Making a Japanese-Style Tool Box

Derek Jones looks at the origins of Arts & Crafts to build a tool box in the ancient style

Anyone that’s stopped to consider the shape, form or function of an object will unwittingly have engaged in a conversation about design. Even choosing between Thai, Italian or tapas for dinner constitutes having an opinion on the merits of each regardless of how well equipped we are to do so. Just having an opinion can make us an expert sometimes for they are so often gut-felt and conceived without rational thought as to make them the most honest of human responses. Aside from the categories used to group items in chronological order like Georgian, Victorian, etc., we also have more general terms that take into consideration the aesthetic nature of objects. The history of furniture is packed with references to Japanned items, Chinoiserie and Classical proportions.

Most of the time these are interpretations of a style developed to respond to a particular shift in taste for commercial reasons and therefore not always a reliable source of original intent or information – Gothic and medieval immediately spring to mind. Some of the more well known descriptions that just so happen to be so vague as to mean very little are Shaker Style, Scandinavian or my favourite, Oriental. While I have a rough idea what’s meant by them they don’t really tell me much about the objects at all.

When I first looked at making this style of box I was undoubtedly drawn to a style that has its origins in Japanese carpentry and more specifically temple builders. I’m just as fascinated by the things craftsmen make as how they make them. Like all good tool chests it follows some basic principles that are common among tradesmen the world over, particularly those working with wood. Firstly, they are usually made from an inexpensive material and to a design that lends itself to being repaired easily. Secondly, as a purely utilitarian object conceived under the rule of form equals function they represent the height of aesthetic achievement.

Japanese-style tool box plan

No frills please

There are some fancy tool chests out there that often house an equally fancy assortment of tools but I have my reservations about how well they perform as working tool chests. When I see them decked out with inlay and marquetry it makes you wonder if perhaps the owner was more concerned with storing his tools than using them. Presumably at the end of the job these showy chests were loaded onto a cart adorned with the 19th-century equivalent of furry dice and go-faster stripes. I’ll concede that such a chest might be used to display a workman’s competency in various cabinetmaking disciplines but in the 18th and 19th centuries nothing said ‘hire me’ better than a letter of recommendation.

Coming back to our Japanese chest we need only look at the frugal use of materials to understand that a completely different culture existed between the tools a craftsman used and how he transported them. Perhaps the most significant difference in the approach to building such a container was that for the Japanese chest, no hardware was required apart from the nails used to fasten it all together.

Western-style chests, on the other hand, typically featured metal straps to strengthen the box, metal handles with which to lift them and metal hinges to attach the lid. Most featured some form of metal lock as well and were expensive items to either buy or make. All of these additions serve to complicate the design in one way or another and nearly always fail before the rest of the chest gives way. Metal and wood can so often conspire to destroy one another.

I’ve made about half a dozen of these chests myself over the last couple of years and, through teaching classes on how to make them, have been at the birth of dozens more. So as not to exclude students from completing the project I’ve experimented with a variety of fixings, not to find the best mechanical fixing but to find a method that suits the skills of the builder. Cut nails, Japanese wooden nails and screws all work well and are easy to implement.

For historical accuracy you’d have to use cut nails and this is the most common way of fastening all the components together; it’s quick to do and negates the use of glue. Unfortunately one person’s authenticity is another person’s rustic and any amount of explaining won’t change perception. Tapered wooden nails require an adhesive and take a bit longer but result in a sleeker look when everything has been levelled off. Screws seem to introduce more problems than they solve, as you’ll have to decide whether to ‘clock’ the heads or not.

Proportions

There’s no escaping the fact that Japanese toolboxes are made to different proportions than Western-style ones, which is largely attributed to the size and shape of their tools. A Western craftsman might have need of three or four backsaws ranging from a 6in dovetail saw to a 14in tenon saw plus hand and panel saws up to 24in.

The Japanese carpenter could halve the number of saws in his chest as some are toothed along two edges and others double up as the same saw for multiple applications. The handles are pole shaped rather than a pistol grip, which is easier to accommodate as well. Japanese planes, despite being made of wood, are also less bulky than Western ones so take up much less space and weigh considerably less than metal ones.

Dress down for success

When deciding what material to build a tool chest with you could do a lot worse than pine or cedar. Although both are soft woods botanically speaking as well as physically, they are, in their respective natural homes, generally cheap and in good supply. They are also much lighter than hard woods, so that at the end of a long day you might still have the energy to load your chest onto the cart. I

t’s also worth considering that no craftsman was ever paid to make his own tool chest either, having instead to cover the entire cost of materials and labour out of his own pocket. Though soft woods can be less abrasive on edge tools they still require sharp edges to cut cleanly. In class situations I’ve noticed that cedar is the most challenging of the two to work.

W hen chopping end grain, anything less than a razor-sharp edge will cause the hard strands of material to crush the soft fibres and a slightly dull plane will either tear up the surface of the material in any direction or just produce fluff. The downside is that it marks easily from chips left on the bench and even from a pencil when laying out joinery.

A list of pros in favour of cedar might include its aroma and its resistance to insects and rot. Button shellac will turn it a glorious amber colour, which is not entirely unpleasing. If you can get good quartersawn Douglas fir, the pin stripe pattern of the grain is an excellent choice for a long skinny box. As most of this timber is destined for construction and architectural joinery in the UK you may struggle to find thin wide boards. All my Douglas fir boxes started out as 4x2s.

The most recent box I built was made from a single piece of English oak approximately 300mm wide, 600mm long and 75mm thick. I found it in the offcuts bin of my local timber yard and being perfectly quartersawn I couldn’t really leave it behind. Although the annular rings were relatively wide apart, suggesting periods of rapid growth and therefore not ideal for something like drawer construction, there was a fair chance the medullary rays would be spectacular. On opening up the board they weren’t as striking as I’d hoped for but to compensate the range of colour was very similar to olive ash; a much prized timber in the 16th century that was often referred to as green ebony.

Cunning joinery

The joinery is really very simple for this box. If you’re just using cut nails a dado across the end of each long side is all that’s required to house the ends. If you decide to introduce through tenons, the dados double up as a reference for the mortises. My technique for cutting these is to transfer the lines to the outside faces of the board with a marking gauge from a single common edge and drill a slightly smaller hole than the tenon with a Forstner bit. Drill from the face side and support the waste side with an offcut positioned in the dado and you will get a clean hole.

If you decide to wedge the tenons it’s a good idea to leave them long and chamfer the top edges so they don’t inadvertently blow the timber around the mortise when you assemble the components. While it’s possible to cut the mortises first and mark the tenons through the holes I’ve found it better to rely on gauge marks to transfer the vital information because unless the bottom of your dado is perfectly flat and smooth it doesn’t provide a crisp arris to guide a marking implement.

Wedging the tenons is more cosmetic than structural as they are quite short and the likelihood of springing them apart sufficiently to create a wedge of any meaningful purpose is slight. However, a diagonal wedge does have the effect of splaying the tenons into all four corners of the mortise thus ensuring a gap-free joint. When it comes to assembling the joints it’s only natural to want to drive the wedges all the way home. But if you’ve made them much longer than the tenons there’s a real chance you’ll create a split in the wood beyond the shoulder.

Hidden Extras

Every one of the boxes I have made has had a shaped handle instead of the more common straight variety. It may in some small way improve the function but really it’s where one of the most satisfying details of this box hides. I say hides because you’re about the only person that will ever notice its existence, unless you’re a builder of things in wood with a predilection for turning things upside down. The inside edge of the curve receives a generous chamfer to form a definite grab which is followed onto the straight ends of the rail. All this has to be done before adding them to the ends of the box.

I’ve used a range of shaping tools to produce them; spokeshave, rasp and scraper and, on one occasion, a router. I like to glue these in place slightly proud of the rest of the box in height and length and let the glue dry before nailing them from the inside of the box. When they are set you can flush them with the rest of the box using a block plane as it will become a seat for the fixed ends of the lid.

The bottom of the box is made from two pieces that are rebated on alternate faces to equal depths and widths. You could if you prefer plough a groove along each edge to take a loose tongue or plane a tongue-and-groove. The benefits are one and the same whichever you decide; to allow the bottom to expand or contract as required without causing it to split or distort the shape of the box. My tip if you’re using cedar is to enquire at your timber yard whether they carry cedar ship lap. If they do you’re in luck because it will come with two ready-made profiles ideally suited to box bottom making.

One edge will have the required rebate and chamfer used for concealing the nails or screws with which you will attach the boards to the sides. The other edge will have a perfect rebate from which you can gauge its mate. You’ll need to sacrifice one of these but at least three of the four profiles are pre-cut.

Moving parts

I hunted high and low for a detailed description on how a typical Japanese tool chest lid should be made but other than a cursory note about the benefits of tapered wedges I couldn’t find anything of much use. Maybe there’s a reason for that which is buried in the archives somewhere but it seems anyone who has ever made one faces the same problem: there isn’t a formula as such. OK, there are some basic principles that involve a keyed wedge moving in one direction against a fixed wall to shift an object perpendicularly across a given distance, which might be all you need to know. I won’t sugar coat it, at first it’s fiddly beyond belief so don’t attempt it if there are other things on your mind, you’ll need every ounce of grey matter to pull it off.

To begin with, cut all the components that sit on top of the lid and the box ends over length. Marry the parts that go together with a couple of pencil dashes so they can’t accidentally be positioned in any other way than that which is intended. Now shoot the sides of the parts that will mate alongside each other when the lid is closed. For seamless joints the wedge is best cut from the middle of one piece with the offcuts either side forming the fixed end on the box and the other the fixed batten on the lid.

Depending on your skill with a rip saw you will need to make this part over width to allow for trimming and planing the angles. It may help to use a dovetail marking template to establish the angles. I have used a 1:6 marker for all my boxes and it works fine. Pay attention to the grain direction on all the angled mating edges as you may end up planing into end grain creating tear-out.

With this done you can now trim your lid to fit inside the top of the box with a hair’s breadth gap all round. Second tip: having a square box is less important than having a lid that is the same shape as the opening. Mark the orientation of the lid and make up a couple of blocks to sit inside the box along the two long sides to hold the lid at its intended height, i.e. flush with the top of the box. Attach some masking tape tabs to it and drop it in place onto the supports. You can now locate the two fixed ends on top of the handle grips.

The end that will include the wedge needs to overlap the lid by, let’s say, 12mm. Clamp it in place onto the box and draw a line across the lid and the box sides where it overlaps. At the other end of the lid make a mark across the width 6mm in from the end and extend it onto the sides of the box. You now have marks at each end of the box showing where the fixed ends need to be in relation to a 6/12mm ratio. Remove 6mm off the length of the lid at the wedge end.

In order to carry out a test fit, attach the two fixed battens onto the lid with small pieces of double-sided tape while the lid is resting on the supports with the pencil marks lining up. At the square end the fixed batten will sit on the line. At the wedged end use the wedge as a spacer to set the distance from the end for the other fixed batten. Closing the gaps in this dry run isn’t as important as adjusting things so that they are parallel. With that accomplished you can now glue, nail or screw the fixed battens onto the lid and position the other components accordingly and fix them into position without the lid in place.

Final adjustments to the fit and finish of the lid include some or all of the following: shooting the ends, creating a leading edge or bevel to the end without the wedge, softening the top arris of the same end. When you’re happy with the fit, flush off all the edges but leave the wedge long.

Top and bottom tips

You’re now ready to fix the bottom in place and once again you have a couple of choices, screws or nails. 

Both the long sides need to be fixed to the underneath of the box with just a single fixing required along the short side to one of the bottom boards, preferably towards the middle. I use a thin ruler to separate them and create an even expansion gap. The rebate or tongue will be sufficient to hold the other board in place but still allow it to expand or contract. If you’re finishing the inside of your box do so now before fixing the bottom.

The bottom boards can be over size in all directions at this stage as you can trim them flush later. Use matchstick sized spacers at the ends to prevent breaking the ends of the rebate while planing. The final part of the jigsaw is to trim the wedge to length, however this is where you have to exercise great restraint. Wait a couple of weeks at least or until the box has spent time in its new home because even the slightest reduction in width across all the battens will mean the wedge has to travel further to close the lid. In extreme cases you may find you need to reduce the width of the wedge even more, add a couple slithers either side and then refit it. Use a contrasting wood and it doesn’t look as bad as it sounds.

Anglo-Japanese origins

Exposed joinery is a term that covers a lot of different styles of construction and is perhaps what’s meant to describe joints that are exposed for aesthetic reasons. The Arts & Crafts movement in England between 1880 and 1920 played a great part in popularising this style as it drew attention to one of the group’s primary objectives, to highlight craftsmanship. Of course exposed joinery had been around for centuries before that in many ancient cultures. Regarded as the grandfather of the movement, Edward William Godwin (1833–86) introduced a style influenced by Japanese art that took inspiration from simple forms and structures.

By the 1870s Godwin’s designs for wallpaper and other decorative objects featured in the catalogue of Liberty & Co. and found favour with the most progressive and artistic designers of the period. As well as furniture, Godwin also designed buildings including the entrance to the Fine Art Society in Bond Street in 1881. One of the first exhibitions to be held there featured Japanese woodblock prints cementing further still the Anglo- Japanese style that influenced the next generation of makers.

Further reading