Printing with the handpress ‘pleases eye and mind and hand’

Turnbull Library Record, Volume 12, Issue 2, 1 October 1979, Page 95

Printing with the handpress ‘pleases eye and mind and hand’

ALAN LONEY

First, a sense of context Some time ago, while watching television, I was privileged to hear a compere on a magic show describe an escapologist’s activity as an Art Form. However dubious the privilege (all information is privileged information) it is a fact that a great many activities are these days regarded, for practical purposes, as ‘arts’. A recent issue of the QE II Arts Council magazine Action gave notice of Arts Council grants to persons in such fields as weaving, film, sculpture, photography, modern dance, glass-making, literature, music, Maori carving, pottery, willow furniture making, and the theatre arts. 1 Looking at that list, it’s clear that any definitive concept of ‘fine arts’ would seriously inhibit the wide range of arts-funding possibilities to which the Arts Council at this time, and rightly, extends. Among the activities currently regarded as ‘arts’, one that is generally absent from Arts Council funding programmes, however, is printing.

Printing in this country is generally a trade, with apprenticeship training geared strictly to commercial procedures. In the matter of book production, with which I am here concerned, each aspect of the business is separated off from the others both in training and in commercial practice. We have typesetters, compositors, printers, binders, and designers; but there’s no provision for thorough training of a person in all aspects of book production, just as there is no provision for a person to practise all these procedures in the commercial arena. On the other hand, it is certain that under the present system one can become a very fine typesetter, or printer, compositor, binder or designer; and within the trade there are many people who are properly respected as such. Whatever can be positively said about current book publishing procedure, one sorry aspect of it to my mind is the public anonymity of the designer (in most cases), the typesetter, the printer, and the binder, in relation to specific books. These people are of course known in the trade, and they should be; but they are not known outside the trade, and they should be. By opening a book published by almost any New Zealand publisher, I can learn the

name of the typesettingjzrm, the printing firm, the binding firm (if these are other than the publisher) but not the names of the persons in those firms who actually did the work. This obviously allows for a situation in which J. Doe, unreliable employee and master printer, may print marvellously for, in his working life, half a dozen or more companies, and for those companies to collect the credit due to the master printer. I’m fully sensible of course that the production of most books is very much a team effort, with many hands involved in the process; but I also know more than one printer’s lament about a tradesman not getting public recognition for work that has otherwise received public notice. The point I’m making here is that in printing, as in most other areas of commercial activity, the craftsmanship of the specific individual is not seen to be publicly valued by the employers of those individuals.

Where the names of New Zealand printers are known publicly, the names are almost invariably those of men who did not learn their trade by apprenticeship training. Those most well known include —Bob Lowry, of whom Denis Glover wrote ‘lf typography is a word that some of us now understand, the credit is Bob Lowry’s’; Leo Bensemann, whom Glover talked his partner John Drew into taking on as a further partner at Caxton Press, after seeing Bensemann prepare ‘beautiful make-ready’ for Bensemann’s own letterpress illustrations; Ron Holloway, whom Glover describes as ‘Lowry’s protege’, and whose conversion to Roman Catholicism has dictated most of his subsequent printing activity; Bob Gormack, of Nag’s Head Press, who has made consistent and fine use of a small platen and limited range of types (mainly Caslon), and who is now one of the most useful models we have for any budding private pressman; the late Noel Hoggard, who, however lacking as he was in typographic flair and even at times information, was dedicated to a belief in the value of New Zealand literature and a further belief that that literature warranted a like labour such as went into his handset magazine Arena ; and Denis Glover himself, founder of Caxton Press, who was obviously a splendid foil for Lowry in his avowed ‘classicist’ approach to typographic problems, and whose eye, though he no longer prints, is still as keen as ever, and whose advice is still shrewdly sought by the Alexander Turnbull Library in typographic matters. None of these men received formal training as printers. All of them are known and revered names in our typographic history. 2

I think it needs saying, just to be clear about what sort of paddock one is strolling about in, that we have in New Zealand no printer/typographers of the order of William Pickering, D.B. Updike, Bruce Rogers, Eric Gill, William Morris, Emery Walker, or T. J. Cobden-Sanderson. We have no typographic masters and

scholars of the order ofjan Tschichold, Stanley Morison or Herman Zapf. These men had a range of masteries too considerable for fair comparison with our New Zealand masters, and all had and have a continuing influence on contemporary typography and typographic scholarship, world-wide.

There have of course been problems. New Zealand has always been short on such things as handmade paper, bookbinding leathers, reasonable access to the best of contemporary type design; and in particular two crucial importations never quite reached here. First, we lack a tradition of scholarly printing in the hands of a university press. We do have university presses and they do publish scholarly works; but all would have to admit that we have nothing like the typographic intent of such as Cambridge University Press (who house, for instance, William Morris’s Troy types and matrices) or Oxford University Press (who house, for instance, the famous ‘Fell’ types), or even of such a press as the Stinehour Press in the United States who specialise in scholarly printing and whose main clients are universities. Typographic history, typographic conservation on historical lines and typographic scholarship are part of no overt and carefully planned function of any of our universities and/or their presses. It is at this point that I can add two more names to our list of‘known and revered’ —Professor D. F. McKenzie at Wai-te-ata Press at Victoria University ofWellington, and Dr Keith Maslen at the Bibliography Room at the University of

Otago. However modestly these two men may regard their achievements, they stand, to my mind, along with Glover, Lowry, Bensemann, Gormack, Holloway and Hoggard, as singular exemplars in an otherwise barren patch. Their example has been of considerable importance to me, as a printer endeavouring to acquire a real sense of what could reasonably be aimed for, and of what kinds of information might properly be integrated into those aims. The second printing pattern that didn’t arrive in this country is that of fine printing with the handpress. There are handpresses in New Zealand, and many people have used them for one purpose or another. In fact they have been used as proofing presses, for printing lino-cuts and woodblocks, for printmaking, for teaching school children something about printing, as tools in bibliographical study in our universities, and as exhibits in the foyers and offices of libraries and publishing firms. To my knowledge, however, no one in this country has printed a fine book on a handpress, using handmade paper which was damped for printing. As I’ve already noted, the above is intended to provide no more than a sense of context, and certainly not a ‘survey’. A proper survey would have to examine the activity of the Ferrymead Printing Museum in Christchurch, the Association of Handcraft Printers of

New Zealand, the conservation activities of Professor McKenzie, and of Mr John Brebner at the Manawatu Museum Printery; it would have to assess the small body of typographic and printing history literature so far published in this country; it would have to research the availability of increasingly obsolete letterpress printing presses, type-casting machines and ancillary equipment; and outline, in detail, and not too much passion, the sore need for a rational letterpress conservation programme, with definite links between the trade, private presses, and university presses, and with careful attention to matters of concern to typographic historians.

The handpress Perhaps I should say first that ‘fine printing’ of books can in principle be achieved by any kind of printing process on any kind of printing mechanism, provided that all other aspects of the book are achieved with the finest available and appropriate materials and craftsmanship. Now, as I previously hinted, there is no current agency, institution or other circumstance that makes it possible for anyone in New Zealand to receive formal training in handpress printing. Taking this with there being no tradition of handpress printing here, why do it? Obviously, as it takes a good 60 seconds to hand-ink and print one side of a sheet at the handpress, handpress printing has no realistic application in the present commercial context, and I’m not interested in pursuing the matter along the commercial line. But before I track any line at all, a number of factors require notice. First, decent handpress printing necessitates the use of handmade papers, and such use further necessitates that the paper be damped for printing. The brilliant American typographer Bruce Rogers (designer of one of the finest of all contemporary typefaces, Centaur) puts it this way:

. . . where the finest possible finished product is desired, printing on dampened paper, if skilfully done, will produce a result much superior to the ordinary dry printing. The punching of the type into the softened paper raises printing almost from a two- to a three-dimensional medium, and the slight halo or highlight created around the individual recessed letters gives a sparkle and life to a page which cannot be obtained by dry printing. Moreover, as less ink is required, a cleaner impression is possible and the vigorous pressure of the type into the paper causes the print to become an integral part of the paper, rather than merely to lie on the surface. It should suffice to say that all the fine books of the past were printed on dampened paper, including those of the modern ‘revivalist’ presses, such as the Kelmscott, Ashendene, Doves, etcetera. 3 Second, the type should be set by hand, or, if the job is too big and needs to be machine set, the type should be re-justified by hand, or, as it’s put in the trade ‘put through the stick’, where the ‘stick’ is

the printer’s composing tool in which he sets the lines of the text in type. Third, the type must be inked by hand. On such handpresses as the Albion and the Columbian, hand-inking is the only method possible by nature of the machine; but with such presses as the Vandercook cylinder press, the automatic inking mechanism must be removed to allow the genuine sense of handcraft printing to be fully present.

Fourth, handpress printing of books immediately throws one into the international arena of fine printing. I don’t think there’s any way to avoid this. If a work is known to be hand-printed, it will automatically be evaluated within the current milieu of hand printing craftsmanship, and that within the general history of fine printing by hand. I must say this is no comfortable situation, when the main models I have been able to examine in New Zealand have been the Doves, Kelmscott and Golden Cockerel presses, all of which are well represented in the Alexander Turnbull Library’s fine printing collection. What it means I think is one chooses either to simply muck about in the shed with an old printing press, or to acquire at considerable labour, cost, and some risk to one’s emotional stability, standards of excellence comparable with the finest anywhere in the world.

Fifth, handpress printing of books necessitates limited editions. The process obviously is labour intensive and materials costs reflect the equally labour intensive procedures of handmade papermaking and hand-binding. For instance, a book of 100 pages in 200 copies could very well cost $15,000 to $20,000 to produce, and take a year from the first production stages to the completed book. The retail price of such a book could very well be S6OO. Sixth, a handpress is a very specific instrument and conversations I have had over recent years with a wide variety of people, including tradesmen, have shown that many are confused about just what exactly a handpress is, and what sort of procedures define a printing press as a handpress. I quote Lewis Allen: \ . . we must define handpress : it is one where the type is inked by a hand-held roller, the paper is fed by hand, and the impression activated by hand .... There are two classes of handpress which answer the definition and have the strength to give adequate impressions: the platen variety such as the Columbian, Albion and Washington; and the cylinder press such as the Asbern and Vandercook —but only when the automatic inking unit is detached.’. 4 The confusion I refer to, even among printers, is that many people believe the primary characteristic of the handpress is that the paper is fed into it by hand. Now, certainly for handpress printing the paper must be hand-fed, but there are many presses which are hand-fed but which are not

handpresses, and my own Arab treadle platen is one such machine. The primary characteristic, if there is a primary one, is that the impression be activated by hand. This means that the paper is impressed against inked type by pulling or moving a bar or lever with one’s hand or hands. I hesitate to be that simplistic. But, contrary to what a number of otherwise informed people have said and written about Hawk Press, The Death of Captain Cook 5 is the first and only book we have so far printed with a handpress. Seventh, there is the ‘issue’ of elitism. I must confess to not having read at all in this idea. Most expressions I’ve heard in conversation about ‘elitism’ amount to a confused and easily disposed of body of ‘devil’s advocacy’. No doubt Marxist theory would enliven the matter. But the counter-elitist would have to deal squarely with the nature of handpress printing, the high costs of materials and the low production capacity of the method. He or she would also have to deal with the somewhat naive sounding fact that even the best-selling Bible is not owned by everyone, nor does everyone want to own a copy. That is, in some sense even Holy Scripture is published in limited editions. The question is, if anyone wishes to make a question of it: Where does one draw the line, and for what reasons?

So, taking up my line once more: without teachers, without a local tradition, without a body of ‘received’ information which is active among printers and available to the public, why print fine books on a handpress in New Zealand? Two quotations ought to fix it. The first is from the American poet Cid Corman: ‘Every instance is particular’. 6 That is, one doesn’t have to justify an activity in general terms before being capable either of conducting oneself in that activity, or of responding to an instance of it. The proper question is not Why do it? but rather What do we have here? For the second quotation I return to the wonderfully helpful Lewis Allen:

. . . with knowledgeable use of the handpress, truly beautiful printing is possible—crisp, glowing, three dimensional impressions on lovely handmade paper. Why is this a fact? Simply because one enjoys complete control of the tool: every inking, every impression can be adjusted quickly towards perfection. There is a certain satisfaction in this use of mind and hand and superb materials to produce printing not attainable on motor driven high-speed machines.

. . . Edwin Grabhorn of the Grabhorn Press had this to say: ‘One of the modern criticisms of William Morris and the private presses that he inspired is that too much stress was placed on method. Method means how a thing is done, and how a thing is done is of very vital importance if we want to give our work durability. Morris knew, because he was a collector of the earliest printed books, that those books could not have descended to him looking as vital and sparkling as the day they left their makers’ hands, without honesty of craftsmanship. It was the craftsmanship that Morris revived, and that we today will have to revive again before our books can have any claim to a long life . .

In conclusion, printing with the handpress can be a completely satisfying craft —even an art —for both professionals and hobbyists when knowledge and desire yield a product of high quality. 7

A question of conservation Possibly one of the most valuable things we have learned at Hawk Press during the production of The Death of Captain Cook, is simply this, that, fine printing with the handpress in New Zealand is possible. We have suitable equipment, some suitable types (not many), we have access to overseas handmade papers and there are hand-binders who can execute designs to the level of the rest of the production. Another ‘contextual’ matter is the increasing interest in papermaking by hand throughout New Zealand at present. Although this activity is largely confined to printmaking purposes, I feel it is only a matter of time before someone can be persuaded to take on the challenge of making paper suitable for printing. It is also true that we seriously lack a decent variety of bookbinding cloths, but a certain amount of Kiwi ingenuity can I believe come up with appropriate alternatives, short of importing special stocks.

However, the most important problem for any handpress printer in this country is the ever-diminishing availability of letterpress equipment, in particular, type. Handset type is broadly of two kinds: Founder’s or foundry type which is manufactured by a type-founder, is relatively hard, and will accept considerable use over a very long period, and Monotype which is not cast at a foundry, but on machines which printers can acquire and on which they can do their own type-casting. The difficulty with the monotype caster is that its furnace cannot take enough heat for sufficient levels of copper and antimony in the type’s composition to make it hard enough for a decent life. For fine printing, Lewis Allen suggests that a single quantity of monotype should be used only for two books at 150 copies each, and then be scrapped. All monotype available in New Zealand is relatively soft, and with careful use I have found that two years is about the life of a fount if it is being used in book work. No founder’s type is cast in New Zealand. Additionally, the number of business firms who supply monotype to the trade in New Zealand has shrunk horribly in the last 10 to 15 years—l know of only two definitely, one in Christchurch and one in Auckland, though there may be one or two others. There are a few firms who cast their own monotype, but who don’t supply the trade.

When it comes to printing presses, it has to be acknowledged that some actions by printing firms have been unhappy to say the least. Presses have been destroyed to inhibit ‘competition’; some have been dumped (like the Albion I heard of in Palmerston North a few

years back, which was deposited at the city dump and covered over); some have been sold as scrap metal, to merchants with more money on hand than those persons or agencies who could use the presses. If anyone wants to print with a handpress for the rest of his working life, it’s my guess that he or she will have to acquire a lifetime’s ancillary equipment within the next 4 to 5 years. Very little letterpress equipment is now being manufactured here or imported. One major ink manufacturer has deleted a large number of colours from its basic list, but will make up special quantities at extra cost. A representative of that same firm has told me how interesting it is that some letterpress printers have found their high-speed presses will take offset inks very well. High-speed presses take ‘soupy’ inks that will run freely and easily. Low-speed presswork such as that done on a handpress requires thick spongy ink. We are now seeking ways to make our own inks. I mention these matters because I don’t see how handpress printing can take place in New Zealand outside of a specific concern for conservation in the letterpress area. Ten years from now it is probable that no new letterpress ancillary equipment will be able to be purchased in this country. The task of collection and conservation has to be rationalised now, and in my view it has to include the co-operation of official trade organisations and the universities, and have active links with small and private presses whose activities will more than likely keep the sense of the thing alive better than any other circumstance.

Function, i.e. what to do with it It will be readily grasped that handpress printing is not an appropriate method of multiplying raffle tickets, invoice books, ‘romance’ paperbacks, or any such matter. On the other hand, there are many excellent manuscripts published by trade and university presses which also are not suitable for hand-printing. Further, many hand-printed books are far from serious in their intent and much hand-printing is done by part-time printers as something like a ‘hobby’. Many hand-printed books are very conservative in design, typeface used, and binding, as well as in content. Many have been highly experimental in every facet of their making, eschewing almost every conventional practice except in having pages follow one another in succession. The tradition of handpress printing extends back in time from the present moment, and is more various and interesting than any sense of ‘purism’ can possibly allow. What I’m saying here is that there is no way of asserting that only such and such a manuscript is a proper candidate for handpress printing; there is no mode of design, allusive or experimental,

conventional or contemporary, that is not proper in handpress printing; and there is no set method of dealing with materials which is necessary to ensure that ‘proper principles’ of fine printing have been employed. This is not to say we have no body of received assessment of prior achievements and general values in the matter. Of course we have these, and of course the handpress printer needs to know what others have done before him in his medium. He also needs to know, and this is less generally acknowledged, what is being done by others in the field now, in his own time. In other words, his sense of the possibilities needs to be constantly renewed and enlivened by whatever information he can gain about the whole field of handpress printing as it extends back from his own time and outwards from his own place.

The question about what a handpress printer will print is a matter to be decided by the printer. I’m sure this will be a controversial view. Current trade practices mitigate against the kind of craftsmanship we are concerned with. One of those practices is where a printer is given work to print, on a particular machine, with no discriminatory choice in the matter. This is not only a printing trade practice, but also a social pattern of wide scope. One of the pleasures of the craftsman potter is that he or she can remain unaffected by the tastes, preferences and informations of other people, and can create a pot according to his or her own impulses, based on all experience, knowledge and imagination the potter can bring to bear on it. The craftsman printer does the same thing. He does not merely fulfil others’ designs or attempt to reify others’ tastes. The risk factor of course is high. The making of books is one of the most conventional trade procedures we have, and it’s likely that bookbinding is its most conservative aspect. Legibility studies have shown that most people like those typefaces that they are most familiar with. My experience shows that most people have very strong views about what they think this or that book ought to look like. The crucial point to me, however, is that in spite of every thing many magnificent books have been produced without taking too much notice of predecessors. The bindings for instance of Edgar Mansfield were revolutionary in that he bypassed the then current ‘appropriate’ ways of treating leather in order to achieve a result which was illuminatory of the book’s content. In order to do this, Mansfield did not have to ignore the achievements of his predecessors or his teachers, or to devalue them in any way. What he did have to do was to follow his own predilections, make his own mistakes, take his own risks, and do his own bindings.

So, the handpress printer must print what he pleases in the way he pleases. But he must be informed about his craft, make informed decisions on his designs. In New Zealand, the prospective

handpress printer must ‘find out for himself’ (as the poet Charles Olson translates Herodotus’s term historie), and the resources of the Alexander Turnbull Library are particularly helpful in this regard. In this finding out for oneself, the craftsman with sufficient courage, foresight, information and endurance, can serve himself, his craft and the wider community in a way which can be seen by anyone as authentic, as a way of care, as a way of relating to materials, workmanship, and his world, which is worthy of the attention of all of us.

REFERENCES 1 Action 8, February/March 1979, 18-19. 2 lam indebted for much in this paragraph to conversations with Denis Glover. 3 Quoted by Lewis Allen in Printing With the Handpress (New York, 1969), p. 11. The quotation in the title of the article is also from Lewis Allen. 4 Ibid., p. 13. 5 J. C. Beaglehole, The Death of Captain Cook (Wellington, Alexander Turnbull Library, 1979). 6 Quoted from correspondence with the author, 16 Jan. 1978. 7 Lewis Allen, Printing With the Handpress, p. 11-12.