by Clint Harp
“Hey, I’m Zack,” he said.
“Awesome, come on in,” I said, shaking his hand. “You ready to do this?”
“You bet, man! It’ll be fun. Oh, and by the way, I figured it would be kind of loud in here, so I brought my own lapel mic. That’ll help us a bit.”
We were seriously on our own. This wasn’t even a low-budget B movie we were making. This was going to be more like a home video of my garage time. The network execs weren’t about to throw the bank at a simple three-minute web video. There was no script. No director. A handheld camera and a borrowed mic. But hey, it was my shot, and I was going to take it. I hadn’t had everything I needed when I set out on this path, so why would this be any different?
Over the next four weeks, Zack would come by the shop and capture me and the guys as we plugged away at our projects. It was November by then, and freakin’ cold for Waco, with temps dropping lower and lower. We’d shoot for fifteen minutes and then walk out to the burn barrel and warm our hands to bring them back to life. I asked my friend Steve, the producer on the first two seasons of Fixer Upper, if he’d come by and give us some direction. He was kind enough to oblige one morning, free of charge. He watched us film a scene and then broke in: “Okay, great job, Clint, but here’s the deal. Say everything you just said in that three-minute span again, and see if you can do it in, like, fifteen seconds.” I did my best to be as concise as Steve suggested, but let’s just say brevity is not my forte.
The entire series was shot through the dead of winter. We finally wrapped and sent it all to the production company. A few weeks later, my phone rang.
“Hey, Clint, it’s Lindsey at the network.”
“Hi, Lindsey,” I said, excited to hear her feedback. “So what did you think?”
She drew in a breath. “Those were the worst videos I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Literally, they were awful.” She was just articulating what I’d feared in my gut. Even to me, the webisodes had felt hammy and staged. I’d done exactly what she’d told me not to do: I’d sucked. Not everything you do works out, folks, but sometimes the heavens smile down on you. Lindsey had decided she would give me another shot.
Two months later, Zack returned to the shop, this time with Jason, a freelance producer, at his side. With Jason’s help, we sorted out our whole webisode saga and sent four videos to the network. This time, the footage included Kelly and my kids and more of our life around our shop. And this time, the webisodes were enough to carry us to the next exciting step: a few months later, the network asked us to create a sizzle reel. Whoa!
I knew we were in good hands when Fixer Upper’s production company, High Noon, sent Michael, one of their best cameramen, longtime sound guy David from Chip and Jo’s crew, and their top-notch producer Glenna, who produced Fixer Upper and managed to make me look like I halfway knew what I was doing every time I appeared on the show. It was in large part because of her work that my brief on-camera appearances felt integral to the episode. “Hey, Glenna!” I greeted her enthusiastically. “Kelly and I have already lined up a family so we can mock up a scene where we build furniture for them. We can then transform their space around that piece, and . . .”
“About that idea,” she said. “So there’s been a bit of a curveball.”
“What’s that?”
“Your show is getting turned into an outdoor show.”
I gave her a blank stare. “You mean, like, I’ll be building furniture outside?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “Like you’ll be transforming someone’s outdoor space.”
Right.
I enjoy looking at good landscaping as much as anyone else when it’s done well, but it’s just not something I’m personally good at. Our friends Steve and Lauren, the producers, had always told us, “Hey, if they ask you to do a show about butterflies, just do a show about butterflies. Take what you’re given, and you’ll eventually get to do that thing you want to do.” With their advice in mind, Kelly and I moved forward, but reluctantly. An outdoor show just felt so inauthentic to us. We knew the network was trying to give us what they felt was our best shot at succeeding, because, let’s face it, they weren’t too sure about a show highlighting a carpenter and his wife as they built tables from their more-than-modest shop. It wasn’t until a cameraman pulled us aside that we bought into the whole thing.
“Listen, you guys,” he said, “everybody knows you’re not landscapers. Who cares? We’re not going to shoot it like you’re experts. We’re going to capture who you really are. You’re risk-takers. You’re two people who aren’t afraid to try something new and test the boundaries and limits of your skills. You’ve proved that you can make furniture, and you still will. But the key here is to shoot you as you are, trying something new. Just go with it. Take the skills you’ve learned in the shop and apply them outdoors.”
Bingo.
That day’s footage was probably the best we ever shot. The cameraman’s words helped me to let go of my reservations and just sink into the process, because he’d been exactly right—taking risks was what I’d been doing my whole life. And together, Kelly and I had tons of experience in figuring things out and making a tough situation work.
The sizzle reel ended up being a true-to-life snapshot of our family, our business, and our teamwork as husband and wife and fellow entrepreneurs. We were elated to learn the reel had landed us a pilot on the DIY Network, an HGTV affiliate that was also owned by Scripps. The show was tentatively titled Against the Grain, and in the fall of 2015, Kelly and I inched farther into unknown territory.
We were given two backyards to transform, each with a pool that had to be demo’d and fencing that needed replacing. One backyard was a normal suburban size; the other was more than a half acre. In twelve days of filming, not only did we do all the demo work . . . we had sprinklers installed, laid fresh sod, had retaining walls built, constructed decks in both yards, and remodeled a barn which Kelly designed from top to bottom. We also built an outdoor movie screen, a double-decker kids’ playhouse, and a pergola with a ten-foot island made from old reclaimed fence planks. On the last day, every single person on our team, as well as all the camera crew, was either staining a deck, laying sod, or both. It was insane. Exhausted and worn thin, we finished, feeling incredibly proud of what we’d pulled off.
Unfortunately, few people would ever see it. “Clint, the network loves the episode,” a producer told me. “Really and truly, you and Kelly did great. But the overall thought was ‘Let’s make this show more about the shop and what they do as a company.’ ”
And just like that, our nearly two weeks of stress and perspiration tumbled to the cutting room floor. But all was not lost. The network decided to splice together some footage from our backyard projects with video from our earlier webisodes, plus a few of my Fixer Upper scenes. Voilà! A pilot was born. It pushed us on to the next step—and that, for us, has always been enough.
CHAPTER 15
* * *
A Strong Finish
As I wipe the last coat of finishing oil on a table I’ve just made, I feel like I’m saying good-bye to a friend. I really do keep all the memories that came along with the construction of that table. I think about the conversations and jokes that were shared around that table, even when it was still in the form of unvarnished planks, pieces strewn across my shop floor. I love it when a tabletop, one that was previously laid out in its roughest state, finally emerges from the sander. In that moment, I see what the piece was meant to be all along, with its grains and colors and beauty all working together. Adding one final coat of oil gives that grain a wet reflection. In it, I see the entire journey—the one I’ve just completed and the one my creation will now begin.
When we were filming the Against the Grain pilot, I was helping coach my daughter Holland’s soccer team. I vowed not to miss games if I was in town, which was less and less frequent as I traveled to speak at home shows and bring in income to reinvest in our business. Back in 2011 when I put in my
two weeks’ notice at the sales job, the last thing I thought I’d be doing was getting booked for speaking gigs or making a living as a carpenter in front of a camera. Hell, I was insecure about whether I could even build furniture. Doing it on TV for the world to see wasn’t even on my radar.
Nor was being a model. (Stop laughing . . . I’ll explain.) That’s right: Clint Harp, the onetime kid with a head three times too big for his body, whose fashion choices were driven by whatever I could piece together from the secondhand items in a black trash bag, got a call from my agent (another thing I never imagined I’d have) about a possible endorsement deal. This was in 2016, in the middle of filming the fourth season of Fixer Upper.
“Hey, Clint,” he told me, “we have a cool opportunity for you, and it’s probably not what you’re thinking. Are you ready for it?”
“Sure! Give it to me!”
He laughed. “Okay. You wear watches, right?”
“Every day without fail,” I said.
“Well, Citizen Watch called, and they’d like you to represent them.”
A single thought reeled through my head: Why?
“They’d love to partner with someone who is also actively working with renewable resources,” he explained. “They also like the idea of teaming up with someone who’s recognizable, but who still seems like a normal guy. You in?”
So stinkin’ fun and random! “I mean, sure,” I told him. I was more than willing to wear some watches and take some pics.
When it was time to fly to New York City to meet the Citizen team at their new flagship Times Square space and take part in a photo shoot, I had zero idea what to expect. When I landed, a driver was waiting for me at baggage claim. That was new. I was taken to the InterContinental hotel just off Times Square. As I walked into the lobby, I saw a crowd of folks gathered on my right. The next thing you know, they were greeting Jill Biden! It was a wild scene. That night as I dozed off, imagining what this photo shoot would be like, I kept thinking, These people do know I’m seriously just a bucktoothed kid from Atlanta, and kind of an idiot, right? It was unbelievable to me that I was even in Manhattan.
The next morning I woke up early, got myself ready, and walked outside to meet my driver. A giant black SUV whisked me away and dropped me off at a modern-looking building. Very industrial. In my head, I was showing up to something like an Olan Mills studio from 1984 to meet a photographer with a point-and-shoot camera. The reality was way cooler. I walked inside and approached a young greeter at the reception desk.
“Hi, I’m here to take some pictures with Citizen?” I couldn’t bring myself to say, “Hey, I’m the model.” That sounded stupid to me. I mean, please.
“Yep, up the ramp over there,” said the receptionist.
At the top of the ramp I saw about thirty impeccably dressed people, whisking around, sipping coffee, and looking all New York–ish. I scanned the room in search of someone with the point-and-shoot around his or her neck. No such person. I finally went up to someone and said, “Hey, I’m Clint, and I’m supposed to take some pictures with Citizen today?” It was more like a question than a statement of fact.
“Oh, hi!” said the woman, setting down her coffee. “So glad you’re here. Right this way, follow me.”
When I was twelve, my mom used to ask me to sing solos in front of her friends, and for whatever reason, that made me want to run and hide. But put me in front of two hundred or two thousand people instead of just one or two, and I feel good. I don’t get very nervous. In fact, I tend to come alive. Given that I come from a line of artists, singers, and comedians, that makes sense. But when I followed this complete stranger into an adjacent room and found people milling about everywhere, assistants running around, and incredibly sophisticated photo and video equipment being set up—well, I got jittery.
“Kelly, I think I might throw up.” That was the text I shot off to my wife. Next thing I knew, I was standing inside what looked to me like a quintessential New York City loft studio, painted in pure white and complete with an exposed-brick accent wall, the kind of space you might see in a Jennifer Aniston movie or Beyoncé video. I felt way out of my league. But when the Citizen folks crowded around and introduced themselves, I found myself put at ease by how down to earth and fun they all were, even when they told me that Eli Manning and Kelly Clarkson had been their previous spokespeople. Then why the heck did you call me? I wondered. I learned I’d be shooting a TV commercial that day, print ads the second day, and social media on the final one. Soon after, I was sitting in a chair as a director told me, “Just follow my lead and you’ll do fine.” The lights were blindingly bright and the only person I could see clearly was the director, who sat three feet in front of me the whole time. Behind him were all the decision-makers who needed to like what they saw. Between each take, I could make out the shadows of those people, leaning in and whispering to one another. I was totally convinced they were saying, “Hey, call Eli back right now. Or just any football player. Get me an athlete! Who is this fool?” The director picked up on my insecurity and walked up to me. “Hey, so far I’m hearing a lot that ‘This guy looks like Daniel Craig,’ so that’s good,” he said. Not gonna lie: However untrue that was—um, very—it still felt great.
Oddly enough for me though, it was in the hair-and-makeup chair, where I was given that light dusting actors and models get, that I really settled down. The makeup artist practically fell out of her seat when I walked in. “Oh my goodness!” she excitedly said. “You’re Clint from Fixer Upper! My husband and I love that show. Oh my gosh! We’re trying to buy and fix up a house right now, and you guys down in Waco, you’re an inspiration.”
For me, hearing that the work I’m part of might inspire someone is one of the single greatest joys of life. It’s the best compliment, and I don’t take it for granted. As I see it, we’re all traveling around on this giant ball called Earth together, figuring things out as we go. We need to see each other forge ahead and go for broke. It’s the fuel that pushes us forward. It did my nerves good to sit in that chair and be recognized for all I’ve ever really wanted to be—a guy doing his best to create a life that matters. And if I got to have my face plastered on a giant LED screen in Times Square right above Citizen’s flagship store? Well, that was just the frosting on the cake—or in my case, the varnish on the tabletop.
* * *
After renovating and living in our Fixer Upper treasure from season 1, in 2016, Kelly and I had to make the tough decision to move again and turn what had become known as the Harp House into a short-term rental through Airbnb. We absolutely loved that house. But as Waco started to become a tourist attraction, more and more fans were filling the city. Privacy was becoming a challenge. When you’re trying to take a nap on Father’s Day and someone knocks on your front door and asks to take a picture with you, or when you’re shooting hoops with your son and a stranger pops his or her head over the fence, or even wanders onto the court, it’s probably time to set out in search of new pastures.
Don’t get me wrong: I love it that so many people are so passionate about Fixer Upper. Without the unbelievable fans, the show would never have been the sensation it became. I get that viewers feel connected to the people on the show and want to say hello. I think that’s really cool. But I’m also a husband and father who, first and foremost, has to think about the impact that kind of spotlight might have on my kids in particular.
As Kelly and I agonized over what to do, we realized that while the Harp House didn’t work for our family’s needs, it actually would be an amazing spot for groups of guests. We had once dreamed of owning a bed-and-breakfast and creating a place where families and friends could spend time together. Could we actually provide that to other people, here in Waco? A vision was realized. With Harp House having room for up to twelve people, we had to use every resource we could muster to furnish the place. Somehow we scraped up enough to complete the house. Kelly worked around the clock and made that house shine.
In the end,
turning the Harp House into a rental has given others the chance to enjoy the place as much as we once did. To be honest, ever since we bought the $10,000 teardown next door to our shop, I felt like the house was never mine to keep, anyway. It was meant to be shared. So we ended up buying another major fixer-upper home across town, renovated it from top to bottom, and found peace for our family once again.
Around the time we moved into the new house, Kelly and I learned that we’d been offered a second chance at our own show. We ended up making a new pilot called Wood Work, and shortly after airing we were picked up for a first season. The concept for the show felt a lot more like us than that previous backyard-makeover blitzkrieg. This time around, we’d be doing what we do best: breathing new life into family homes by handcrafting furniture and even designing spaces around the pieces. So for three months in the fall of 2017, we filmed the full first season of the show. It aired in May of 2018 on the DIY network. But if my turn on Fixer Upper has taught me nothing else, it’s taught me this: you don’t actually have a successful show until every episode of a season has aired. You don’t dare exhale until it’s over. And in the meantime, as you’re sketching out future episodes and dreaming of what could happen down the line, you do your best to follow Lindsey’s advice: Don’t suck.
While filming Wood Work, my guys and I had a lot of carpentry firsts. None of us had ever built a Murphy bed, a Ping-Pong table, or an entire giant entertainment center out of construction-grade materials found on jobsites. But we did it. And we all brought our different skills to each new project and figured it out. Ratings or no ratings, we were all so stinkin’ proud of each piece on that show. So was Kelly. She had designed every space we had ever lived in, and even a few for friends and clients, but never on TV before. Over six episodes, she stepped up and designed amazing furniture and spaces that played perfectly with the work we were doing in the shop. To those who tuned in, the finished product will look like a completed room, but to Kelly and me, each completed design will be a reflection of all the people and hands that made them happen. Kelly and I and our whole team made the whole thing come to life. And that’s my favorite part. I’ll see Britt finishing beams till the late hours and Andrew running back to the shop to turn an extra leg. Or Kristin staying by Kelly’s side to help hang a curtain or a shelf or paint or just doing whatever it took to get it done. I’ll see my wife putting herself out there, with her art and skill on display for all to see. It’s a hard job, and I’ve got the best team to do it with.