For as long as I’ve been a knifemaker, I’ve strived to craft the most perfect knife possible. My goal has always been to ensure my handwork represents the best I can achieve at that moment. Yet, to this day, I have never been 100% satisfied with anything I’ve made. Part of me hopes I’ll never feel completely content with the end result of my work.
That’s not to say I’m unhappy with what I create—far from it. I take immense pride in my work, but I also see room for improvement in everything I make. I suppose I carry a strange fear: if I ever reached a point where I couldn’t identify anything to improve, I’d lose the drive that keeps me going. And if that day ever came, perhaps I’d have to find a new passion. Luckily, I don’t think it ever will. To me, a perfect day is one where I learn something new—and there’s always so much more to learn.
This is where the paradox emerges. While I tirelessly pursue perfection in my own work, I find joy in the imperfections of other objects. Wabi-Sabi, a Japanese concept, celebrates the beauty found in imperfection and the passage of time. There’s a fantastic book on the topic that I’ll mention at the end.
One of my most prized possessions is a small wooden head figure my late father carved as a young man. Seventy years after it was made, it sits in my studio as a daily reminder of him. The figure, about 3.5 inches tall, somewhat resembles an Easter Island statue. It’s not “perfect” in a conventional sense—my father likely carved it quickly, and it’s missing one ear. Perhaps the piece of wood wasn’t big enough, or he made a mistake while carving. Whatever the reason, this imperfection makes it even more special to me. It’s like an Easter Island head meets Van Gogh, and I find immense pleasure in handling it.
For the past 6–7 winters, I’ve used a woven willow basket to carry firewood to the stove in our living room. The basket, beautifully crafted by a friend, is a daily reminder of the artistry behind everyday objects. Over time, one of the handles wore down to the point of breaking, rendering the basket almost useless for its intended purpose.
Another aspect of Japanese culture that resonates with me is the idea of repairing everyday items in a way that enhances both their lifespan and their beauty. I thought long and hard about how to repair the broken handle. In the end, I chose a simple yet thoughtful solution: I wrapped copper electrical wire around the handle to make it strong again.
This repair brought me unexpected joy. The copper, so different from the willow branches of the original basket, felt true to my identity as a metalworker. Over time, the wire will patina, aging gracefully alongside the basket. I believe this repair has given the basket another 6–7 years of service—at least until another handle breaks. When that happens, I’ll welcome the chance for another repair. Could I have made it more aesthetically pleasing? Of course. But to me, this repair reflects Wabi-Sabi in its truest form, and I find it deeply satisfying.
If you’d like to learn more about Wabi-Sabi, I highly recommend reading Wabi-Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren.
Stay inspired,
Jens
