Windy thoughts on printing with earth pigment inks

Specimens: Week One

This past week I began printing Specimens. I am printing on a custom making of Velke Losiny paper, a beautiful handmade sheet made in the Czech Republic. In my experiments with the paper I have found that the print quality differs greatly between solid areas of ink and fine-lined type: small sizes of type print much better when the paper has been dampened whereas large areas of ink print equally well whether the paper has been dampened or not. Dampening the paper dramatically alters its surface quality, though, so even if only some of the paper needs to be dampened for printing, all of it needs to be dampened so that there will be a consistent page texture throughout the book. In making the prototype of the binding, Craig Jensen had expressed serious concerns about the way the paper reacted to dampness and this week all of his concerns have been justified.

On Sunday afternoon, I went into the shop to dampen the first two posts of paper, fully believing that I would be printing on both sheets on Monday. Whenever I dampen paper I first try Lewis and Dorothy Allen's method of dampening every fifth sheet of paper in a stack and leaving them under weight in plastic over night. From the outset there were signs that this would not work with the Velke Losiny. The sheets that I pulled through the water bath began to stretch and contort in bizarre and unpredictable ways—ways that made me doubt that they would flatten out over night—but I proceeded despite my concerns. 

At five the next morning I sat bolt upright in bed with worry and by six-thirty I was on my bike riding to the shop. When I arrived, I opened the packs of paper and found something closer to corrugated tin than fine European handmade paper. Over the course of the night the sheets had gotten just damp enough to distort them with neither enough moisture nor enough weight to make them relax. We salvaged the paper by submerging the sheets in a water bath for 20 minutes and interleaving them with blotters under more weight. By the afternoon I had judged a stack of sheets dry enough to print my two first press runs of the book while my assistant Nancy Loeber re-soaked and blotted the remaining sheets. Although the two press runs came out beautifully, over the course of printing the sheets stretched and contracted over 1/2" widthwise and 3/16" lengthwise. The only way that the multi-chromatic pages of Specimens will be able to be printed is if the paper is dampened and then thoroughly dried before printing. 

On Tuesday our next step was to construct a wind tunnel similar to one I used at Dieu Donné Papermill in 1996 after I disastrously dampened some of their abaca paper. Each sheet is soaked in a water bath, toweled off, and interleaved with blotter. Each 15 sheets is further interleaved with a sheet of corrugated plastic to increase air flow, every 30 sheets is topped with a melamine board, and the whole post is wrapped in plastic that is taped around a box fan. The fan is left blowing over night and the post is topped with about 60 pounds of aluminum. When we opened the contraption up on Wednesday morning the paper was much more promising but it was still way too damp, and 1/2" wider than the dry dimension. After leaving the paper to air dry all day, I stacked the sheets before leaving and on Thursday morning they were beautiful, flat, and somehow still damp.

Realizing that we would need to dry the sheets further on a drying rack of some kind and that there is no room in my shop for a commercial drying rack of any kind, Nancy and I began further experiments on how to best hang the sheets for drying. After a few tests we set out to the lumber store and began work making some light weight drying racks that could be easily moved around the shop and hold enough paper for two press runs. After a further hour hanging on the drying racks the paper was dry enough for printing.

The Allen Method stacks

The sheets after the Allen Method dampening

Nancy Loeber soaking and blotting the sheets after the Allen incident

Nancy soaking the sheets for the wind tunnel

Toweling off the sheet for the wind tunnel

The wind tunnel

Building the drying racks

Nancy stringing twine on the drying rack

Hanging sheets on the rack

The racks in the shop

Iohann Titling continued

The Iohann Titling H and leaf matrices with castings

Yesterday, Micah Currier pulled a couple of proofs of the H and leaf ornament from the first casting of Iohann Titling. Now that he has established the correct height parallel, we have to make sure there is no stem distortion before he cuts the remaining matrices. According to Theo Rehak, there is a possible width distortion of up to 10% in either direction when the image is translated from pattern to matrix on the Benton Engraver. After scanning Micah's proof in to my computer I overlaid the original drawing for the H to find that there was considerable condensation of the letter form. This weekend, Micah will correct the distortion and re-cut the matrix.

The proof of the H with my original drawing overlaid on top of it

Specimens: Making Iohann Titling

Last Friday, Micah Currier of the Dale Guild Type Foundry picked me up for our first day of work on Iohann Titling, the type that Micah will be cutting and casting for Specimens. The day started with a stop by Globe Engraving to pick up a sample pattern for cutting the matrices on the Guild's Benton Pantograph Engraver. After a couple hours at Globe we came away with a well made pattern and headed down to Howell to begin work setting up the pantograph. After a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon that included some complex mathematics and Theo Rehak playing the trumpet in the background, Micah got the Benton set up to cut the first sample matrices. He will cast the first sample characters this coming weekend.

Micah Currier locking a brass planchet into position for cutting.

Micah operating the Benton Engraver.

A tracing of the Iohann H made with the engraver.

The Thomas Edison vintage microscope used for measuring the height parallel of the engraving.

Announcing a forthcoming publication: Specimens

The type specimen is a curious hybrid in the history of the book. Born of a base necessity—the need to sell type—the specimen quickly took on a life of its own and fulfilled a parallel need to delight and entertain. Part portfolio, part brag sheet, the type specimen allows the designer to present the best-case scenario for a specific typeface, to show off its finer aspects while presenting an ideal method of use. In this way, the type specimen is flight of fancy and style manual combined, an exercise in utility heightened and illuminated by extravagance. Some of the more elaborate type specimens, like those of William H. Page and Co., are suffused with a playful futility, a special knowledge that, once sold, the types displayed will never be treated with the same reverence or care. But all type specimens, to some degree, are conceived in that rare instance in which commerce plays second fiddle to imagination, when the demands of industry and utility enhance, rather than diminish, the expression of a creative impulse. 

    When cast in this light, SPECIMENS is more accurately an exhibition than a type specimen. The alphabets displayed in it are not for sale. Instead, they were designed for proprietary use, often with specific texts or authors in mind; they were designed, in other words, to only be used in their ideal settings. While borrowing the form and the guise of the type specimen, the motivation, the book’s raison d’être, is to be an object in its own right, rather than a catalogue of typographic widgets. 

    The alphabets in SPECIMENS, the texts in which they are displayed, the method by which they are printed are all integral parts of a kaleidoscopic portrait. Composed of three sections, SPECIMENS opens with a multi-chromatic display of short texts set in a variety of styles. Following this, a selection of alphabets are displayed in lengthier texts appropriate to their forms: Baskerville’s Great Primer is displayed in a chapter from Candide; a new translation from Cicero’s Second Philippic is set in Cancellaresca Milanese Terzo; Saturn, which was inspired by the inscription on the Temple of Saturn, is displayed in a chapter from Vitruvius on the design of temples; Strand Serif in a selection of new prose pieces by Mark Strand; etc. Finally, the book concludes with a section of notes detailing the alphabetic and textual sources for each specimen.

    SPECIMENS will be printed from photo polymer plates and metal type in a wide array of colors, with hand embellishments in ink and smoke. In all, sixteen complete alphabets will be displayed; one of which, Iohann Titling, is being cut, fit, and cast in foundry metal specially for the edition at the Dale Guild Type Foundry. The paper is being handmade with a custom laurel leaf watermark at Velke Losiny in the Czech Republic. The binding will be executed by Book Lab II. A total of sixty-five copies will be printed. Fifty copies, numbered 1-50, will be bound in quarter leather with pattern paper boards and housed in a cloth covered clamshell box. Fifteen copies, lettered A-O, will be bound in full leather using two different skins, housed in a quarter leather clamshell box, and accompanied by a suite of state proofs selected from the display settings as well as a form of new metal type locked into a chase in the box. 11 x 16 inches; approximately 120 pages. Publication is expected by November 2011. 

Ink Diary, 18 October

After a month of anticipation, I finally boiled my first batch of linseed oil this past Saturday. On the way upstate I was particularly alert to morbid possibilities. Tales of disaster abound in the manuals I have been reading and they have steadily gained influence over my thoughts. Whole sections of London decimated by flames due to a careless ink maker. Certain pots which, when agitated, produce cascading streams of burning oil. Pre-Industrial towns mandating ink works to operate beyond the city walls because of their incumbent danger and stench. The recipes I have read that involve burning the oil put the process in an ominous context: If the oil has not already ignited on its own. Similarly, recipes that do not encourage burning the oil caution against allowing it to auto ignite, which will surely happen unless the ink maker remains vigilant. The basic recipe that I have decided to follow is a three stage process—boiling, igniting while boiling, and boiling some more—and I approached my first attempt with more than a little angst. During the weeks prior to our trip upstate I had regular visions of molten jets of burning oil erupting from my Dutch oven; decimating, at best, a couple of vegetable beds or, at worst, part of my face. To try to contain the imminent disaster I decided to cheat a little. Rather than starting with regular linseed oil I would try boiling a few cups of already thickened stand oil just to see what would happen. I bought myself a handy Mr Max butane burner figuring I could control it better than I could an open fire; and set up a workstation on a metal covered table that Annie had outfitted in the gravel drive. After a fitful night, I set to work. The process was more like running a deep fryer at a county fair than scrambling to contain Vesuvius. In barely 37 minutes the varnish appeared to be ready—a wooden stick charred immediately when inserted into the oil; and, when cooled, the varnish produced strands over an inch long when stretched between my forefinger and thumb—and I was left with a cast iron pot of thick, sticky goop full of discolored bits of burnt oil. I took the pot off the stove and placed it on the gravel driveway where, to my great frustration, it refused to catch fire. Within an hour a hardened skin similar to thick Saran wrap formed over my thickened batch of oil.

A couple of weeks ago, the printer Arthur Larson turned me onto C H Bloy's A History of Printing Ink, Balls, and Rollers 1440-1850. In it, Bloy has assembled sixty-nine ink recipes ranging from a Chinese block-printing ink from AD 251 to an account of William Morris's ink made by Jänecke of Hannover. The recipes are a fascinating distillation of the literature of a craft in that they show the near infinite distinctions possible with so few ingredients. Oil (linseed or nut), lampblack, turpentine, amber, onions, and crusts of bread. Add to these diligence, time, and fire, and you end up with sixty-nine competing arguments for how to proceed. There are few consistent instructions but there are some general trends: the British say Burn the Oil! and the French say Don't Burn the Oil! Onions or crusts of bread are helpful to either 1) absorb the oil's greasiness or 2) allow the ink to dry well, though some Encyclopædists question their effectiveness toward either end. One recipe quoted in de Champour and Malpeyre's Nouveau Manuel Complet de la Fabrication des Encres [Paris: 1856] is very specific: add 2 kilos bread to each 8 litres of oil in small slices, 3 or 4 at a time. One ingredient that most recipes agree upon, and that is pointedly absent from Baskerville's recipe, is turpentine [see below]. I am a little suspicious of Bloy, though. He has dramatically cut and re-written the Baskerville recipe that appears in Hansard's Typographia. This would be fine except that he does not admit to altering the recipe. What else has he left out of other recipes?

The three most common methods for determining that your varnish is ready are 1) it produces long threads when stretched between forefinger and thumb; 2) the crusts of bread you have inserted into the oil have charred; or 3) a wooden stick chars when inserted into the oil. The time stipulated to produce a good varnish for summer printing is consistently 5 hours. In recipes that call for burning, you boil for 2 hours, burn, and then boil for 3 more. Some recipes call for burning 5 minutes, others for 30. Some for burning while boiling, others for burning off the heat. They all emphasize that the process takes time and attention. After preparing Annie for what would be a long day boiling oil, imagine her surprise when after 45 minutes I came in and said, "I think it's done." For myself, I was deeply suspicious. I had assumed that using the thickened stand oil would reduce the time, but 37 minutes? Further, what was now in my pot didn't look like the beginnings of a fine ink. For one, the clinging, darkened skin seemed an inauspicious omen. Perhaps I could lift it off like fat from a chilled broth and beneath find a smooth, thick varnish? Repeatedly throughout the day I rubbed my fingers along the surface, trying to convince myself that this would work.

Most ink recipes of any length make special note of how important it is to not overheat the oil and to stir it consistently with an iron ladle. I threw mine on a burner turned to high and stood back, awaiting disaster. There is simply no way that I have produced a superior varnish. Next time, I will work at lower heat and stir with the same attention I would give a risotto. In the meantime, I spent an hour in my shop seeing what I could make with my first batch of mealy varnish. It is very sticky, so much so that it resists mixing or handling of any kind. After adding some amber varnish, which is 50% turpentine, it loosened up considerably and I was able to get it to accept the lampblack, though it is not fully integrated. The ink is still too tacky to make a proper draw down but I am hopeful that adding turpentine will bring it to a better working viscosity. I will try this later in the week.

Ink Diary, 29 September

Ink 002

Mixed 29 September 2010

First test 29 September 2010

Recipe:

30ml Ink 001 + 1ml Grove's 16th century amber varnish*

Preliminaries:

I received my 80ml bottle of "16th century amber varnish" from Grove's last week. Although I know the ink I mix with it today will be unusable, I am curious to see the effect of the amber on the ink by doing side by side draw downs with Ink 001 and Ink 002. Grove recommends one drop for a spatula knife full of oil paint. I have know idea what that would translate to in ink. I am starting with 1:30 amber to ink because a 1/4 teaspoon is 1ml and two tablespoons is 30ml (two tablespoons will yield enough ink for my experiments).

Working characteristics:

On working the ink with the brayer it had the same sloppy, splattering consistency of Ink 001. However, on clean up there was noticeably more resistance to the California Special Wash I use. I imagine I'll need to switch to Kerosene for wash up.

Drying:

The draw downs are dry after only a few hours (with the exception of thicker swells).

Odor:

The amber varnish has a good deal of turpentine in it. I guess you come to love what you know: although I can practically bathe in denatured alcohol I have always found the smell of turpentine revolting. I suppose I'll have to come to know turpentine, and love it.

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* I had considered naming this ink "Ink 001a" because it is simply Ink 001 with an additive. I opted for the name "Ink 002" because all of my ink experiments will be variations on only two or three additives. I would prefer that my final ink be named "Ink 025" or "Ink 026" rather than "Ink 001y" or "Ink 001z."