When Good is Good Enough in Custom Furniture
I initially wanted to title this “How Do We Know When Good is Good Enough?” But I found myself wondering if such a question has a definitive answer. Can we truly debate this and find closure in the decision-making trees we’ve constructed in our minds? How has custom furniture become this ever elusive world of chasing perfection without boundaries?
The kinds of decisions we face often come when we let our thoughts take center stage. In a workshop, there are hundreds of such decisions throughout a project—and even more throughout a single day. Add in the ups and downs, the wins and losses of running a small custom shop, and it’s easy for the weight of it all to send me spiraling down a staircase of uncertainty. The deeper I go, the more I realize there’s still so much to discover.
Do we use pocket screws or mortise-and-tenon joinery? Are there known limits to a piece of custom furniture? Can the market support the price point required to do things my way? Would anyone truly care?
A colleague and I had a philosophical conversation about what we do—one that raised questions like: why woodworking? Why create 450 chairs for a local school? Where do we draw the line between quality work and getting lost in perfectionism? At what point are we in the middle of the road, and at what point are we teetering dangerously close to the ditch?
I’ve noticed a fascinating divide: why are fine furniture making and woodworking seen as worlds apart? I think a fine furniture maker might call themselves a woodworker, if needed, but a woodworker might not call themselves a fine furniture maker. Why this distinction?
As a leader, there are many assumptions about why we make the choices we do. People often guess and create their own narratives, hoping they are grounded in truth. But what if good enough is simply about leaving people to their own opinions? The journey down this path, however, compels me to share my thoughts and let my employees peer into my mind. Why? Because I know I don’t have all the answers. My experiences only inform my small path, both behind and ahead of me.
woodworker in woodshop
We each must ask ourselves: how much do we care? If we care deeply enough, I believe that somewhere along the road lies the intersection of intentionality and diligence. But why? I’m not entirely sure.
One thing I know for sure: the best way to understand someone’s expertise is by looking at their work. What have they produced? And not just what you value, but what they find valuable or what brings them joy. We can see all their decisions embodied in one tangible object—no more inner debates, just the culmination of all those choices.
A true professional knows when to sweat the details—and when not to. Some things can be overlooked, not because they’re irrelevant, but because obsessing over every tiny detail would prevent us from finishing anything. We’d end up with “idea soups,” full of useful ingredients, but without meaning or cohesion. In a sentence, in a paragraph, in a story, the individual details come together and find their true significance.
Is there such a thing as a bad piece of furniture?
How do we even define it? What I might consider a bad piece of furniture could be completely different from your opinion. It’s all so subjective! But there are certain things we can agree on: a 40-inch-tall dining table is probably a bad piece of furniture. A squishy, cloth-covered toilet lid? Definitely not ideal. A two-legged chair? Unless it’s a clever design concept, that’s just dangerous.
But context matters. A two-legged ladder you lean against the wall could be a neat and useful idea. Or a kitchen cabinet that gives a child a platform to peer into something is also a creative and functional concept. This shows how perspective can shift what we once thought was a “bad” idea into something quite useful.
Take, for example, the countless times we get calls about making wooden stove-top covers. On the surface, it seems like a bad idea, right? Wood and heat don’t mix well. But without understanding the customer’s perspective, we might dismiss it outright. A pallet repurposing request might seem equally misguided to me, but there’s value in seeing the world through someone else’s eyes.
Even as I write this, I’m questioning how far I should dive into these ideas. At some point, the words need to leave my head and find their way to the page—no matter how imperfect they might be. I wonder if I could have taken more time, been more intentional, provided better context. But even I’m not sure how far my thought process should go before I take the leap and let it be what it is.
My greatest fear is cutting it short.
I remember a moment from years ago when I was in Africa. I sat in the front seat of an auto-bus and watched a little girl trying to fill her container from a well, no more than 75 feet away. Each attempt, each pull, felt heavy with frustration and exhaustion. She gave up after about 10 minutes, walking away, disappointed. But then a young boy approached. Within two pumps, clean water was flowing freely from the well. The girl’s struggle had been her limit, but the boy’s persistence paid off in the end.
One person called it quits; another reaped the rewards.
This story is my reminder that excellence, for me, is defined by what I know is possible. The internet, with its pristine, perfectly lit images of craftsmen making perfect tables with perfect tools, sets a high bar. But often, in those same videos, we spot the tiny imperfections—the ubiquitous pocket screw holes. We’re quick to critique, but if the video began with poor tools in unskilled hands, we’d cheer them on, rooting for them to simply finish the task.
Knowing there’s a better way is meaningless if we don’t take action. Complacency is the enemy of progress.
The problem with “good enough” is that it requires a conscious decision to finish a project, despite its flaws. I know I could have done better, but sometimes we need to acknowledge that perfectionism will never allow us to finish. Social media constantly shows us perfect work, but behind every post is a reminder that “Instagram versus reality” is often hilarious. We all fall short of perfection, yet we still manage to create something meaningful.
Sometimes we must make a known set of decisions to cut corners, to abandon certain details, even when our romantic side wants to chase after them. That’s the maturity that comes with knowing when good is good enough.
We often assume that knowing what’s possible means we must pursue it. But maturity teaches us that knowing what’s possible is irrelevant if we focus on what truly matters. Maybe we can achieve just the right balance, even if it means settling for less than perfection.
Do we ever ask a client if they want a piece of furniture to last 100 years or just 50?
I was explaining to a customer recently how we typically break our boards into 3 to 5 inches to relieve stress. But for this particular project with white oak, we decided to leave the boards wider, closer to 8 to 9 inches. It made the top look more peaceful, but it also created a new problem: the top began to bow. So, we added steel reinforcement beneath to flatten it out—a mechanical fix born from a decision to prioritize aesthetics. We knew the potential downsides but made the choice anyway, knowing we had the means to address any issues. And issues came—big, heavy ones. The top is beautiful but much heavier than expected, and it added four extra hours to the build time.
Too many decisions like that, and we run out of cash. Eventually, we reach the point where we can no longer afford to sweat the small details.
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So, what’s the sliding rule we chase? Leave your thoughts in the comments.
