18 Aug What the Chair Remembers: The Quiet Craft of Michael Dees
In a workshop in Galax, Virginia, the rhythmic pull of cane through wood sounds like a heartbeat. The scent of worn timber drifts through the air. Lights flicker softly, and a quiet tapping begins; the steady lull of not just a trade, but a tradition.
Michael Dees never set out to become a professional artisan. Years ago, he was running community programs for Parks and Recreation, teaching classes to seniors and saying yes to whatever skill was needed. One day, a student asked, “Can you teach me how to cane a chair?” Michael didn’t know how, but a local couple from New Jersey offered to show him the basics. That spark of curiosity became a calling. He started taking chairs apart just to see how they were made, studying every detail, and experimenting with over 25 different weaving styles and patterns. “It was just trial and error,” he says. “And I guess I’ve been learning ever since.”
More than forty years later, Michael has restored hundreds of chairs, breathing new life into pieces that might otherwise have been forgotten. Chair caning is a rare craft now, with fewer than a hundred practitioners across the country. But in Michael’s hands, it’s alive with purpose. Each chair tells a story, and he treats them with the reverence they deserve. “Every chair has a history,” he says. “And I get to bring that history back to life.”
For Michael, that history feels personal. He handles each piece as if it belonged to his own family, patiently working until it’s whole again. The moment he returns a restored heirloom to its owner is always the same; a gasp, sometimes followed by tears. “Nothing makes me happier than to hear them take that breath,” he says. “That just touches me.”
His own story is rooted in Galax, a town he and his wife chose without any family ties. But from the moment a stranger embraced them in a grocery store, they felt like they’d come home. “We don’t have a single blood relative in Galax,” he says, “but we have the biggest family you could ever, ever ask for.”
When he’s not in his workshop, Michael continues to teach at places like the Chestnut Creek School of the Arts and Florence Thomas Art School. Sharing the craft, he believes, is just as important as preserving it. At age 74, he’s focused on passing his knowledge to the next generation, currently mentoring an apprentice so the tradition can carry on.
Michael’s work is not flashy or loud. It hums softly, woven into the grain of memory and time. Through his hands, broken things become whole again. Through his patience, stories are restored. And in every chair mended, we’re reminded that some things in life, like tradition, care, and quiet craftsmanship, are worth holding onto.