March marked the start of our 2026 workshops, and there was a bit of restlessness around the first class. Nothing specific—though the weather didn’t help—but we knew the alternatives if things went in that direction.

Part of this uneasiness came from the fact that, with the exception of one class, the entire lineup changed this year. It’s something we had been discussing for a while, but it’s always a bit of a gamble—for both of us and for those who choose to join.

This year we decided to introduce more advanced workshops, and the questions lingered. Would there be interest? Would people be open to longer classes? Who would teach what?

It was during one of these conversations that we found ourselves circling back to a familiar thought:

Workshops are kind of a strange thing.

On paper, they seem straightforward. You gather a group of people, show them how something is made, and everyone leaves with a finished piece and a new skill. In practice, they’re a little more complicated than that.

There’s the preparation—materials, tools, making sure everything is where it needs to be. Knowing we were moving into new classes, we spent time making new samples, testing materials, and eventually deciding to move away from pre-made kits.

Then there’s the coordination—dates, times, locations, and the occasional round of emails confirming things that were already confirmed.

And finally there’s the part you can’t control—people. Different expectations, different learning styles, different ways of showing up. Sometimes it’s smooth. Sometimes it’s closer to herding cats. Not the friendly kind.

So it’s fair to ask: Why do we keep doing them?

The answer is pretty simple.

This is old-world knowledge. The kind that started in human hands long before it was ever mechanized. And it’s not something we’re particularly interested in seeing disappear.

For a lot of people, books exist as finished objects—something to read, something to use. It doesn’t always occur to them that a book can be made, or that it ever was made by hand. We were the same way.

In a workshop, you start to see the shift.

You see the understanding dawn on how a book is put together, and how the structure has meaning. What was once just an object becomes a process. It never gets old seeing that shift happen in real time. That’s part of what keeps workshops in the mix—watching someone sit with the work long enough for it to make sense. The hesitation drops. The process starts to feel more natural. And for a moment, they’re not just following steps—they understand what they’re doing.

Of course, not every workshop lands that way. There are a lot of moving parts—space, timing, group dynamics—and any one of those can change how the day feels. It’s not something that can be perfectly controlled, and each class takes on its own character.

But every now and then, one works:

The space feels right.

The group shows up ready.

Things move at the right pace.

And for a few hours, everything just… holds.

We’re still figuring out what workshops look like for us. There’s a sense that they might feel different in a space of our own, where the environment, pace, and structure are more fully in our hands. 

Until then, we’ll keep them in the mix. Not because they’re easy. But because when they work, they offer something that’s hard to replicate any other way.

And that first workshop this year? Just about perfect.