Inside Jason Goldman’s Beautiful Chaos of Wood and Art
A friend of mine took up a hobby of refinishing furniture, and she bought a bunch of vintage chairs at Goodwill. As she unloaded them in her garage, she realized one was missing a spindle. I offered to have a replacement made for her, which I thought would be an easy task.
After months of trying to find someone to do the job—and one failed attempt by a would-be woodworker who produced a rod that was at least two inches too long and didn’t remotely resemble the original—I put out a plea for leads on several Fauquier County Facebook pages. A name that kept coming up was Jason Goldman.
I contacted Jason via Messenger. He was in the midst of several large projects for clients, but he said he has a hard time saying “no,” and he tries “not to be a “d*ck,” so he agreed to help me.
I drove 47 minutes to his studio in Flint Hill, through the one-shop main street of the town, then down a gravel path that glitched out my navigation system because the roads were unmapped. The “No Trespassing” signs were a bit intimidating, but since I was there by invitation, I proceeded through the gates, passing a dilapidated wood-paneled station wagon parked in the yard with a life-size skeleton behind the wheel.
I cautiously entered the rustic shack and called out, “Hello,” several times, to no avail. I made my way through a maze of small rooms, following the music and the buzz of machinery. The studio was an incredible display of colors and woodworking tools of every size and shape, all covered in a fine coat of wood dust. In every nook there were shelves lined with paints and parts, and every surface was decorated with posters and stickers, with the occasional skateboard leaning against a wall. It was, in every sense, a beautiful chaos—an art installation in itself.
Finally, there was a lull in the grinding noise, and I heard a “Hey!” Jason emerged in his oversized cargo shorts, rocker T-shirt, and backwards baseball cap. His face and short black-and-white beard were covered in wood dust and sweat. Alone in this shack with a strange man, I might have felt uneasy, but his disarming smile and friendly demeanor immediately put me at ease. He looked every bit the part of a free-spirited hippie skater punk, yet also a distinguished artist—and just a genuinely nice guy.
But onto the best part—the artistry. He carefully examined the spindle I brought, then rummaged through a bin of wood planks until he found the perfect match. To me, wood is wood, but he studied subtle differences in grain, texture, and hardness before choosing the right piece.
He cut the plank to size and mounted it on his lathe. As he cranked up the motor, the wood began to spin, and he shaved it down to a cylinder, checking the diameter with calipers. With delicate cuts, he held the original spindle up for comparison, chiseling an identical design—by eye alone.
Midway through, two neighbors stopped in, eager to see the bar he was making for a client’s kitchen. Jason peeled off his K95 mask and welder-style face shield and warmly greeted them. Despite being busy, he was gracious and friendly, true to his “not being a d*ck” ethos. He proudly showed off his latest masterpiece: a long, smooth, polished plank sliced in half like an avocado, the center inlaid with multicolored round wood pucks of varying sizes.
He explained that the pucks came from branches—but not just any branches. He had hand-picked the most aesthetic limbs, baked out the moisture in a kiln, soaked the pieces in a hardening solution, then dried them again. This process prevents rot, eliminates bugs, strengthens the fibers, and seals the wood from moisture. After that, he shaved off the bark and edges to create smooth disks and dyed them with various color stains. Even as a work in progress, the piece was stunning.
The bar, like most of Jason’s work, was bespoke and one of a kind. His attention to detail and pride in his craft showed in every creation—big or small. To my great appreciation, he gave the same care and attention to my spindle.
When it came to payment, he told me that instead of paying him, I could just tell others about his work. I insisted on covering his materials, which he reluctantly accepted, and I promised that I would happily spread the word about the experience of being invited into his one-of-a-kind art space and watching him work.
It’s just a spindle—but I’m almost sad to part with it. My friend will appreciate the replacement part for her chair, but how could she know the artistry that went into its creation unless I tell her? Which, of course, I will—with enthusiasm.
