LONDON CRAFTING

BARN THE SPOON IS NOT HAPPY TO SEE ME. A flannel-clad mountain of a man, he shakes my hand warily at the urban farm where I’ve found him, before assuring me that he absolutely does not have time to talk with me. He is about to fly to Sweden for a speaking engagement, and he has a class to prepare for, which—he turns to his assistant, who does a quick check—is completely full and therefore could not possibly admit another person even if only to observe. He also, he says, nodding toward a tripod set up across from him, has a video to shoot. I prepare to slink off, duly chastised for thinking that I might just waltz in and interview a man who carves spoons for a living. Clearly I’ve underestimated what it means to be a craftsperson in London today.

What does it mean? It doesn’t take the existence of a subscription-based spoon-carving video channel to know that craft is having a moment. There are artisans everywhere these days, and whether they’re making sour beer or wingtips, they all seem to be members of the same aesthetic cult: rough-hewn apron, well-trimmed beard, carefully styled Instagram account.

But in London, somehow, craft doesn’t feel so trendy, or at least not merely trendy. Maybe it’s because the city’s history as an important center for the handmade is still imprinted on its geography, in street names like Threadneedle Street and Goldsmiths Row. Maybe it’s because 110 livery companies—the city’s original trade associations—many of them centuries-old heirs