Notes from the Workshop

The Knife as Functional Art

Picture a richly decorated hunting knife. Intricate ornamentation can make a knife awkward in the hand. Gilding can wear off, gemstones can fall out, and the engraving itself can be so delicate that it wears away over time. A lot of people wonder whether a knife like that even belongs in the woods. On the other hand, you'll sometimes see a well-dressed hunter carrying a plain work knife with a plastic handle in a plastic sheath at his belt. That kind of pairing catches the eye immediately, the way worn-out shoes look wrong with an expensive suit. So can a hunting knife successfully live in the space between pure function and art?

Between two masters

When I started out in knifemaking, my natural point of reference was Bob Loveless. He shaped modern custom knifemaking, created the drop-point hunter, and set standards that still hold today. But Loveless was, above all, a craftsman with his own philosophy and firm principles. It bothered him when his knives ended up with collectors instead of hunters. He wasn't interested in decoration, either. He once put it bluntly: drop-point huntera, wyznaczył standardy, które obowiązują do dziś. Ale Loveless był przede wszystkim rzemieślnikiem z własną filozofią i twardymi zasadami. Drażniło go, gdy jego noże trafiały do kolekcjonerów zamiast do myśliwych. Nie interesowały go też zdobienia. Powiedział kiedyś wprost:
BOB LOVELESS
"Knives are tools, and I make them to be used. It makes my blood boil when they end up in velvet-lined boxes."

Later in my career as a knifemaker, Alain Lovenberg came to have an enormous influence on me. Alain is one of the most renowned engravers of fine sporting arms in the world, and I have the privilege of studying under him. His work never fails to leave a deep impression on me. He decorates the most exclusive sporting guns in the world, creating engravings for the most demanding collectors. He has his own recognizable style. A gun engraved by his hand is often so richly decorated that it essentially becomes a work of art. Of course, it can still be fired, since it's still a fully functional firearm, but he himself says it's not a gun meant for the hunt.

As you can see, these are two entirely different approaches. On one end stands Master Loveless, a craftsman through and through. On the other stands Master Lovenberg, an artist devoted to his art. Somewhere in between, I've been looking for a place of my own. I've long wondered whether it's possible to find a balance between beauty and function.

Photo caption: Fig. 1. Bob Loveless's world is best described in two words: minimalism and utility.

Finding my own path

For a while, I followed Loveless's path. It felt natural to me. I picked up the craft quickly. I made hunting knives — good tools, solid, well thought through. And I was satisfied with that. But at a certain point, something started stirring in me. An artistic streak, demanding something more. I didn't know exactly what yet, but I understood that pure utility wasn't enough for me anymore. That I wanted to give my knives something more of myself.

I never imagined, in my whole life, that I'd take up engraving. In my mind, it was something out of reach. I always loved the look of decorated firearms — I even have a piece from my father. But actually making something like that myself, with my own hands, in steel? It turned out I could — even at nearly 50 years old. I got to work, and I learned. Reaching the level of my mentor, Lovenberg, will be a hard climb, but on the other hand, that's not really my ambition. I have no plans to engrave firearms worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. I just want to master one narrow craft: engraving my own knives.

And so, at the meeting point of two worlds, where artists and craftsmen come together, the Ratel hunting knife was born. I managed to create a solid working knife — comfortable, sharp, corrosion-resistant, safe — and at the same time decorated with engravings on par with what I see on my own shotgun, and on the guns of fellow hunters who actively hunt with them. A versatile knife that holds its own in any situation.

ręcznie robiony nóż na kowadle
Photo caption: Fig. 2. The Ratel hunting knife combines the qualities of a work of art and a functional object.

Three elements make a whole

In my craft, a knife can't exist without a sheath. In the beginning, I made simple sheaths. They were good, but not quite right. At a certain point, they stopped matching the increasingly elegant, engraved knives. The knife kept getting more beautiful, and the sheath wasn't keeping up. That's when I had to redesign it from scratch. After many attempts, I finally landed on something I was happy with. Soon after, another question came up: a beautiful knife, a sheath worthy of it, and then... a cardboard box? Unthinkable. The box needed to make an impression too. It had to match everything else. The search took a long time, but it paid off. What came out of it was a beautiful wooden case where the Ratel and its sheath present beautifully together. I mentioned the sheath and the box here as the knife's two most important companions. Together, these three elements form a cohesive whole. The wooden box, which is the new owner's first impression. The sheath, hand-stitched, perfectly fitted, durable, and secure. And finally, the knife itself, the heart of it all. Together, these three things make up my own small work of functional art.
Photo caption: Fig. 3. Bob Loveless's world is best described in two words: minimalism and utility.

A fragment of history

I have a big solid-wood table at home that's been in our family for quite a while. At first glance, nothing special — an ordinary piece of furniture, showing signs of wear. But for our family, it's something else entirely.

When my younger daughter was little, barely taller than that table, in a fit of dramatic toddler outrage, she decided to show us just how furious she was by biting the edge of it with her own teeth, leaving deep marks behind. If I hadn't seen it happen with my own eyes, I'd have assumed it was our dog's doing. She did it so fast that no one had time to react. The table was still fairly new to our home at the time, and my wife and I felt a pang of regret over the damage to something new. A few years later, we were moving, and my wife said maybe it was time to swap out this "damaged" table for a new one. At first, I agreed with her. But over time, it started to sink in that I actually wanted to keep that table, even if it didn't quite match the new house. What convinced my wife was my argument: "Those little teeth marks are a trace of our daughter. I don't want to part with it." To this day, we still eat our meals at that table. Sometimes we remember what it was like when the girls were small. That table has something irreplaceable about it. It's part of our family's story. And it's the same with a knife.

The first scratch

The first scratch on a blade is more of an initiation than a flaw. The moment a knife stops being just an object and becomes a companion. The wood of the handle will darken over time from sunlight and the owner's hands. A sheath dampened by rain or morning dew will, over time, take on a deeper character. The box waits at home for its residents to return. A knife resting in a velvet-lined box looks great. But a knife that's been a companion on more than one hunt, that's helped field-dress boar, deer, and roe deer, that's helped prepare wild-game meals, that's been by more than one campfire, has something that box-bound knife doesn't have, and never will. A knife like that carries history with it. But the truth is, no matter what the craftsman or artist thinks, no matter how they imagine the future of their work, the owner will do whatever they want with their own property. Ironically, a large share of Loveless's knives ended up with collectors, fetching astronomical prices at auction, even though that's exactly what he never wanted. I know I can't control that, but when I hand a finished knife over to its owner, I do quietly hope he'll take it into the woods one day, that it'll come back with its first scratch on that polished blade. That his friends will be a little envious watching him slice into a piece of wild boar sausage with it. And that someday, holding it in his hand, he'll feel, maybe without even realizing it, that this isn't just an ordinary object.
Thank you for spending this time with me.
Hubert Zdunek