FIM- The Furniture Institute of Massachusetts

This is Phil Lowe in the bench room. 

A place once alive with passion, dedication, and love for the craft and art of furniture making. The Furniture Institute of Massachusetts—FIM—was more than just a school; it was a sanctuary for those who truly wanted to learn the trade the right way.

Just today, I heard from a former student who attended one of the workshops. He told me how much fun he had—even though it was the hardest class he’d ever taken. Yet, he misses the school. That sentiment makes me happy, because I loved FIM deeply. It was a joy and privilege to walk those halls and be part of that world.

For those who never had the chance to step foot inside, let me try to paint the picture:

You’d walk in and see the drafting room—four full-sized drawing boards lined up, surrounded by a library filled with books ready to be studied and referenced.

Step out into the hallway, and there it was: a full wall of incredible sample work. Many were period reproductions, and most were done by Phil Lowe’s hand over the decades. It was like a museum in motion.

The first door on the right was Phil’s office—a place he had a love-hate relationship with. It was filled with paperwork, emails, chasing down students, and billing. A necessary evil, as he might say.

Farther down the hall was a bank of drawers where Phil kept his vast collection of veneer. I now have those drawers, and I treasure them. I open them often, and when I do, I think of Phil.

Across from those drawers was the finishing room. Right in front of that space stood a gorgeous period casing—crafted by Phil for a client in NYC who later wanted a different version. So Phil hung the original in the school for us to enjoy. A daily reminder of his craftsmanship.

Next came the heart of it all: the bench room. Nine workbenches, each paired with its own bookcase. This was where the real magic happened—joinery echoing with the rhythm of mallets and chisels, shavings on the floor, the distinct scent of hide glue in the air. Throw in the smell of coffee, and it was heaven to me.

Toward the back wall of the bench room sat Phil’s personal bench, backed by a wall of tools he had collected and used throughout his career. It was breathtaking. If I had the space, I would’ve taken that wall with me when the school closed. Now, I keep it alive through photos and memory. I spent many hours sharpening those tools—and learned so much in the process.

Then there was the small machine room, affectionately referred to as “The Finish Room.” It held only the essentials: a planer, jointer, 10” table saw, scroll saw, grinders, a Bridgeport (used occasionally), and a portable bandsaw. Phil always said, “This is all you need. Everything else is a luxury that just makes things easier.”

Beyond that was the roughing room—filled with vintage, heavy-duty stationary machines. Most were 3-phase: Oliver planer and jointer, a DeWalt 18” bandsaw, a Fay & Egan 36” bandsaw, Delta and General lathes, an Oliver table saw, a swing saw, foot pedal mortiser and more. At first, they were intimidating, but with respect and understanding, they became old friends.

Behind the machine room was the lumber rack—a beautiful collection of material stored in compartments and loft spaces. Some belonged to Phil, some to students. Walking down the ramp to see the lumber was always a highlight. And off to the side was the scrap shelf—where you could find hidden gems if you took the time to look.

There was also a small mechanical room for tool repairs, and a wall lined with shaper knives.

What a space. What an experience. I wish you all could see it today. I’ll add some images to the post to help keep the memory alive.

I miss the man. I miss the legend. Phil Lowe was my mentor first, a friend second—and as he used to joke, I was “the Puerto Rican son he never had.” That was an honor. But don’t get it twisted—I paid for everything. Phil was a true Yankee, through and through, and I loved that about him.

If you want to experience a bit of his brilliance, search “Phil Lowe Woodworking” on YouTube. There’s a treasure trove of videos where you can learn from him directly. I still watch them—both to hear his voice and to sharpen my own teaching skills.

Until next time.

—Freddy

The school sign! Which I own and will hang again. 

Phil as a student at NBSS

Phil in the bench room with his tool wall behind him a FWW shot. 

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The ramp to the big machine room! 

Phil’s area and work bench. 

Bench room!

Phil’s last piece he made.

The museum hall of samples.

Drafting room! 

The first time I met Phil! 

Phil as a teacher at NBSS! 

Phil early on as a teacher at NBSS

The trade school I recommend…

 In today’s world, craftspeople and tradespeople have more to learn than ever. It’s not just about developing the hands-on skills—it’s also about training the eye to recognize good proportions and fine details.

I’ve been fortunate to learn through hands-on experience, especially by disassembling old furniture and millwork in historic homes. That kind of exposure teaches you so much about design, construction, and craftsmanship.

There’s also tremendous value in reading. I came up during a time when the internet was still in its infancy, and books were the go-to resource outside of what you learned in the field. This was long before YouTube, which certainly has its place—but not everything you see online is worth following.

Today, I see a growing overlap between furniture makers and finish carpenters. Many carpenters want to push beyond basic installs and build with quality, developing their skills through more refined work. At the same time, furniture makers are increasingly taking on house work, simply because people are more willing to spend money on their homes than on generational furniture.

In truth, furniture makers need to think more like carpenters, and carpenters would benefit from thinking like furniture makers. That intersection of trades is where some of the best craftsmanship happens.

People often ask me: what trade should I learn, or where should I go to school? Now that the Furniture Institute of Massachusetts is closed, I recommend the North Bennet Street School. Study both carpentry and furniture making. These two trades complement each other, and together, they offer one of the few sustainable paths to making a living in this field.

That said, keep your overhead low. You don’t need the most expensive tools—just quality ones that are reliable and consistent. It’s amazing how much can be accomplished with solid hand skills—and just as much with efficient use of power tools.

As my mentor Phil Lowe used to say, and it still rings true: “Master the hand tools so you know the limitations of the power tools.”

Keep learning. Keep challenging yourself. That’s the way forward.

Woodworking magazines…

 

It still amazes me how informative the old issues of Fine Woodworking are, even after all these years. Fast forward to today, and I find myself rarely interested in the newer issues. I’m not exactly sure why—maybe it’s the writing style, or the depth and complexity the older articles carried.

I also can’t help but roll my eyes at the fact that Phil Lowe was essentially blackballed from Fine Woodworking after writing an article for Popular Woodworking. Ironically, I was the one who encouraged him to explore other publications to draw more interest to the school.

I’m sure Phil would get a kick out of the fact that both Pop Wood and FWW are now under the same umbrella. Hopefully, this leads to better content—because at nearly $90 a year for print and web access, it’s hard to justify the subscription lately.

Shop local and this guy should be the next Norm!

 

I often find it both amusing and frustrating when I see people from their own state say, “I couldn’t find anyone local to make this, so I had to go overseas—or to the West Coast.” Even funnier is when someone says, “This person should have their own show, like Norm Abram and The New Yankee Workshop.”

The truth is, there are plenty of talented local makers who can create exactly what you need—you just chose the easy route and turned to social media instead of actually seeking out local talent.

And as for the “next Norm” comments—let’s cut that out. There’s only one Norm Abram, and there’s a reason no one has been able to fill those shoes. Frankly, I could name 2,000 other craftspeople who are more qualified than the ones usually suggested.

One life!

 

Not everyone is fortunate enough to fall in love with their work—I was. But I also know what it feels like to fall out of love with it. What I never lost, though, was my love for the craft itself. There is a difference between work and craft, and it took time for me to truly understand that.

Falling out of love with the work was painful. It brought me to a crossroads that demanded a difficult choice. I chose to close my shop—not out of failure, but to pause, reflect, and ask myself if the flame still burned within.

Most people don’t realize: I wasn’t a natural talent in this field. My mentor, Master Phil Lowe—a man of few but meaningful words—once looked at a piece I made and said, “We all make primitives, not just masterpieces.” That lesson stuck with me. It reminded me to be proud of my work, but never settle. Never think you’ve “made it.”

Over the years, I worked in cabinet shops, restoration labs, conservation studios, and for private clients and contractors. Two decades in, I realized something was missing. Was it burnout? Was it grief from losing my hero—my mother? Was it the weight of spreading myself too thin, chasing too many paths at once? Maybe it was misplaced trust, or the constant pressure of keeping up with a world that no longer valued the same things.

Hindsight is 20/20. You can’t live in the past—you can only move forward.

So I chose life. I chose my family. I chose to live.

It started with a final conversation with Phil Lowe on his deathbed. He told me, “Legacy is bullshit. The greatest thing you can do is live.” Then came a Mother’s Day conversation with my wife and mother-in-law, just a year after my mom passed. It was a wake-up call—I realized I was sacrificing my health, my body, and my life for a dream that might never come true.

The world has changed. The appreciation for the craft has changed. And I had been adapting for others for far too long. But the truth was, I wasn’t doing the thing I once loved—at least not in the way that fed my soul.

And so the reality hit me: my passion for the work had faded. I wasn’t the same person anymore. But you know what? That’s okay.

Because now I’m healthier. I sleep more. I laugh more. I’m present with my best friend—my partner in life. I’m making things again—not for clients or deadlines, but for me, for my family. And I enjoy it more than ever.

So don’t fear change. Don’t be afraid to close one door and open another. You only get one life. Love it. Live it. And cherish the small moments—because life, in all its imperfection, is far too precious to waste.