned over the years. Those who have attended the workshops give me great feedback about the experience and the setting.
5. But, most folks are unwilling to come to The Barn for workshops, for what ever reason; distance, remoteness, time, topic. Last summer two of the four workshops I had scheduled were cancelled due to lack of interest, this year it was three of five scheduled workshops cancelled. I will probably never cease offering them, maybe just a couple every summer, but it’s pretty clear workshops at The Barn are likely not a big part of the equation going forward..
6. I still enjoy greatly transmitting to willing learners the stuff taking up space between my ears and energizing my hands.
7. I go places to teach occasionally, but my aversion to travel makes this an unlikely major component of my future plans. Plus, I generally expect hosts/classes to compensate me similarly to conservation clients, and that is a deal breaker a lot of the time. Think of it as the intersection between Opportunity Costs and Comparative Advantage.
8. I am comfortable speaking to audiences, whether the audience is people or cameras. I hope my previous videos confirm that self-assessment.
9. A talented (and eager) young videographer has returned home to the hills after honing his craft at college and in commercial work. Given that about 39,614 guys are out there making woodworking videos, some with negative production value or informational organization, I’m thinking there may be some fertile territory for our collaboration given his expertise and my idiosyncratic interests.
10. The cavernous fourth floor of The Barn ( 18′ x 38′ with 17′ cathedral ceiling) served mostly as an attic for the past few years.
With those things simmering in the pot, I have decided to turn the fourth floor into a video studio. Mostly that involved cleaning out the stuff being stored there, doing a bit of painting, and finishing the wiring. If nothing comes of this, at least I got the attic cleaned, painted, and wired.