The Invisible Craft
Mastery is often mistaken for magic. The best work is the work you never notice.
In 2001,
I chose a path that most in the masonry trade didn’t believe was possible.
I had been a roofing contractor but wanted to transition into a
business where I could differentiate myself
through artistry—something far harder to do in roofing. I set out to
build a brickwork restoration business,
where the mortar replacement would be so
seamless, so exacting, that it would disappear into the original wall.
To make
something disappear, you must first master how it is seen.
Some skills are taught. Others are uncovered—layer by layer, detail by detail, until
they become something more.
In short, I had set out to build a business
around a craft that, at the time, did not
exist.
I knew repointing was necessary. I knew people
wanted their brickwork repaired. But I also knew something the industry didn’t
seem to grasp: no one wanted to see the
repair.
The
Challenge: Creating What Didn’t Exist
The problem? No one—not masons, not
contractors, not so-called specialists—could match mortar perfectly.
Some thought they could, but their work always stood out. One subcontractor,
convinced he had nailed it, replaced yellow
mortar with black. When confronted, he simply said, “Black goes well with yellow.”
He
didn’t last long.
It became clear: if I wanted true invisibility, I would have to create it myself.
The
Birth of a New Craft
At the time, there was a general consensus in the trade that a rough match was the best anyone could
do.
I disagreed.
I immersed myself in the work, teaching myself what no one else seemed willing
to figure out. What others called impossible, I broke down into three components:
✔ Color – The least important, yet the only one anyone
seemed to focus on.
✔
Texture – A crucial detail that
determines how light interacts with the mortar.
✔
Composition – The hidden factor
that ensures a seamless integration with the original.
For years, I only spoke about color matching publicly, keeping the
other two elements to myself. It worked. Competitors
couldn’t understand why my results were on another level.
Over time, even they began to refer clients to me—admitting that when
someone demanded true invisibility,
I was the only one who could deliver.
What was once an unfamiliar concept—“Invisible Tuckpointing”—soon became
something people understood instantly. It had become a standard.
A
Secret Ingredient from the 19th Century
But I didn’t stop at the mortar. I knew something most didn’t:
often, it wasn’t just the joints that
looked wrong—it was the bricks themselves.
So, I found a way to correct that, too.
Buried in a 19th-century masonry book, I discovered a formula using zinc sulfate to tint bricks.
Quietly, without mentioning it in sales discussions, I began blending bricks into their surroundings,
ensuring the final restoration was not
just good—but completely unnoticeable.
Clients were blown away. Competitors were lost. Even when they tried to follow, they were always two steps behind.
For ten
years, none attempted to claim they could match mortar—but of the few
who eventually did, none could reach the
level I had built into the foundation of my craft.
An Art,
Not Just a Trade
One client, a university art professor, came outside to inspect my
work. Seeing the restoration, she gasped.
"Do you
have a degree in the arts?" she asked.
She had never seen something so precisely blended, so visually seamless,
in a trade that had long accepted mediocrity.
The truth? I had no degree. What I had was relentless obsession.
For months, I read every book I could find—relentlessly studying color, texture, and composition while my
wife prepared dinner. I would bring a book to the table, reading late into the night until I had put it
all together.
When my wife began working alongside me, her
background as a manicurist gave
her an edge no mason had: an eye
for delicate detail. In just three months, she could outmatch any seasoned professional. We
became a powerful team.
The
Invisible Legacy
We worked three seasons per year and took winters off. As the years went on, we worked even fewer weeks per year. Our
clients didn’t just approve of our work—they were elated.
Over time, I was made aware of some of our competitors who had no choice but to acknowledge what we had built. The best
they could offer was a disclaimer:
"We may
not do it to the level of Invisible Tuckpointing, but..."
What started as an obsessive pursuit turned into an unchallenged standard.
While this may sound like self-congratulation, I’ve always said
that the results we achieved weren’t
because I was a genius, but simply because I was willing to put in the effort
to learn what others weren’t interested in figuring out.
Some crafts are about making something seen.
This one was about making something
disappear.
Completed projects (includes painting restoration in the second picture):
