I’m a printmaker. My favourite process is lithography.
To make one lithograph, I need to move my heavy limestone to the graining bench, wet it, then sand it by hand in a rhythmic pattern with 60 grit carborundum and a levigator. I do that four or five times before moving on to the 90 grit carborundum, followed by the 180 grit and 220 grit. When my stone is clean and smooth, I dry it off with a hand flag and move it to a bench, where I draw/paint a wash/transfer/etc. until I have the image I want to print. Then I do the first etch. This involves rubbing talc into the surface of the stone, applying a special nitric acid mix to the surface, and then buffing it back so it’s smooth. A few hours later, I go back to the stone and apply the second etch. I apply gum arabic to the surface, buff it back, remove the image from the stone with turps, rub/buff in liquid bitumen, wash the gum off the stone with water, wipe the stone with a drier sponge so that the layer of water is thin, then roll up the image with black ink. I wipe back the stone with water again, dry it with the hand flag, then follow the steps from the first etch. After a few hours or a day, depending on both deadlines and patience, the stone is ready to print. I won’t go through the whole printing process, suffice to say that it includes preparing paper, lots of ink rolling and keeping the stone wet to stop it from drying out, among other things.
I could get ten prints or a hundred prints this way. Or I could save myself all the effort, send an image to a printing business, and have them do the work for me. I mean, who would want to do all that work for a printout? Kris posted links to this blog post and the article it relates to, and this kind of thing always gets my defences up. I mean, really, why bother doing something when you can get someone else, or some other machine to do it for you?
I had a bit of an artistic epiphany in my bookmaking class last year. My lecturer and I were clashing, and I finally figured out why. She didn’t like my first project — I didn’t understand why and she didn’t understand why I didn’t understand. She also didn’t think I’d done enough work considering how far we were along in the semester. When I finally figured it out and sent her an email explaining why I do things and how I work, she stepped back, let my do my thing, and I created some of my favourite pieces ever. And she gave me a high distinction. Anyway, for her, it’s the finished piece that matters. The process doesn’t inform the final artwork, rather, the final artwork informs the processes. She does a lot of digital printing, and is more than happy to outsource any type of printing she does.
For me, it’s the other way around. My processes are very important in developing the ideas, and the finished piece is less important than the journey I go through to get there. The methodical nature of printmaking allows my mind to rest and focus, and it gives me the time to think and dream and make obscure connections. Concentrating on the rote tasks also stops me stressing about irrelevant things. There’s also a magic in printmaking — taking a moment to notice how sunlight shining through the window plays on a stone and sparkling carborundum when you are graining it; running your hand over an exquisitely smooth, wet surface; the chemical magic in the way that the image will pick up ink when you roll over it, but the damp, non-image areas won’t; pulling back the paper after your first proof; the flexibility involved in printing something yourself. Although lithography is my favourite, I do other forms of printmaking for the same reasons — lino/woodblock prints, etchings, engravings, collographs… And when it’s all said and done, I’ve made something beautiful and unique that I can keep or sell. Or keep AND sell, which is another one of the joys of printmaking.
I love to knit and spin and sew and embroider and all the other somewhat antiquated things I do for the same reasons that I love printmaking. It’s about the magic in giving myself time to think while I construct something stitch by stitch. And watching something slowly grow and evolve is fascinating. It’s like a good book — you desperately want to get to the end to find out what happens, but at the same time, you want to enjoy the story for as long as possible.