For years, I’ve been crafting wooden planes in my shop, each one a testament to countless hours of trial, error, and occasional triumph. One of my creations even earned a feature in Fine Woodworking magazine, which I suppose made me think I had this whole plane-making thing down. But as any woodworker worth their shavings knows, there’s always room for improvement.

Recently I had the opportunity to attend Kezurou-Kai, an event where Japanese woodworking masters gather to showcase their skills—and these folks don’t mess around. I’m talking about planes so finely tuned that they make some of my planes look like paperweights. Watching these experts use their Japanese planes, honed to precision, was both humbling and awe-inspiring.

Now you might think, “How sharp does a blade really need to be?” Or “Is it worth spending hours tuning a plane?” At first glance, it can seem like these woodworkers are over-the-top perfectionists, chasing the elusive dream of the “perfect” shaving. But after seeing them in action, it’s clear they’re not just obsessing over minutiae for fun. There’s a method to their madness.

Think of it like Formula 1 racing. Engineers spend years tweaking engines, trying new tech, and striving for that extra tenth of a second on the track. The Japanese plane-tuning process is similar—except there’s no fancy new technology involved (well, not really). Instead, it’s all about meticulous attention to detail and the relentless pursuit of perfection. It’s innovation by elimination: strip away what’s unnecessary and refine what remains to its purest form.

My friend Andrew Hunter, who’s a fellow Fine Woodworking contributor and a Japanese plane enthusiast, had a hand in organizing the event. He knows a thing or two about the magic of these planes. He swears that a properly sharpened blade and a finely tuned body can produce surfaces so smooth you might start questioning your sanity. Sure, shaving off a 5-micron-thick slice of wood isn’t exactly a day-to-day necessity in furniture making, but understanding how to do it gives you a new perspective on achieving those flawless finishes.

Andrew’s philosophy on Japanese planes boils down to a simple truth: “They remove what isn’t important to make what is important, more important.” It’s a beautifully minimalistic approach that explains why these masters are so dedicated to their craft. They’re not just chasing perfection for perfection’s sake; they’re removing all that isn’t required so that what remains is nothing short of extraordinary.

After the event Andrew was kind enough to spend an afternoon with me, taking a closer look at the planes I make and offering some invaluable advice on how to make them better. It was like learning to drive a race car from a pro.

Now my head is swimming with ideas on how to bridge the gap between my Western planes and the finely tuned Japanese tools I witnessed at Kezurou-Kai. It’s going to take some time, a lot of experimentation, and probably a few late nights in the shop, but I’m excited to see where this journey takes me.

The proof, as they say, will be in the pudding—or, in this case, the shavings.