A Typographical Genius? 1

Turnbull Library Record, Volume 34, 1 January 2001, Page 73

Patricia Thomas

A Typographical Genius? 1

Bob Lowry and the four issues of ‘Phoenix’

W ith the emergence of interest in the print culture of New Zealand, it seems timely to explore a part of that culture which is seldom examined: design and typographic aesthetics. Two previous articles 2 prompted this contribution which examines the styles used by Bob Lowry in the production of the four issues of Phoenix , the magazine of the Auckland University College Literary Club.

In 1932-33 Phoenix began the erratic realisation of Lowry’s dream to establish a printing and publishing enterprise in New Zealand. Not a printer but a scholar, Lowry was initiated into the ‘black art’ at Auckland Grammar School in 1928. He brought to it a passion, an intelligence and a creativity which has placed him in the vanguard of a paradigm shift in New Zealand typographic design. When he began his foray into printing only T. V. Gulliver and J. C. Beaglehole 3 exhibited a comparable care for typographic aesthetics in New Zealand print, and Lowry learned much from both.

Among his international models were Stanley Morison, Francis Meynell, and Bernard Newdigate, who sought the revival of classical standards of book production in Britain in the 19205, and their American counterparts D. B. Updike and Bruce Rogers. Juxtaposed with this was Lowry’s interest in and application of the Modernist design practices of the Constructivists and the Bauhaus. He loved Dada, seeing in its anarchic typographic displays opportunities to play with type,opportunities which revealed themselves in his own typo-gymnastics, The sky is a limpet and How to

ride a bicycle in seventeen lovely colours . 4 In addition, Lowry brought to the ‘sacred art of typography’ 5 an idiosyncratic approach which set him apart from this revival of fine printing; Denis Glover once declared Lowry could ‘out-Herod Herod’ 6 if he’d had a mind to do so. His intuitive creative talent allowed him to loosely follow a dictum, yet translate that dictum into his own eccentric visual language. Calling ‘the dead leaden letters to life,’ 7 he was not so much a typographer as a typographical artist. It needs, however, to be noted that, as Lowry’s career was erratic, so was his performance. A number of factors at times conspired against his best intentions: youthful exuberance and ignorance, a lack of business acumen, an innate tendency towards depression, and a cavalier attitude towards almost everything.

As a young, would-be printer, he garnered much technical information from trade journals such as the British printer and Inlandprinter, while his aesthetic sensibilities were being honed by journals such as the Fleur on and the London Mercury. He received little help from trade printers as they generally looked upon amateurs and academics with disfavour. By the time he came to print the first issue of Phoenix, he was fairly well armed with technical skills, endowed with the wisdom of the history of fine printing, and fired by an enthusiasm to acquit himself well in the endeavour.

A lack of suitable materials rendered the first issue of Phoenix (Volume 1 [Number I], March 1932) typographically less than it could have been. Lowry had begun setting up and printing the first issue in a filthy, inadequately stocked printery in his small home town Paeroa. He finished it on his return to Auckland ‘on a miniature press, page by hand-set page, ingenio et labore ,s The arrival of a new font of Garamond type, and Lowry’s attempts against the odds to retain some measure of consistency, could do little to save this issue, which emerged a mix of 17th century elegance and 19th century mediocrity, with touches of 20th century art deco. He was well aware of its shortcomings and nervous of critical reaction ‘when the mag comes out’. 9

Aided by the arrival of a new press and access to better types, and relocated in lighter, more spacious premises, the second issue of Phoenix (Volume 1, Number 2, July 1932) was a more accurate realisation of Lowry’s ambitions. A demy octavo, its cover (virtually identical to its predecessor) stark, almost brutal, forcefully declares its modernity. The title ‘THE / PHOENIX’ is ranged top left in 32-point and 60-point Futura Black Extended and counterbalances the smaller 24-point ‘VOLUME ONE / NUMBER TWO’ at the bottom right. Between them a graphic, hard-edged phoenix rises triumphant from the flames. There is a unity in the composition; a dynamism in the upward stretch of the rising bird, the asymmetric layout and the colours of the bold orange cover-paper and black type. Lowry was enthusiastic about this second Phoenix: ‘Phoenix is going to be a pretty good thing. This time from the typographical point of view at least... the format and layout are excellent. . .’. I 0

The improvement in this issue was so marked it seems likely that, as Holloway claimed, Lowry collaborated with Len Morrison, an architectural student. In 1946 Glover called this ‘the happiest of Lowry’s achievements’ 11 and he speaks with some

truth. It was the exemplar for much of the work Lowry produced thereafter, though it could be argued that he did not better it until he printed and published Maurice Duggan’s Immanuel’s Land at Pilgrim Press in 1956. In both publications Lowry

did not strictly follow the current idiom of typographical design, yet in each he displays an inherent understanding of the principles of legibility and readability, and an intuitive sense of the ‘rightness’ of a page of type.

The first opening in the second Phoenix presents a singularly harmonious aspect: the verso page frontispiece, Neil Johnstone’s linocut ‘Figurehead’, is complemented by the recto title page ‘THE / PHOENIX’ set in Caslon Old Face Titling, 24- and 42point, with ‘PHOENIX’ spaced to the full measure of 25ems. Directly beneath and ranged right, set in caps on successive lines, are ‘VOLUME ONE / NUMBER TWO’ in 14-point. Hughes' 2 notes that these would have gained some benefit from handjustification, to achieve a consistent amount of visual rather than actual space between letters. This principle determines the legibility of a word as a word, rather than simply a string of letters. On this page, too, the spaces between the letters are very similar to that between the lines; the result is a perceived effect of vertical columns rather than horizontal lines. Notwithstanding this small flaw, this is a ‘lucid display which catches the eye by its very simplicity.’ 13 The phoenix device, which differs from that on the cover, is printed in deep red and sits close to the bottom right of the page along with its motto ‘Will the bird perish. Shall the bird rise?’, set in Caslon. The margins in this issue are generous and the soft antique surface of the cream laid paper is a perfect complement to the 18th century Caslon type. This title page, though it could not be said to reflect the Modernist cover, certainly holds its own against it.

The most notable typographic feature on the ‘Contents’ page which follows is the combination of Caslon roman caps and italic lower case in the title entries (e.g. ‘ Romance ’). This 16th century practice is something of an aesthetic affectation in the 20th century and does nothing to shed light on historical contexts but merely copies the form. The past, that ‘marketplace of ideas,’ 14 has always been subject to ‘fashionable plundering’ 1 " in all areas of creative endeavour, notably in design, and Lowry’s proclivity for it was no different (he ‘plundered’ both past and present all his working life), though it was considered philosophically un-Modem to resort to the past for inspiration.

Headings throughout are in 12-point Goudy Old Style Bold, caps and lower case, underscored by a 2-point rule. The same face and style, in 10-point, are used for the authors’ names. Lowry’s idiosyncratic approach to conventions appears here in a reversal of the usual position of the running heads. They sit at the foot, not in itself unusual, but the magazine title ‘The Phoenix’ is ranged right on the recto, while the article title (or section heading) is ranged left on the verso, a placement reversing the norm. These are in 9-point Garamond caps and lower case and hair-spaced, also unusual for the time. The page numbers are hanging numerals ranged left and right, with a single line space separating them from the running feet.

For the most part this issue has been carefully set, with an occasional river, often resulting from the use of an em space after a full stop, a clumsy, though common, attempt to achieve justification. The text throughout is set in Caslon 12-point roman and italic, quite properly unleaded, and an excellent size both for a demy octavo and for a magazine of literary content. Pages reserved for reviews and commentaries require consideration to establish hierarchy, and Lowry has handled the problem simply and consistently. As an example, ‘Reviews’ (like other headings) is set in 12point Goudy Old Style Bold, under which is a sub-heading ‘Remembrance of Things Past’, in 10-point Goudy Old Style Bold. The title of the work being reviewed is in 10-point Garamond italic, with the names of its author and publisher in 10-point roman. Blocks of quoted text within the review are in 10-point Caslon, indented 1 em and also enclosed by double quotation marks, unnecessarily applying two typographic devices of which one or the other is usually sufficient.

Two poems employ contrasting styles. Cumow’s ‘The spirit shall return’ shows its modernity in its lack of capitalisation, the effect of which leads the reader on from one line (or one stanza) to the next without pause. This, and its 12-point unleaded setting, lends the poem a degree of textural evenness, a visual monotone. In contrast, C. R. Allen’s ‘The Swan’ is set in 12-point with 3-point leading, and uses caps and lower case, which is visually more dynamic and closer to what readers of poetry had come to expect. It is difficult to gauge Lowry’s contribution to the typographical arrangements of these examples as poets often specify the general details themselves, in order to control pace and rhythm. The reading of poetry, as against prose, is often a more deliberate, contemplative act and, though there are no specific rules, the way the type is set usually reflects this.

The layout of this issue is consistent throughout; confident and authoritative. Ambitious for an emerging New Zealand literature, Lowry felt that it had little chance of being noticed in mean outfits and mourned the lack of good publishers and printers. He set for himself a high standard of typographic design and presswork, an expectation he passed to others. Glover, for example, though he arguably gained higher recognition for printing and publishing in New Zealand, learned the basics from Lowry, who was determined that he should do it well, and so taught him well.

The third Phoenix (Volume 2, Number 1, March 1933) differs from its predecessors in many ways, not least of which is its size and format. Now a crown quarto, it has more of the feel of a magazine of substance. The same phoenix device is used on the cover but it is placed in the lower right hand comer above ‘THE PHOENIX’. Careless insertion of extra space between the words to extend it to the actual width of the image, rather than the visual width, creates the illusion that the title sits a little too far to the right. Set in 36-point Gill Sans caps, it is directly above ‘A QUARTERLY MAGAZINE’ 16 (in 18-point caps) also spaced to the same measure but excessively so, suffering no doubt from the lack of suitable sizes to suit Lowry’s design. Directly below the block, running across the cover from spine to fore-edge, is a 4-point mle from which hangs ‘MARCH 1933’, also in the 18-point caps of ‘A QUARTERLY MAGAZINE’. The former ends on the imaginary vertical upon which the latter begins, a fine typographical detail. A 2-point mle underscores the date and mns to the spine edge. Arranged alternately up the spine edge, wrapped round the spine itself and carried over on to the back cover is a succession of sequenced horizontal rules 6 ems (25 mm) wide. The paper is mst in colour and the ink is green. Overall, this cover is well balanced and attractive, modem in its asymmetry and its typeface and also typographically for the most part, though it is perhaps overburdened with lines whose only purpose is decorative.

The ink colour used on the title page is rust, matching the hue of the cover stock, immediately setting up a visual narrative. This is supported by the continued use of Gill Sans and by the 4-point rule to the right of the text, which, though vertical, ties the title page formally and philosophically to the Modernist cover which precedes it. Though Lowry has used only two sizes (36- and 18-point) of the Gill Sans to convey much visual, hierarchical information, he has done so to good effect. Within the restriction of the two sizes he uses devices such as combinations of caps, caps and lower case, letter-spacing, and style, to give the impression of a much larger variety than there actually is, and this helps to establish a simple yet eloquent hierarchy. The letter spacing is a little wide in the words ‘AUCKLAND’ and ‘QUARTERLY MAGAZINE’, causing a lack of cohesion within the words and disrupting the even typographic colour of the page. The entire block of text is ranged right, 2 ems from the vertical rule, with each level of textual hierarchy separated by a large point, a solid echo of the very round Gill Sans ‘O’. The most uncomfortable aspect of the title page is the phoenix device (in this issue the same as that on the cover), which has its ascent curtailed by the block of text which sits squarely upon its head.

This title page and the covers of the first three issues reflect the Modernist principles of typography introduced at the German school for art and design, the Bauhaus, which was, ironically, being closed down by the Nazis the year after Lowry began putting the dicta into practice. ‘Purpose is the leading principle in typographic work in Germany,’ declared Otto Bettmann in his 1930 article on the new German typography. 17 Functional typography, as it came to be known, was deemed the only logical solution for modem men with modem minds. Lowry was a modem man and, if he was sympathetic to revivalist typography which had its foundations in classical aesthetics, he was able, equally, to embrace this modem, aesthetically formalist, purely functional style. The German experience was historically, culturally and politically outside anything familiar to his own, but it could be expressed in visual terms, immediately identifiable with Modernist concepts of freedom, purity of form, a kind of sanitised order, and a simplicity bordering on asceticism. This was a new order of things, which New Zealand society was itself establishing, albeit through the agonies of Depression politics and repressive emergency measures. Lowry may not have fully understood the movement as it expressed itself in the wider context of European Modernism, but he was certainly able to appreciate its ability to apply an uncompromising visual rhetoric to a social and political constmct in his own troubled country. The absence of historicism in the asymmetric layouts, the sans serif types, and the purely functional, undecorated character of a Modernist page spoke to the cult of the new, the young and the dynamic. Unable through lack of materials to fully embrace this doctrine typographically (and there is no evidence that he wished to do so), Lowry was able, at least partially, to employ its semiotic connotations to situate the magazine in the Modernist context, with all that movement’s references to the elimination of the past and an embracing of the future.

The larger format of this third Phoenix created space for generous margins which allow for what Morison called ‘ distributing the space and controlling the type ’. l s The text, for example on the contents page, is set within this dictum to the full measure of 30 ems, with titles and headings ranged left, followed by the authors’ names separated by just over 2 ems, and lining page numbers ranged right, the latter producing a solid vertical mass evocative of the 4-point rule on the title page. This contents page is beginning to show the signs of an attention to detail absent in the previous issues; Lowry made very fine adjustments (‘kerning’) to the extra inherent space caused by the diagonal strokes between, for example, the letters ‘W’ and ‘A’ when contiguous.

The masthead (p. 5) suffers somewhat, as does its counterpart on the cover, from excessive space between the words in the line ‘A QUARTERLY MAGAZINE’ (18-point) below ‘THE PHOENIX’ (36-point), both lines set to full measure. The ranging of the two lines —though both are set justified to the actual measure —is constrained from being visually justified by the nature of their respective first (T and A) and last (X and E) letters. The lower line thus

appears to be fractionally to the left of the upper one at the beginning, and marginally to the right at the end. The visual effect is uneven but this could have been corrected by more careful use of space. Given such a limited selection of point sizes, the more experienced Meynell or Beaglehole might have chosen not to attempt to justify the lines, or perhaps applied a finer eye to the question of the somewhat ragged visual justification. Directly beneath these lines, also set to full measure, is the line stating volume/number/date, between each component of which is a colon flanked by extra space, solving the spacing problem neatly, but not entirely addressing that of careless justification.

Lowry retained the Caslon face, set solid and justified, for the body of the magazine and, with the exception of some of the paragraph openings, set the text blocks in the revived classical, symmetrical style. The heading for NOTES’, the first section, in which social and political comments were aired, is in Gill Sans 18-point spaced caps, ranged left on the first line of the text. The style, though not its position, is the exemplar for all the headings in the issue. The first lines of text are indented approximately 15 ems (about 63 mm), though carelessly varying a little from block to block. This was patently done for effect as one or two ems was more usual. The wide indent also creeps into Lowry’s handwritten correspondence, so was something of a personal idiosyncrasy. An extra line space between each commentary in ‘Notes’ gives the impression of immediacy, a ‘Stop Press’ feel about the page. Eric McCormick commented that the ‘[b]old typography . . . matched the challenging tone of the magazine evident in the Notes on this page’. 19 Form, indeed, followed function.

The first sentence in most of the articles begins with a 24-point initial letter that extends above the line of type but does not reach the baseline, and so is left floating in space. This was a widespread practice among trade printers at the time and, while Lowry may have aspired always to be guided by men such as Morison, to expect him not to be influenced in some way by what he saw around him would be unfair and unrealistic. Later in his career, he abandoned the use of initial letters altogether, preferring to use small caps as opening devices for chapters and the like. However, in this Phoenix the opening is emphasised by the initial letter, then re-emphasised, perhaps over-emphasised, by the following short phrase in 12-point unspaced caps which visually form a thick grey line. The ‘Review’ section reverts to a more classical opening style, eschewing the visual tricks but displaying still the loosefitting initial letter.

Numbers within the text are lining, giving them more prominence than they warrant textually; hanging numerals are more desirable in text setting as their forms mimic the ascenders and descenders of the lower case alphabet and therefore maintain consistency with the text. Conversely the pagination numbers are hanging numerals, neatly centred in square brackets, one line space beneath the text.

In the printing of poetry, the verses themselves are centred on the longest line within the print area of the page. This follows the practice laid down in the early

printing of verse, reintroduced by the revivalists of the early 20th century. The difference lies in the titles, traditionally set on the optical centre of the poem as a whole, but set here in the style of the prose sections, that is, ranged left.

‘Deserted Farmyard’, A. R. D. Fairbum’s seven-stanza poem, is set on one page, with every second line indented by 1 em, helping to give the poem a certain ragged reflection of its content. The shape of the poem is clearly defined and its placement on a single page, with the title ranged left before, and the poet’s name ranged right after, gives it a rugged asymmetric modernity which sits well with Len Morrison’s linocut ‘Tug’ on the facing recto. Though the illustration has no contextual link with the poem, it has been arranged on the page to contribute visually to a well-balanced spread. The title ‘TUG’, in Gill Sans caps, sits out to the right margin close to the bottom of the print area, mirroring diametrically the title of the poem opposite. The rising of hills towards the top right in the illustration and the flowing of the poem towards the bottom left reinforce this diagonal pull. Later in his life, Lowry compared typography to music and talked of the need for clarity and consonance—elements which are evident here.

R. A. K. Mason’s ‘ln manus tuas, Domine’ displays a harmony of letter and space, and is typographically identical to every other Mason poem of the time, giving rise to the possibility that its design was of his devising or at least a collaboration. The first line of each stanza is indented 2 ems from the left margin, and each succeeding line is subsequently indented a further 2 ems, an uncompromisingly plain style that in its uniformity presents for the reader a kind of signifier for Mason’s rhetoric.

It had been intended to print Eric Cook’s article ‘Groundswell’ on pages 36 and 37, but his description of New Zealanders as ‘a vigorous people, rigidly selected by a high migration test, heavily sexed in a strange and stimulating climate’, rendered the article so offensive to the Students’ Association president, Martin Sullivan, that he ordered it removed. Lowry replaced it with a single leaf bearing on the recto a simple statement explaining the absence. It would be hard to believe that Lowry was not aware of the effect this would have, and he seems to have been determined to ensure that the insertion was neither missed nor misunderstood. The leaf is a piece of cream laid, narrower than the wove paper of the body of the magazine. The text, set in Mazarin italic, is elegantly placed slightly above horizontal centre, its five lines and small printers’ flower on the vertical centre of the page. Its contrast to the other typefaces used in the magazine helps to emphasise the unusual nature of this page. It is a brilliant piece of subtle propaganda, with editorial freedom as its sub-text.

On the whole, this issue appears to contain a number of experiments. The adoption of the asymmetric practices of the new German typography, the use of Gill Sans, the rather eccentric paragraph indentations, and the traditional application of the classic Caslon Old Face combine to produce a magazine with a slightly confused visual identity. That does not mean that it is unsuccessful as a typographical exercise, nor even as a publication; indeed, it displayed all the competence, confidence and eccentricity which Lowry applied in his later work.

By this time Phoenix had suffered a number of broadsides; from the community, the press and even from members of its own committee who, with Mason’s appointment as editor, were uneasy with its growing left-wing stance. Lowry was finding the close scrutiny of his complicated financial machinations irksome and his task as printer to everyone in the university, tiring. There was destined to be only one more complete Phoenix , before he ‘cut and run’ 20 to the South Island in the latter part of 1933.

The fourth and final Phoenix (Volume 2, Number 2, June 1933) is a little like the first in that it was probably not what its printer would have wanted for it. While the reason for the failure of the first Phoenix can largely be attributed to lack of suitable materials and equipment, the poor performance of the last one has more to do with a diminishing of energy and enthusiasm, fairly reflecting the state of nervous exhaustion in which Lowry found himself at the time.

Paradoxically, the cover of this last printed magazine is perhaps the most successful of the four. The dark terracotta paper and black type reinforce the rich intrinsic contrast of the classical Caslon face and the Modernist phoenix, the only design element to appear in all four issues. The Caslon, which might otherwise have been too slender for the uncompromising strength of the bird, is set here in sizes sufficiently robust to hold its own. The title is set in the shape of an inverted triangle, the apex of which leads quite naturally to the launching bird. ‘PHOENIX’, in 60point Caslon Old Face Titling, sits atop ‘QUARTERLY MAGAZINE’ in 42-point Caslon caps, beneath which are the two lines ‘of the Auckland University / College Literary Club’ set in caps and lower case. The spaces between words, though visually uneven, are less so than in previous issues, and the four lines sit, consequently, as a visually unified and textually coherent block. Directly beneath the phoenix device is the volume/number/date line in 36-point and 30-point caps, both words and letters evenly spaced. This is the most satisfying of the Phoenix covers in both its visual harmony and its accurate reflection of content —a combination of the classical gravitas due a literary magazine and a declaration of modernity suited to the dynamic enthusiasms of its youthful contributors.

The internal pages are printed on Croxley hard sized duplicator laid paper according to the very visible watermark that appears upside down, right side up, backwards and forwards. Lowry obviously thought it unimportant to print on sheets placed in the same direction, an approach so noticeable here that it is more amusing than offensive.

Glover commented on the title page as ‘three asymmetrical dollops of Gill Sans standing around like people who haven’t been introduced at a party’,bemoaning the dashing of expectations raised by the classic cover. Lowry experimented with the relationships between type and space in all his typographic work, sometimes to the detriment of deadlines, 22 and perhaps in this case he thought the journey more important than the destination, but the page displays a complete lack of his usual sensitivity to the type, the text, and the space in which they sit. All sense of either

rhythm or proportion, critical elements in a typographic page of any persuasion, is lost.

The Bauhaus use of lower case letters, functionally laid out blocks of type, and strategically placed geometric forms within clean, white spaces seem to be the model here. But in this example the space is merely empty; the geometric form (a black dot) sits with no discernible practical purpose —its function should be to separate, or indicate, not to decorate. The block beginning ‘a quarterly magazine’ is placed awkwardly at the top right hand margin, ranged horizontally with ‘PHOENIX’ at the left, but, though textually correct, its ragged left edge is ugly. If the entire block had been moved down to allow its top line to range horizontally with the bottom line of ‘Auckland, New Zealand’, this would have given the word ‘PHOENIX’ more space, and afforded the whole page a rhythm it does not now possess. As it is, the layout has no conceptual consistency—the caps and lower case used for ‘Auckland, New Zealand’, for example, are outside the lower case dictum which Lowry seemed to be following—little sense textually, and less visually. This lapse of good judgement is indicative of what follows.

Although most of the layout and typography are similar to the preceding issue, it falls short of the standards shown there in a lack of attention to detail, coupled with a number of ill-judged decisions. For example, in all the copies I have seen, this Phoenix is the only one in which the presswork is uneven. Lowry had an uncomfortable relationship with his machinery but Lush comments that ‘if he had to do it he would manage a good result because the impression was as important to him as the typesetting though it involved him in anguish and frustration’. 23 It is no mean feat to attain a standard ink colour and maintain the correct pressure and fluid movement required to operate successfully a hand platen press. It is, of course, highly likely that he did not personally machine all the copies, but he was ultimately responsible for the results. The uneven character of this volume was, no doubt, due to his own mental turmoil.

Overall, one could say that any typographic authority these issues of Phoenix may have results from the fact that its printer thought about the decisions he made, even if he did not always make good decisions. The lack of suitable types, the punishing schedule set by demands upon his time, the absence of models close to home and the exigencies of his enthusiasms, mitigated against works of any degree of perfection. Lowry enjoyed the approval of his contemporaries and Keith Sinclair echoed the general feeling that ‘ [i]n Phoenix literary and typographic and artistic impulses were fortunate to meet’. 24 As referred to in the title of this article, Lowry certainly thought himself to be a typographical genius, and colleagues such as Ron Holloway and R. A. K. Mason forgave him much in recognition of the creative talent he possessed.

The most important point, though, when looking at typographic features of Phoenix is the necessity to analyse and evaluate the four issues as experiments within the context of what today might be called ‘a learning curve’. The typographical

renaissance which was flowering in other parts of the world had scarcely reached New Zealand and men like Lowry, who picked up the ideas of this or of the canons of Modernism, were left to their own devices, and remained dependent on their innate ingenuity. The legacy of the experiment of Phoenix, and its obvious influence upon his more polished, confident work of subsequent years, is the nature of the achievement. Everything that Phoenix was or was not, in terms of its design qualities, must be seen in this light.

Glossary crown quarto: a book size of 246x189 mm. demy octavo: a book size of 216x138 mm. em: the square of any type size, usually equal to the capital M. Also the name for the 12-point em (here referred to simply as ‘em’) which is 1/6 of an inch or 4 mm and is the standard unit for measuring the depth and width of a page.

face: refers here to the design of the font (i.e. typeface), though strictly denotes the printing surface of a type. font: the complete set of characters of one particular size and face of type. hair space: very thin spaces inserted between letters or words to achieve fine corrections in the visual appearance of type.

justify: to set blocks of type to an exact measure. laid: paper which shows parallel wire marks made during manufacture. In contradistinction, wove paper is made on a web in which the wires are woven. (un)leaded: leading is the space between lines. In letterpress, this consists of strips of lead of varying thicknesses. point: standard typographical measurement in which 72 points roughly equals 1 inch or 2.54 cm and 12 points equal 1 em.

recto: the right hand side of a two-page spread. river: unsightly string of spaces within text blocks when the extra spaces appear above and below each other. It results from over-spacing (sometimes to achieve justification). verso: the left hand side of a two-page spread, and the reverse of the recto.

Turnbull Library Record 34 (2001), 73-86

References 1 This article derives from a Master of Design thesis of the same title, which can be accessed through Massey University Library, Wellington. As it chronicles a large part of Lowry’s working life and includes a full set of illustrations, it provides a great deal more information about the scope of his work. The title is taken from Elsie Locke, Student at the gates (Christchurch: Whitcoulls, 1981), p. 76: ‘Bob was wont to say that he wasn’t a printer, he was a typographical genius’.

2 See Peter Hughes, “‘Sneers, jeers ... and red rantings”: Bob Lowry’s early printing at Auckland University College’, Turnbull Library Record, 22 (1) (May 1989), 5-31; and Stephen Hamilton, ‘The risen bird: Phoenix magazine, 1932-1933’, Turnbull Library Record, 30 (1997), 37-64. The focus of these articles is directed respectively more towards the chronological and literary aspects of Phoenix. Many details missing from the present article may be found in these. 3 Gulliver was an artist, engraver and part-time typographer working in Auckland at the time. Many examples of his work are in Lowry’s collection at Auckland University Library. Beaglehole is best known for his design work on the publications of the N.Z. Council for Educational Research, and the centennial and historical works from the Dept of Internal Affairs.

4 Both by A. R. D. Fairbum: The sky is a limpet (Devonport, Auckland: Phillips Press, 1939) and How to ride a bicycle in seventeen lovely colours (Auckland: Pelorus Press, 1946). 5 Lowry to Glover, 24 July 1932, Denis Glover, Papers, MS-Papers-0418-005, Alexander Turnbull Library, National Library of New Zealand, Wellington, New Zealand. Hereafter, references to this collection are identified by date and citation, ATL. 6 Denis Glover. ‘Bob Lowry’s books,’ Book 8 (August 1946), n.p. 7 Jan Tschichold. ‘Clay in the potter’s hand,’ Penrose annual review of the arts, 43 (1941), p. 22. 8 Ronald Holloway, ‘Remembering Bob Lowry’, Landfall 69, 18 (1) (March 1964), p. 55. 9 Lowry to Glover, 29 February 1932, MS-Papers-0418-005, ATL.

10 Lowry to Glover, 24 July 1932, MS-Papers-0418-005, ATL. 11 Glover, ‘Bob Lowry’s books’. In this article in Book 8 Glover analyses his friend’s typography in a variety of publications which cover Lowry’s range, yet he seems to damn them with faint, at times, fulsome praise. Dennis McEldowney comments wryly that this situation was ‘fairly common with masters and disciples’ (interview, 24 June 1998). Lowry was obviously pleased with the article, as the Pilgrim Press printed a copy of it in black and green on pale green laid paper, complete with decorative embellishments.

12 Hughes, ‘Sneers, jeers . . p. 12. 13 Bob Lowry, ‘ The book as a work of art ’, Preliminary notes from a lecture given to fine arts students at Elam, R. W. Lowry papers, MSS and Archives A-134, Auckland University Library. 14 Tibor Kalman, cited in Tony Heward, ‘Revivalism and cultural shift: British graphic design since 1945’, Design issues, 15 (3) (Autumn 1999), 17-33 (p. 30). 15 Nigella Lawson, ‘Why are the young so hooked on the past?’, The Times (London), 9 May 1995, p. 15. 16 Despite the wording, Phoenix never managed to be a quarterly magazine. 17 Otto Bettmann, ‘Elements of new German typography’, Penrose annual review of the arts, 32 (1930), 116-121 (p. 117).

18 Stanley Morison, First principles of typography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1951), p. 5. 19 Eric McCormick, ‘Patterns of culture’, Arts year book, 6 (1950), 45-54 (p. 49). 20 ‘Wait for me at Tuakau Station,’ he told Elsie Farrelly (Locke), ‘l’m going to cut and run.’ Elsie Locke, Student at the gates (Christchurch: Whitcoulls, 1981), p. 179. 21 Glover, ‘Bob Lowry’s books’.

22 Years later a Pelorus Press partner, Gordon Trigg, complained that ‘a job of printing was never returned because there was a point of spacing too much below the heading! ’ Information supplied by Robin Lush, letter to the author, 29 September 1999. 23 Robin Lush worked with Lowry over many years and in many presses. His assistance in telling the tale of Lowry’s working life has been invaluable. This comment was in a letter to the author, 23 November 1999. 24 Keith Sinclair, A history of the University of Auckland 1883-1983 (Auckland: Auckland University Press & Oxford University Press, 1983), p. 165.