My grandfather, Henry Lohse, was a watercolor painter with an uncommon eye for detail and a quiet persistence that drew beauty out of the ordinary. After a long career in education, he discovered painting later in life—turning his travel photos with his wife, Lola, into luminous studies of color and light. I remember visiting his studio as a child, watching the transformation unfold: a few careful pencil lines, a wash of pigment, and then, as if by patience alone, an entire landscape appeared. Those early moments taught me that art is less about inspiration and more about seeing—the way light moves across a surface, or how small choices accumulate into something enduring.
When Henry passed away, his paintings were shared among my siblings, cousins, and me. As the eldest grandchild, I inherited a few of his favorites. They hang in my home now, constant reminders of his late-found devotion to craft and his quiet insistence that creativity can bloom at any stage of life. Though my medium is different, I recognize that same spark in myself—the desire to make something lasting and personal from raw materials.
After decades in a traditional technology career, I found my own creative outlet in woodworking. My workshop in New Hampshire became my studio; my brushes replaced by joinery tools and sandpaper. Like Henry, I began with observation—studying how grain patterns flow, how two boards can meet seamlessly, how light warms a finished surface. The discipline he showed in layering watercolor now guides my approach to finishing a table: subtle adjustments, deliberate pacing, and the satisfaction that comes only from precision earned over time.
Each table I build for New England Table Company carries a piece of that philosophy. I strive not only to make beautiful furniture but to translate a vision into form—to exceed expectations in both design and execution. Every decision, from selecting the right hardwood to refining the final sheen, feels like a continuation of Henry’s lesson: that art is a dialogue between patience and material.
In many ways, my tables are my paintings. They reflect the same reverence for natural beauty that my grandfather captured with watercolor and paper. His legacy reminds me daily that craftsmanship—whether in pigment or wood—is ultimately an act of devotion: to the process, to the material, and to the people who will live with what we create.
