But my father’s is an artist’s eye as much as a craftsman’s, and it can see other things too—things thạt mine cannot. With his hands and face almost intimately close to the boards, he’s trying to divine the ebb and flow of the grain. To see, and to see past, the flaws. To intuit beneath the shrouds of grime the traces of a scene, a movement, or simply an energy. Something he can coax out and bring to life with his carving chisels.