Process: A Dozen Pewter Cups

I frequently encounter a crisis of identity when I try to describe myself with certain terminology: designer, craftsman, artist—they all seem alternately applicable to the nature of my career. I know this is mostly a self-inflicted conundrum. It’s not as though anyone ever insists that I define my work in narrow, exclusive or absolute terms. I hope that in time I will simply care less, but at this moment it’s something I mull over often, partly out of insecurity, but also in an effort understand and define my goals and values as a maker of things. I don’t actually believe there are divisions between these terms or that they are fixed in relation to one and other, but to me each word has the power to connote a different emphasis on how one is engaged in a creative act.

Certainly a defining aspect of my work (one that I attribute to my craft training) is that in addition to being concerned with the aesthetics of an object, I am equally attendant to the“beauty” of process. I mean this in the same way one might describe a beautiful equation or piece of computer code—not really an aesthetic experience so much the idea that I have done something in the best possible way. In my case I am speaking about a synergetic combination of speed, economy, cleverness and pleasantness of actions that combine to create grace in process. This may not have an apparent visual impact on the object, but is at least an avenue for rigorous, striving engagement. I do also believe that a beautiful process tends to generate objects that have a clear, un-muddied quality, regardless of the particular aesthetic.

Most of my projects leave limited room for deeply exploring the beauty of process. Though it is on my mind all the time, I am usually making a single, one-off piece, and there’s no opportunity to go back and redo steps unless I have really screwed up. However, once in a while I take on a project in which my goal is to deeply explore and refine my sequence and efficiency of actions. This simple pewter cup design is one such project. I have made it a few dozen times over the last three years in order to home in on a process that works within my limited tooling and design parameters, which are that it must be a versatile size, impart the perceived value of a hand-formed metal cup, be impeccably crafted and sell for less than $100 retail. Other than the price point, which is $160, I am satisfied with how I am making these cups, as well as with their look and functionality.

Here’s a run down of my process in pictures. This is intended as a show-and-tell more than a set of instructions, but if you are interested in pewter-smithing and have any questions please shoot me an email. Click the first image to pull up a slide show with descriptions of each step.

The parts are laid out on a 12" x 24" x .051" pewter sheet.

The parts are sawn with a small bandsaw. If I had a Beverly shear I would use that, but this works well and the pewter is not so expensive that I am worried about losing the kerf.

All the parts from one sheet, plus scrap (which I will melt and use for casting projects)

The cup bottoms are sunk into a leather sandbag.

Then they are formed over a small, domed stake. Sometimes I planish them with a metal hammer, but with this batch I wanted the inside to be simple and smooth.

The completed bottoms.

The part that will make the side of the cup is rolled up by hand.

The seam is then fused. This is not soldering, it's welding (at 450 degrees!) New pewter is introduced to the seam and it's all melted together to form an integral pewter tube.

It's then planished over a blow horn stake to make it round and impart an interesting texture.

I use a variety of hammers when planishing pewter to create texture. Even brass is hard enough to transfer its texture to the soft pewter. In this case I bashed the mallet on my concrete floor until it was sufficiently distressed to impart a stony, matte texture to the cup.

The top and bottom edges of the cup are trued on a lathe. Pewter is so soft that in general woodworking tools are ideal for machining it. There is no need to use a metal lathe for this step. Doing this on a lathe was a huge improvement over my initial process of trimming the top and bottom with hand shears and flattening them with sandpaper. Incidentally, this is also when it dawned on me why tinsel is called is called tinsel.

With the top and bottom edges true, I begin to form the rim over the narrowest section of the of the blow horn stake.

The rim is further stretched with a flat mallet.

Then a great trick: by squeezing the cup extremely hard in a wood vice, the rim is both flattened and forced around until it begin to roll over on itself.

After squeezing.

It is pushed the rest of the way over with a mallet, supported by the other end of the blow horn stake.

Finally, the rim is smoothed and polished back on the lathe.

Voila. Doing the rim like this was the biggest technical improvement to my process. I used to make the rim by rolling out half-round pewter wire, forming and fusing it into a band, then soldering it on the top of the cup. This looked nice but took about an hour more per cup and was much riskier than my current technique.

Polishing the rim always seems to be the most dramatic step in making the cup look complete and refined.

The bottom edge is beveled to accept the domed disk that will make the bottom of the cup.

The solder I use melts at such a low temperature that the bottom of the cup can be held in place with tape!

Ready to go.

I cut the solder wire into small pallions. This solder has the addition of bismuth which lowers the melting temperature somewhat, though not so much that it is brittle. It is, of course, lead-free.