A dead ringer for a calligrapher

My iPhone packed in a few days ago. One minute it was working, the next it wasn’t.

I tell a lie. Technically, it was working, because I could hear it ringing when someone tried to call me. And I could hear my various notifications arriving with a ding. But I couldn’t see anything, because the display refused to light up. The black screen of death, the Google doom-mongers called it. I didn’t like the sound of that.

I referred to dozens of YouTube videos, all offering the same few suggestions on how to fix the problem. Following their advice I pressed various buttons in various permutations. But although this technique worked successfully for the YouTubers and their many followers, my screen remained stubbornly black.

I hadn’t realised how dependent I was on the phone until I was denied access to everything that was on it. News headlines, train timetables, diary appointments, weather forecasts, football results, texts, photos, camera. I couldn’t even make an old-fashioned phone call. Everything that made my life worth living was suddenly inaccessible to me, and I felt empty inside. I was lost without my phone, and I wandered aimlessly around my home. My mood dipped, my temper was frayed at the edges. I had only been phoneless for a few hours, but already I was suffering from withdrawal symptoms.

Every ten minutes or so I pressed the phone’s home button, just in case it would miraculously perk up. I was in denial, acting out Einstein’s quote, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. You never know, I told myself. But, in my heart, I knew.

Early the next morning I took my iPhone to the Genius Bar of my local Apple Store for advice. Julie, the young assistant who was allocated my case, was amicable. She put me at ease with small talk.

“Are you going anywhere nice after this?” she asked me, while performing a diagnostic check on my phone.

“I’m actually going to a local university to write names on parchments,” I told her.

She looked at me blankly.

“I’m a calligrapher,” I explained.

“Oh… a calligrapher?” She regarded me with the same curiosity that she might normally reserve for a fossil. I think she was surprised that people in my line of work still existed.

“I tried calligraphy once,” she said, frowning. She raised her hand and performed a little air-writing in the space between us with her invisible pen. “It’s harder than it looks,” she admitted.

I didn’t bother revealing that, having taught calligraphy for three decades, I’d heard those five words repeated by almost every student I had ever taught. Sometimes by people I hadn’t taught. And each and every one of them wasn’t wrong.

“Do you have hundreds of names to write?” Julie asked.

“Actually, only a few,” I replied. “I’m inscribing the names of the recipients of honorary degrees. There aren’t many of those.”

“Do you mean famous people?” she asked.

“Some of them are famous. Not all.”

“What famous names have you written?”

This was becoming a proper little interrogation.

I attempted to remember famous names that I’d written, but my mind had gone totally blank.

I suddenly remembered someone. Someone relatively famous. Someone who would surely impress Julie. What were the chances of me remembering this particular person while sitting in an Apple Store? The only problem was… although I could see the person’s face clearly in my mind’s eye, I couldn’t remember their actual name. I wasn’t oblivious to the irony.

I threw it out there anyway.

“A few years ago I inscribed the name of the guy who took over from Steve Jobs,” I said.

“Tim Cook?” she proposed.

“That’s him,” I replied.

I was confident that Cook’s name would excite her. After all, what were the chances of Julie, an Apple technician, sitting here in an Apple Store checking the Apple iPhone of the guy who wrote the name of the Apple CEO on an honorary degree parchment? That was a lot of Apple in a very small space. A cartload of Apple. The odds of such an occurrence must be millions to one. Even I was astonished at the serendipity.

“That’s interesting,” Julie said, although I could tell that she didn’t really think it was. Her focus remained on the diagnostic screen.

“Ahhh… your phone’s display needs replaced,” she suddenly said, moving away. “Wait here and I’ll get a price for you.”

She returned a few minutes later. I doubted very much that, during her absence, she’d excitedly shared my Tim Cook revelation with her colleagues around the water cooler.

“Fitting a replacement screen will be £159.00,” she said. That includes a 90 day warranty.

After recovering from the shock of the quote, I was tempted to ask for a discount, since her CEO and I shared a (some might say slight) connection.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, reclaiming my useless phone.

By the time I reached the store’s exit I’d already thought about it. So I walked around the corner to a small phone repair store and requested a second opinion.

“It’s £70.00 to replace your display,” said the assistant, “with a twelve month warranty.”

It was less than half of Apple’s price, with the bonus of an extra nine months warranty.

“I’m happy with that, Tom,” I said, reading his name aloud from the tag around his neck.

Tom was friendly enough while he took my details, but he didn’t share Julie’s love of small talk. Unlike her, he didn’t ask me if I was going anywhere nice after this, so he never found out that he was fixing the phone of a calligrapher. Consequently, I never discovered if he’d tried calligraphy once and realised it was harder than it looked.

“Come back in an hour and your phone will be ready,” he said.

I did. And it was.

I picked up my phone and pressed the home button. The shiny new screen lit up and its brightness comforted me. As I pondered which app to open first, I felt a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

My phone was fully functional again. And so was I.

****************

I have no affiliation with the phone store that repaired my iPhone, and it’s not my intention to promote it. But, for anyone who’s interested, the company is called SimplyFixIt. I can honestly report that the technician there did an expert job of giving me my life back.

****************

For the technically-minded, I hand-lettered the Richard Branson quote in the artwork above using a black Tombow Fudenosuke brush pen with a hard tip. I scanned the black lettering into Photoshop, made the background transparent, and coloured the lettering white. I applied a subtle drop shadow to the lettering before layering it in front of a digitised watercolour wash. Finally, I saved the artwork as a JPG.

Is that an ampersand, or a wee fat man carryin’ a tray?

I was recently asked to teach calligraphy to a group of elderly women. They belonged to a morning club and were working their way through two-hour taster sessions of various crafts. Calligraphy was next on their list, and I had been given the job of promoting it.

The class was due to start at 10:00am, but I arrived early to familiarise myself with the venue. I also wanted to familiarise myself with Jessie, one of the club members, who (I’d been told) had a reputation for being a bit of a handful.

“Watch out for Jessie,” my supervisor had warned me. “She’s 94 years old and only five foot tall, but by twenty past ten she’ll make you want to scream.”

I shrugged off the threat. My supervisor was surely over-reacting. How much of a handful could a 94 year old, five foot tall woman be?

At 10:00am I was prepared to begin my introduction, but the class members were nowhere to be seen. The sound of raised voices led me to the kitchen where I discovered Jessie accusing her fellow club members of fiddling the tea fund.

“It’s 28 pence short,” she alleged, “and naebody’s goin’ anywhere tae the thief owns up.”

I offered to donate 28 pence of my own money, a small price to pay to get the calligraphy lesson on track, but Jessie casually waved away my benevolence. It appeared to me that she was actually enjoying the conflict. Eventually, at her insistence, enough short change was plundered from various pockets and purses to make up the shortfall.

The lesson was further delayed while we all waited for the kettle to boil. I got the impression that the group members wouldn’t function properly until they had a mug of steaming tea at their lips. Eventually, at 10:15am, with the PG Tips poured and the Jammy Dodgers and Chocolate Digestives distributed, I introduced myself and explained the aim of the class.

“Any questions?” I asked, when I had finished speaking.

A single hand shot into the air.

“Yes, Jessie?”

“Can you go over a’ that again, son,” she said. “Ah didnae get it… mibbe because ah forgot tae turn up mah hearin’ aid.”

“What in particular didn’t you get?” I asked.

“Whit is calligraphy again, son?”

I glanced at my watch.

“Calligraphy is fancy writing,” I said, dumbing down for the sake of efficiency.

“Well, ah dinnae really fancy doin’ fancy writin’,” Jessie replied. “No really mah thing, is it? But you’ve selt yerself well, son, so ah’ll gie it a go.”

Having gained Jessie’s consent, I drew two parallel horizontal lines on the whiteboard, guidelines that would contain the letters I was about to create. I heard murmurs of discontent and turned around to see Jessie shaking her head in frustration.

“That’s nae use, son,” she complained. “There’s too much reflection on the board. Yer wastin’ yer time cos all ah can see are two lines.”

“That’s because I’ve only drawn two lines,” I replied. “There’s nothing else on the board to see.”

“Well, mibbe it’s mah cataracts, son, but ah can assure you ah can only see two lines.”

Unfazed, I constructed a few calligraphic letters between the lines.

“Can you see those letters, Jessie?”

“Whit’s that squiggly thing?” she asked.

“That?”

“Aye, that.”

“It’s an ampersand.”

“Whit’s an ampersand?”

“It takes the place of ‘and’.”

“Well why no jist write ‘and’ then?”

“Errr…”

“Anyway, to me it looks like a wee fat man carryin’ a tray.”

In all my years of teaching calligraphy I had never heard an ampersand described as a wee fat man carrying a tray. I considered the comparison awhile, reappraising my ampersand in an attempt to see what Jessie saw, but I was flummoxed. I cocked my head, this way and that, but failed to see either a wee fat man or the tray he was carrying.

“Dae ye see him noo, son?”

“Errr… actually, no I don’t.”

“Ah can see it,” said a voice from the back.

“You can?” I asked, incredulous.

“So can ah,” said another.

I stepped back, had another look at the ampersand, but I was at a loss. Gradually, one by one, the entire group confirmed that I had just drawn a wee fat man carrying a tray. I appeared to be witnessing a communal hallucination. In the same way that some people look at clouds and see faces, everyone in the room, except me, was looking at a calligraphic ampersand and seeing a wee fat man carrying a tray.

“Mibbe he’s goin’ up to the bar tae get the drinks in,” Jessie suggested. Going by the whooping and hollering that followed, it seemed like the wee fat man had already served each of the ladies a few glasses of Prosecco.

In an effort to stem the hilarity I handed out calligraphy pens and explained that, in order to achieve thick and thin calligraphic strokes, the pen had to be held at a 45 degree angle.

“Whit’s a 45 degree angle?” asked Jessie.

I drew a simple right angle on the board and halved it diagonally. I indicated the dividing line. “That’s a 45 degree angle.”

“That’s no easy, son,” Jessie said. “Any chance ah could borrow a protractor?”

“The angle doesn’t have to be exactly 45 degrees, ” I replied. “You don’t need a protractor. Just approximate the angle”.

“Well ah’m doing mah best, son, but ah’m finding it awfy complicated. Ah’ve got a Bic in mah handbag. Can ah write wi’ that instead?”

“A Bic will only give you thin strokes,” I explained.

“Well, that suits me son, cos, to be honest, ah’m no that fussy on they thick strokes. Plus, ah can fit more writin’ on the page without them.”

Although I couldn’t dispute her logic, I took time to show Jessie how to hold the pen at the correct angle. Despite her earlier reservations, after a few minutes she appeared to be deeply engrossed in her letter-making.

“So, Jessie,” I said, attempting to win her over, “are you enjoying calligraphy now? It’s quite therapeutic, isn’t it?”

Grudgingly, she dragged her attention from her lettering and stared at me through slitted eyes.

“Well, it was therapeutic until you interrupted me,” she replied.

Again, I accepted that, logically, she had a point.

“I’m going to sit with each of you in turn,” I told the group. “To see how you’re all getting on.”

Immediately, Jessie patted the empty seat by her side. “Sit here wi me, son,” she said. “Ah’m claimin’ ye first. Getting’ in before that lot.”

As I sat, she dragged a hand-made card from an envelope and offered it to me.

“See whit ah made, son.”

She leaned back proudly while I accepted the card and studied it. I expected it to feature a few words of calligraphy, an indication that she was using her new lettering skills constructively, but the front of the card was bereft of text. Unexpectedly, it featured a decoupaged trio of can-can dancers, complete with high-kicking legs and frilly garters encircling exposed thighs.

“Whit dae ye think, son?”

“Very nice,” I replied, struggling to be constructive. “I like the colours.”

“Aye, but whit aboot the dancers, son?” She chuckled mischievously. “Dae ye like them?”

“I do like them,” I said, flushing slightly. “You made a great job of cutting them out.”

She wallowed in my discomfort awhile then, mission accomplished, removed the card from my hand and replaced it in its envelope. By that point I felt like I was taking part in an initiation ceremony of sorts, and wondered how many previous tutors had been systematically deconstructed by Jessie.

At 11:55, with five minutes to go before the official end of the class, I had sat beside every student twice, except for Jessie, who’s second turn I had somehow missed. She stood up, placed her hands on her hips and got me in her sights.

“So ah take it ah’ve forfeitit mah second shot then?” she said, the smell of Wrigley’s spearmint gum wafting on her breath. She wagged her calligraphy pen in my face, as if to say, ah’ve got the measure of you, pal.

I smiled nervously, waiting for her to smile back. She didn’t.

“Eh? Are you tellin’ me ah’ve forfeitit mah second shot, son?” she snarled, chewing her gum vigourously.

“No, no,” I replied, keen to prevent a scene. “I’ll come and see you right now.”

I began to walk in her direction, but she raised a hand, stopped me in my tracks.

“Well, here’s a bit of advice for ye, son,” she said. “If you intend tae get roon everybody twice in two hoors, yer gonnie hiv tae start a bit earlier, aren’t ye?”

“Yes, I am,” I replied, too intimidated to remind her that the reason I’d run out of time was due to her accusation that the tea fund had been fiddled. Not to mention further delay while the kettle boiled.

At midday, to my relief, fifteen elderly women packed away their pens and paper. It had been a challenge, but I somehow made it through the two allocated hours. A few compliments came my way as the women said goodbye and began to file through the exit. I was disappointed when Jessie disappeared without a farewell. I guessed that she had been right after all, when she told me that calligraphy wasn’t really her thing.

She surprised me by suddenly reappearing in the room. I couldn’t help but notice that she’d applied some scarlet lipstick.

“Oh Jessie,” said one of her classmates. “Look at you wi yer lipstick oan. Aye, well seein’ there’s a man aboot.”

“Och,” said Jessie, her unblinking eyes studying me. “That’s jist a coincidence, hen. Ah’m no lookin’ fur a man at mah age.”

Despite her denial, she sidled up to me.

“Ah was just wonderin’, son, do ye dae private lessons in folk’s hooses? Cos if ye dae ah might jist hire ye for a couple o’ sessions.”

“Not usually, Jessie,” I replied. “But for you I’ll make an exception.”

She grinned, apparently happy with my response.

“Ah enjoyed this mornin’, son,” she said.

“I enjoyed it too,” I replied. And I meant it.

Jessie winked at me and walked away.

“We’ll have ye back, son,” she called from the doorway. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“I look forward to it,” I called back. I felt a sense of achievement. It appeared that I’d not only survived Jessie, I’d somehow won her approval.

Screen printing was the following week‘s taster session… I saw the poster as I left the building.

With a view to averting potential damage to the tutor’s mental state, I considered leaving a cautionary note.

Then I decided against it. Jessie should have her fun. Who was I to deny her that?

Ampersand, calligraphy challenge, calligraphy class, calligraphy humour, cpourful character, scottish accent, Teaching calligraphy

The dog walking by my side is not mine!

I love being a calligrapher, but spending eight hours a day sitting at a drawing board is definitely not good for my waistline (neither are my beloved pies and beer, but that’s another post for another time).

With my weight on the increase, I decided that it was time to get some exercise in. So lately I’ve been stealing time every morning, rising at 6.00am and walking for a couple of hours before I start work. I was amazed to find that I can cover eight miles in that time if I don’t loiter at cake shop windows.

A favourite walk of mine is around a local loch, so that’s where I headed this morning.

Following a tree-lined path, I found myself catching up on a dog that was straggling behind its owner, an elderly man, who was a fair distance ahead. Suddenly, to my horror, right in front of me, the dog stopped and lowered its back-end to do its doggie-business. Its owner walked on, oblivious.

Three things then happened simultaneously…

1) The dog’s owner disappeared around a bend that was just ahead of me, leaving me and his dog looking conspicuously cosy together…

2) A different dog walker appeared, coming around the bend towards me. His eyes fastened, first on the defecating dog, then on me…

3) The dog finished its business and attached itself to my side, merrily matching my stride as we left a pile of poop in our wake.

The approaching dog walker stopped and glared at me, a look of pure disgust on his face. He was standing about two feet in front of me, so I had approximately three seconds to make an excuse to distance myself from the situation (and from my new canine buddy).

My mind was racing, trying to formulate a way to proclaim my innocence. What to say?

Do I turn around and start walking, sans dog, in the direction from whence I came?

Do I shake my head and exclaim, pathetically, “You won’t believe this, but the dog walking by my side is not mine.”

Do I grit my teeth and apologise profusely, pretending that I left my poo bags on the kitchen worktop?

Too slow, I ran out of time and said nothing. As I sidled past the glaring dog walker, my new friend by my side, I felt his eyes boring into my back. I walked on, head down, cursing my luck and my ineptitude.

Typically, the moment I disappeared around the bend, the dog deserted me, bounding off towards its owner. I felt used.

Despite my innocence, I’m now probably on a list of inconsiderate dog owners, and will no doubt be reported for my alleged misdeed.

When I next walk around the loch, I expect the police will be waiting for me behind a bush.

“DOG-CRAP CALLIGRAPHER IN CUSTODY,” the headline of my local newspaper will scream, making people ponder the quality of my penmanship.

As a precaution, I’ll carry some poo bags. My livelihood may depend on them.

****************************************

The watercolour background in my penned quote above is a free sample available from every-tuesday.com. It’s definitely a site worth checking out.

Why Write? Penmanship for the 21st Century

After (shamefully) not writing any new posts for six months, here I am writing my second post in a single day. I’m on a roll!

I’m writing this second post to counter the negative sentiments of my earlier post, “Ink – Written by Hand,” in which I wrote about the future of handwriting appearing to be in jeopardy. This second post offers a more positive outlook.

After writing the first post, I was following some related links when I found myself on the Beyond Calligraphy Facebook page. Although Beyond Calligraphy is chiefly about Asian calligraphy, among its posts I discovered an amazing TEDx MileHigh Talk called Why Write? Penmanship for the 21st Century, given by Jake Weidmann, who I’d never heard of.

While watching the video (watch it at the top of this post), I learned that Jake is the youngest person to achieve the title of Master Penman, one of only twelve in the world. As such, he has much to say in support of the humble pen.

He begins his talk by sharing his fears for penmanship, when he says about the pen, “for the first time in history the value of this amazing tool hangs in the balance.” And he reveals, shockingly, that 41 out of 50 states in the US no longer require handwriting to be a fundamental part of their curriculum.

But then he takes a more positive stance when he states, “the pen is… the baton passed from one generation to the next.”

He adds, “I believe that typing is a very fundamental tool that children need to learn. However, they should not be learning it at the expense of handwriting.” This comment received the most favourable audience reaction of his entire talk.

He went on to say, “It is not technology that is the direct enemy of the pen, it is our dependency on technology. And the greater we grow our dependency on technology, what we may soon find is that we’ve created the most technologically-advanced way of creating illiteracy.”

For those in the audience who had given up on good penmanship, Jake had a few words of advice. “To those of you who say, ‘my penmanship has sailed and sunk… I write in chicken-scratch,’ let me encourage you a bit.” Then, to the backdrop of a monochrome photograph of a handless man and a fine example of ornamental script, Jake stated, “this is JC Ryan, The Handless Penman, a man without hands who made his living from penmanship. Any more excuses?”

Jake’s talk is, in turn, educational, thought-proving, inspiring and humorous. Watch the video and hopefully, like me, you will be enthused by Jake’s passion for penmanship and you’ll believe that there may be hope for the future of handwriting after all.

Jake concluded his talk on penmanship with a promise. “More than a form of writing or a communication, this is an art form for me and, as an artist and as a master penman, it is my goal to see that it lives on to see the dawn of a new generation.”

A few hours ago I was writing about the demise of handwriting, and I hadn’t a clue who Jake Weidmann is. Now I know. He’s the youngest ever Master Penman, an expert speaker, and quite possibly the saviour of penmanship.

Ink – Written by Hand (a short film about handwriting)

I’m grateful to my son, David, a designer, who regularly sends me links to interesting calligraphy-related items. Despite being a non-calligrapher, David has a knack of discovering calligraphic gems that I somehow remain oblivious to.

He recently pointed me in the direction of ‘Ink – Written by Hand,’ a short film about handwriting by filmmaker/cinematographer, Ryan Couldrey (watch the video above).

Ryan filmed Tanja Tiziana, a freelance photographer from Toronto, Canada, on her short journey to rediscover the written word. The resultant film is a beautifully-shot, nostalgic glimpse into the lost art of handwriting, which will appeal to anyone who has an interest in lettering.

During the film, Tanja states that since most children now own a smart phone or tablet, they are more likely to text a message than to pick up a pen and write it longhand.

“It’s wild to think that, as an art-form, (handwriting is) completely lost to a generation,” she concludes.

Personally, I have difficulty comprehending the possibility that future generations will not discover the joy of putting pen to paper. In a previous post, the demise of handwriting in schools, I attempted to remain optimistic about the future of children’s handwriting. But reluctantly, and resignedly, I have to accept that Tanja’s view is more realistic than mine… that one day handwriting will become extinct.

Hopefully, that day is a long way off!

***

Immediately after writing this post, I discovered a comment on a blog about handwriting. The comment reads as follows…

“It genuinely saddens me and a host of others that cursive/italics is no longer taught in a majority of schools. My mom, who has terrific penmanship, wrote a birthday card to my 16 year old daughter. Daughter texted me a photo of the card and asked me to translate it for her.”

Oh dear! Lets all hope that, in terms of the next generation, the daughter is the exception rather than the rule.

***

If you liked the video above, you will also enjoy ‘Ink Spills’ (extended interview clips) here.

Find out more about Ryan Couldrey, and watch some of his other short films, on his website.

And finally, for anyone who is interested, the nib that Tanja used to write the final credits is a Nikko G.

Ingenious Impressions: The Coming of the Book exhibition

In a previous post, I reflected on my response to being told, “calligraphy?… computers can do that!”

A current major exhibition in Glasgow has made me consider how medieval scribes would have reacted to being told, “calligraphy?… a printing press can do that.”

The scribes surely cursed Johannes Gutenberg for perfecting the revolutionary technique of printing by moveable type, and for bringing an end to an era of hand-lettered manuscripts.

The exhibition, Ingenious Impressions: The Coming of the Book, explores how the invention of mechanical printing impacted on late medieval society. It charts the development of the early printed book in Europe, showing how printing revolutionised book making, and was instrumental in the emergence of the Renaissance.

There are a number of key themes, including the transition from scribal to print culture, the design, decoration and illustration of the earliest printed books, and the technology and challenges of printing. There are also demonstrations on a replica 15th century printing press.

I assume that, with the advent of mechanical printing, the majority of scribes would have found their services gradually dispensed with in the mid 15th century. But it’s heartening to know that during the early years of printing, the same artists who provided illuminated decoration in manuscripts were employed to illustrate printed books, a space having been left on the pages for them to add illustrations by hand.

Eventually, as featured in the exhibition, woodcuts were used to provide illustration on the printed page so, despite being granted a reprieve, these talented artists inevitably followed the same fate as their fellow scribes.

This fascinating exhibition is being held in The Hunterian Art Gallery, within the University of Glasgow, and runs from 27 February till 21 June 2015. It is open daily, except Mondays. Admission is free. More information is available here.

There are various related events taking place throughout the term of the exhibition, but I was drawn to the title of one event in particular. Considering it is part of an exhibition about 15th century printing, Johnny Depp and Old Books: Incunabula in the Movies definitely caught my attention. If you are as curious as I am about the subject matter, maybe I’ll see you in The Hunterian on 27 May.

If you live in central Scotland, or are willing to travel, then I would definitely recommend visiting Ingenious Impressions: The Coming of the Book.

The exhibition had initially slipped under my radar, so I’m grateful to Phil, one of my intermediate calligraphy students, for bringing it to my attention. Thank you Phil… just one instance of the teacher learning from the student!

Call your mom, call your dad…

 

The Oscars ceremony does nothing for me, so I tend to avoid all Oscar-related media coverage.

I was intrigued, however, by a featured post on the popular blog, Mashable, entitled, “7 inspiring and emotional Oscars quotes from backstage and onstage.”

I’m a sucker for a topical quote, so I decided to check out the post.

Up to that point I had never heard of J K Simmons, winner of Best Supporting Actor for her part in Whiplash (call me out of touch, but I’ve never heard of Whiplash either).

Out of the seven quotes, the one attributed to Simmons was the only one that struck a chord with me. Here it is, as posted on Mashable…

“And if I may, call your mom, everybody. I’ve told this [to], like, a billion people, or so. Call your mom, call your dad. If you’re lucky enough to have a parent or two alive on this planet, call ‘em. Don’t text. Don’t email. Call them on the phone. Tell ‘em you love ‘em, and thank them, and listen to them for as long as they want to talk to you. Thank you. Thank you, Mom and Dad.”

Yep… I know… actor thanks mom and dad for her Oscar success. Hardly original. But the sentiments at the heart of Simmons’ quote struck a chord with me. Maybe, because I regret not having called my own mother more often while she was, in Simmons’ words, “alive on this planet.”

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, whenever I read words that affect me I’m compelled to fetch my pens and write… and so I lettered an abridged version of Simmons’ quote which I’ve featured at the top of this post (or see it here on Flickr). I’m not sure where this compulsion to write particular words comes from… maybe, by writing them, I feel that I’m endorsing the sentiments, sealing them with my own stamp of approval. Or maybe I’m just passionate about putting pen to paper.

But enough about me. Instead, pay heed to Simmons. As soon as you finish reading this post, get on the phone and “call your mom, call your dad,” while you still can.

I just realised that in my previous post I was advising everyone to write for the sake of their children. Now I’m advising everyone to call their parents.

Despite how it looks, I have no intention of pursuing a career in counselling. I’m a calligrapher. Through and through. And you can quote me on that!

 

Handwriting: so much more than a means of communication

My recent post, The demise of handwriting in schools, prompted a comment from Clare, a former calligraphy student of mine. In her comment, Clare wrote at length in support of handwriting. In particular, she shared a story about how moved she was when, many years after her father passed away, she rediscovered a hand-written letter that she had received from him years before. She explained that on re-reading her father’s letter, his handwriting made her feel very close to him.

In her own words, Clare wrote, “it moved me more than anything else could, because for that moment he was with me. Letters on the paper physically written by someone who is no longer here… a special link to him, I felt a little bit of him.”

Beautifully written, and very moving. And I know exactly how Clare felt, because a few years ago I had an almost identical experience.

A few months after my elderly mother passed away, I was leafing through some old photograph albums of hers. Hidden between two pages, like a long-forgotten bookmark, was a creased and faded white envelope, inside which was a folded piece of ruled notebook paper. On opening the paper I discovered a short handwritten poem, and instantly recognised the handwriting as my mother’s. I was overjoyed, because that poem is the only surviving example of her handwriting.

My mother’s handwritten poem

As my eyes traced her neat lines of script, I experienced a strange sensation that is difficult to describe… a heightened sense of my mother, almost as if I could reach out and touch her. I wasn’t even making sense of the words, so my sensation had nothing to do with legibility or the sentiments of the poem. It was the comforting familiarity of my mother’s handwriting that was emotionally affecting me. The looping, curling letters were so recognisably hers, were such an integral part of her, that I momentarily felt an overwhelming closeness to her. There was nothing religious about the experience. But it was unforgettable.

I can only assume that, many years ago, my mother saw the poem in a book or magazine and liked it so much that she decided to make a copy of it. Without the aid of technology, she had no choice but to write it out by hand. Nowadays, no-one would take the time to do that. Even I, a calligrapher, will scan, photograph, or type a section of text that I want to duplicate for reference. All in the name of efficiency. Yet, if my mother had used a typewriter to make a copy of the poem, the resultant block of text would have been sterile, and would not have affected me in the way her handwriting did. So, I’m grateful that she wrote the poem by hand. And I’m pleased that, for whatever reason, she slipped it between the pages of her photograph album, unwittingly allowing me to discover that hidden treasure so many years later.

Both Clare and I shared something very special because of simple handwriting, in that it brought us closer to our late parents. It would be a shame, then, if the doom-mongers are right, that handwriting will eventually become a forgotten skill. To prevent that possibility, we all need to write. If only to allow our children to feel a little closer to us in our absence, to remind them of the person we once were.

Needless to say, it’s not the quality of our writing that’s important. We’re not attempting calligraphy. It’s simple handwriting. All we need to do is push the pen around awhile. Be ourselves. Just write. Ultimately, that’s all that matters.

Snow is such an amazement

Well, the forecasters promised snow, and they didn’t disappoint. A four inch blanket of the white stuff settled on my garden overnight.

So this morning, before it was even light, I was all wrapped-up in my winter woollies and outside in the freezing cold, clearing my path and driveway with my brand new, just-out-of-the-wrapper, snow shovel. The neighbours surely thought I was mad, shovelling away in the pitch-blackness. But I had paid good money for the shovel, and I was determined to put it through its paces before the snow thawed of its own accord.

Completely hidden under a thick layer of snow, my wife’s car resembled an igloo on wheels. Since she would soon be leaving for work, I morphed into dutiful husband mode and unburied it for her. After ten minutes of effort, breathless and bent double with exertion, I watched her slide effortlessly into the driver’s seat, and turn the ignition.

The original photo.

“Thanks for scraping my car,” she said, matter of fact, as if I had removed a slight dusting of frost from her windscreen. The words ‘hero,’ and ‘unsung,’ sprang to mind. As she reversed out of the drive, she waved goodbye. Still breathless I tried, but failed, to summon the energy to wave back.

By the time the sun eventually rose, my home was a snow-free zone and I rewarded myself by walking to a nearby country park, where I hoped to snap some winter scenes on my iPhone. I arrived at the park early enough to discover that many of the snow-covered paths around the loch remained free of footsteps. I was delighted, as I think there is something really satisfying about being the first to tread a path through virgin snow.

As I walked, I noticed a little snow-covered bridge up ahead, under a canopy of trees, and realised immediately that it was the perfect image to which I could add a calligraphic quotation (I’m a sad person… I know). From experience, I know that taking photographs as backgrounds for my calligraphy is different from normal photography, in that it’s essential to incorporate a blank space in the composition to contain the calligraphy that will be added later. I knew instantly that a small area of untrodden snow in front of the bridge would work perfectly.

I used an amazing app called Waterlogue, that is installed on both my iPhone and iPad, to create a watercolour painting from my bridge photo. I have tried many similar apps to get a watercolour effect on my photos, but Waterlogue is by far the best. The results are spectacular, and I can highly recommend the app if, like me, you love watercolours but can’t paint to save yourself.

With the “Waterlogue” effect applied.

I then did a quick Google search for an appropriate quotation about snow. I loved the following quotation, by Carol Rifka Brunt:

“… there’s just something beautiful about walking on snow that nobody else has walked on. It makes you believe you’re special, even though you know you’re not,” 

The sentiments are perfect but, unfortunately, it was too long to comfortably fit into the allocated space.

Instead, I chose, “The very fact of snow is such an amazement,” by Roger Ebert. Short and sweet!

After lettering the quotation in black ink, I scanned it into Adobe Photoshop and inserted it onto a layer on top of my ‘watercolour’ image. I then experimented with the size of the lettering, and tinkered with its position until I was happy with the composition. Finally, I sampled a darkish blue from the background and used it to colour the calligraphy. The finished artwork is featured at the top of this post.

All in all, it has been a perfect morning. Walking in beautiful scenery, photography, calligraphy, Photoshopping, blogging, and road-testing my brand new snow shovel.

This might just be as good as life gets!

Calligraphy? Computers can do that!

Calligraphy (that proved inspirational to me) by Tom Barnard

Back in 1986, calligraphy was no more than a hobby to me. But even though I wasn’t particularly proficient, I had a passion for the craft, and had already decided that I wanted to be a full-time calligrapher.

That year, I remember walking into an art store in Glasgow, and there, unexpectedly demonstrating calligraphy in the centre of the store, was Tom Barnard. I was familiar with Barnard, since I owned Making Calligraphy Work For You, an Osmiroid book that he co-wrote with Christopher Jarman. But I had never expected to meet him, or any other “real” calligrapher, in the flesh.

I took the opportunity to chat to him, and mentioned how much I wanted to pursue his choice of career. He put down his pen, looked at me sympathetically, and said (and I remember his words so vividly), “I can count on the fingers of one hand how many calligraphers make a full-time wage from calligraphy in the UK.”

I’m sure he wasn’t trying to demoralise me, or put me off following my dream. I think his intention was to simply advise me that such a career path wouldn’t be an easy one (on reflection, true). And that I would never find myself in a high income bracket (also, true).

SSI address beautifully written for me by Tom Barnard

Possibly to soften the blow of his candidness, Barnard wrote down the address of the Society of Scribes and Illuminators for me, so that I could enquire about lay membership. He also gave me a signed A4 page of calligraphy that he created right in front of my eyes (which I still possess, and have featured above). I remember he used an Osmiroid pen, loaded with green ink, and I was mesmerised by his effortless letter-making and flourishing. Rather than dampen my enthusiasm, he inspired me with his expertise. And despite his honest advice, I was more determined than ever to be a professional calligrapher, like him.

But turning my dream into a reality proved difficult, since very few people appeared to need/want the services of a novice calligrapher in the mid-eighties. And throughout those fruitless early weeks and months I became disheartened, and was constantly reminded of Barnard’s candid advice.

There appeared to be a stock response from almost everyone I approached in my quest for commissions. “Computers can do that,” I was told, again and again. Folk appeared to be bemused because I was actually choosing to write text by hand, rather than type it on a keyboard. They simply didn’t get it, and so I fought calligraphy’s corner. Again and again. Yet, despite my protestations, and my efforts at enlightening the disbelievers, I failed to change this widespread ignorance towards calligraphy. Only a discerning minority appreciated that hand-lettering, when well-done, is so much more impressive than sterile computer fonts.

Even when, decades later, I began to use my Apple iMac to create digital calligraphy, the computer was only a tool in the process. The computer didn’t create the actual calligraphy… I did, with my own fingers, using pen and ink! So in terms of creating calligraphy, in my opinion, computers still couldn’t “do that.” And I was convinced that would always be the case.

Then, a few days ago, my son sent me a video. As I watched it, I couldn’t help but smile knowingly. After almost three decades of telling anyone who would listen that computers cannot do calligraphy, suddenly it appeared that they can.

The video features a computerised machine that holds an ordinary pen like a human, and mimics various styles of handwriting and calligraphy. The machine even varies the size and shapes of characters for added realism, as you can see in the video below…

 

Pretty impressive, eh?

But despite the fact that I now have to grudgingly accept that computers CAN do calligraphy, there are quite a few missing ingredients, such as passion, personality, individuality and a little (controlled) imperfection. Calligraphy is so much more than simple letter-making.

Maybe if, someday, I hear that a computer has put down its pen to give honest advice to a keen young incipient scribe, I’ll step aside to make way for this brand new breed of calligraphers.

But, somehow, I think that day is a long way off.

Find out more about the computerised calligraphy-creating machines at Sploid.