When I moved out of the Buttjoint Studio last July, I took a look at my work surfaces as I dismantled the werkshop. I have always loved the look and feel of a really worked surface. Layers of deliberate marks, gouges and spills create an Uberpatina. It is a caricature of natural distress. Rich.
So I chopped them up into 1' squares, framed them in mod bamboo, shellaced and waxed them, and boom, they are ready to hang. Of course, I could make a dead cat look good with that scrumptious shellac and wax. I freakin' love it. There have been many occasions where my mouth starts to water as I gaze upon a waxy wood surface. I have not yet actually taken a bite but I would not write that out as a potential future furniture faux pas on my part. I almost chomped a WWI rifle stock I saw at the Evergreen Aviation and Space Museum last week. My restraint is weakening but my resolve remains unscathed.
They are not art. They are product. Actually they are a by-product. They are ironically hectic remains from the fabrication process of all that clean lined, scandinavian inspired furniture. Each mark is explainable and has a reason. As chaotic as it looks, each blemish is because of something and that justifies it for me. 
I think it would make a great architectural feature. Sell it by the square foot. Fake it. Write a random program for the cnc router and start crankin' sheets. Word to your mother. (ref: The New Old School Design Collective, 2002)
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