Sometimes I forget how much I love the work. My work. The actual work. Not the wider net that catches in it my career at the bench. Or the decades of red and white bicycles. Or the brand. I’m not even thinking of the bicycles, or the clients. It’s certainly not about (either of) them. It isn’t about getting paid for my work or people asking for it in the first place. I love the work. I’m not even thinking of it as a finished unit. What I love is so far removed from that. I love the work. The actual work. The thinking. Summoning up intuitive skills. Acquiring the tools that become experience. The not even thinking about design when I roll in to start a new one. It all just spills out of my hands like a new tune. But one that’s considered before a note is written. Or heard. And holding the tools that move metal. And the ones that turn it cherry red. I love the work. The small decisions that are made, often in rapid-fire time – again, without thinking. To just do it, the work I do. I love the work. My work. And often when I finish it I wish I hadn’t. That it could last longer.
All This By Hand