Henrik Dahl carved his first spoon at nine, with his grandfather’s knife, in the valley where he still lives. He is now seventy-four. The knife has been resharpened so many times that the blade is half its original width.
He carves figures, mostly: animals, travellers, small scenes from the valley. Each one takes a few days. He sells some, gives most away, and keeps none.
The wood is patient. It waited a hundred years as a tree. It can wait for me to get it right.
