Seven materials.
Named, not hinted at.

Close-grained, hard, and dimensionally the best-behaved timber for small furniture. It is pale gold when it is cut and it warms over years into honey — the single biggest change anything here will make. Quarter-sawn where the piece shows a wide face, so the grain moves less across the seasons.

Lighter and springier than oak, with a long open grain that takes a curve without steaming twice. Used where a piece needs to flex rather than resist — a peg rail, a rack. It is paler than oak and stays paler; the two are deliberately not mixed in one piece.

European flax, stonewashed before it is cut so it arrives soft instead of arriving stiff and becoming soft. It creases, permanently and by design — a linen that does not crease has been finished with something that will wash out anyway. It gets better for about five years and then stays there.

Undyed and dyed lambswool, woven rather than knitted so it holds an edge on a cushion. It pills for the first month where it rubs, which is short fibre working its way out and stops on its own — a comb, not a complaint. It is warm, it is not washable, and it does not like moths.

Thrown and fired to vitrification, so the body is waterproof without relying on the glaze. Every piece varies in glaze break and colour depth — that is a wet glaze on a curved wall, not a defect, and two pieces from the same run will not match exactly.

Solid bar and sheet, unlacquered. It leaves the workshop bright and it will not stay bright: within weeks it dulls to gold and within a year to a soft brown, faster where hands touch it. Polish it back whenever you like, or leave it. A lacquered brass would stay bright and then flake, which is worse.

Heavy cotton canvas impregnated with a paraffin and beeswax blend. It sheds a shower, it marks and creases where it folds, and the marks are the point — waxed cotton is a material that records use. Re-waxing every couple of years brings it back; washing it strips it for good.