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.

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.

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!

 

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.

The inky fingers of Pokras Lampas

It’s an occupational hazard for calligraphers, but although I’ve had a few inky fingers in my time, I’ve managed to avoid getting myself quite as messy as Pokras Lampas (above), an incredibly talented, and incredibly young, Russian artist-calligrapher.

But I shouldn’t be too smug about keeping my hands cleaner than Pokras, since I’ve never attempted a piece of calligraphy on the scale of his recent project, a live calligraphy performance lasting three hours.

On the website Fubiz you can see photographs from the event, described as…

“The Russian artist calligrapher Pokras Lampas in collaboration with Nike Russia during Moscow Vogue Fashion Week delivered a 3-hour long live calligraphy performance about the history of the Air Force 1, using different brushes and markers.”

If you take a look, prepare to be impressed.

You can see further examples of Pokras’ lettering, including a video, here. The video shows body-painting on scantily-clad models, so may not be for everyone!

My own work for today is much more modest than a three hour live performance. I’m inscribing a bride’s wedding stationery, so vigilance is essential. Misplaced ink is something I daren’t even think about.

Wishful inking, indeed!

The demise of handwriting in schools… my opinion (well, sort of).

Mid-November, I received a phone call from a journalist from a popular Scottish tabloid. He explained that he was preparing an article about the demise of handwriting in schools and, since I am a calligrapher, he was interested in finding out my views on the topic.

Since I teach calligraphy, and have also taught handwriting, it’s obvious where my alliance lies, and I would have been happy to simply write a few paragraphs for him, (not only in support of handwriting for school pupils, but for adults too), but he opted instead for a question and answer session.

As his interrogation progressed, I got into the swing. I attempted to be interesting and amusing in my responses, offering anecdotes and personal experiences related to handwriting. After around ten minutes the journalist thanked me for my contribution and explained that the article would be published the following day.

“You’ll need to buy a copy of the paper,” said my wife, but I didn’t agree. I was more than familiar with my own opinion on the demise of handwriting, so why would I want to pay to discover what was already there inside my head.

As it turned out, I’m glad I didn’t buy a copy, since the article didn’t get published. I only found that out by surreptitiously leafing through a copy of the paper in my local Tesco. I wasn’t particularly disappointed by the article’s absence, so I put the experience to the back of my mind and moved on.

Then, the week before Christmas, I unexpectedly received an email from the journalist. He confirmed that, after a delay, the handwriting article would definitely be published on December 21st, the final Sunday before Christmas.

Needless to say, this news necessitated a further visit to Tesco for a sneak preview. I leafed through the newspaper, and there, on page 14, was an article entitled, “They think it’s scrawl over.”

As before, I intended to read the entire article for free, but it was a full page spread, and my loitering was obstructing genuine newspaper-purchasers who tut-tutted me into submission. I reluctantly parted with my 80p, headed home, and settled down to refresh myself on my own views about handwriting.

The premise of the article was that handwriting was becoming obsolete with the texting generation. It posed the question, “Do pupils’ illegible answers mean it’s time to axe written exams for tests on screens?” And there, halfway down the page, was a thumbnail-sized photo of yours truly, next to a large “NO,” with my views printed alongside. There was also a large “YES,” next to a photo of someone who totally disagreed with me. There I was, in print, at loggerheads with a complete stranger. I hadn’t expected the article to be presented in such a combative format. Nor had I expected my views to be be portrayed as if actually penned by me, and not the journalist.

But I didn’t write that, was all I could think of as I read the article.

Without the context of the journalist’s questions, my answers had become little more than a list of fragmented bullet points. The sentences were short, abrupt, and they continuously changed topic. My anecdotes were abridged, the grammar poor. The more I read, the more I cringed, and I was tempted to visit local newsagents to buy every available copy of the newspaper, just to prevent anyone I knew from reading the article.

In despair, I showed it to my wife. “It’s not too bad,” she said, but her barely-disguised grimace told a different story.

But maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t too bad. But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t my writing. And the views I had shared with the journalist now appeared stilted, disjointed, and tended to trivialise the seriousness of the subject matter.

A featured quote leapt from the page, supposedly attributed to me, which I don’t even remember saying. “Writing is a way to stand out from the crowd,” I had apparently suggested, as if I considered penmanship to be, above all else, an antidote to anonymity.

Well, maybe handwriting does offer that advantage, but that particular point would not feature in my personal list of 100 reasons why handwriting should not become obsolete. On reflection, if I was ever again asked to extol the virtues of handwriting, I wouldn’t need a full page spread. I would simply quote Samuel Johnson, who said, succinctly, “What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.”

So maybe pupils should try it.

Simply put away their keyboard… pick up a pen… and apply a little effort.

The pleasure would be theirs for the taking.

Don’t call us… we’ll call you

Over the years, I’ve received a number of calls from a Glasgow television studio, asking if they can borrow my right hand, so they can video it scratching out a few lines of script with a quill. The resultant footage would then be incorporated into some proposed period drama.

Apparently, a quill-wielding actor would be filmed at his writing bureau. Then the scene would cut to a brief, zoomed-in, shot of my hand doing its thing. Then back to the actor. Seamless. Who would ever guess it was me, and not the actor, doing the writing?

Unfortunately, as I mentioned in a previous post, it’s always Copperplate the studio requests, or some other form of pointy-pen writing, which instantly rules out me and my favoured broad-nib Italic.

Here we go again, I thought, when the studio called me a few months ago. But, as the conversation progressed, the possibility of success began to look more likely than in the past. The friendly voice on the line asked if I could be available to be videoed writing a few words in a calligraphic style. I was assured that neither Copperplate, nor a quill, were mandatory, which made me perk up.

“Why don’t you come along to the studio,” suggested the friendly voice, “and show us what you can do.”

It was a challenge I couldn’t resist. So, the following day, I travelled by train to the television studio. A smart young man greeted me with a firm handshake, and introduced himself as the friendly voice from the previous day. He introduced me to a flamboyantly-dressed older man… apparently the director of the programme. We found a vacant table in a communal seating area, where the two of them sat opposite me. It was now me v them, and felt like a proper audition.

The task, it was explained to me, was simple. They needed to video a calligrapher’s hand writing the title of a new series… just five short words… the footage of which would be incorporated into the title sequence.

The older man revealed the title to me. “Can you write it for us now?” he asked, “so we can see how it would look.”

I nodded and, from my bag, produced a selection of calligraphy fountain pens and a pad which I set out on the table. The two men studied the equipment intently. If they were disappointed by the absence of a quill, they kept it to themselves.

I wrote the title a number of times… different sizes, different weights, some compression here, some sharpening there, a little bit of flourishing. Just showing off, I suppose. I sensed two pairs of eyes tracing my pen strokes, scrutinising the lines of writing. I was happy with the standard of my lettering. But, despite my best efforts, I felt that I was failing to impress. I sensed a lack of enthusiasm, that both men were underwhelmed by what was on offer. Maybe it was because they were viewing my calligraphy upside down.

The older man nodded towards my pad. “What do you call that style?” he asked.

“Italic,” I replied.

“Hmmmm…. do you do any other styles?”

You don’t like Italic? I was tempted to ask, incredulous.

Concerned that I was being regarded as a calligraphic one-trick-pony, I opted to illustrate my versatility by writing the title in a more contemporary style. One that was less formal, more lively. While I wrote, the two men remained silent, their enthusiasm remaining in short supply.

“Hmmmm…” came the eventual response from the older man, a fingertip pressed thoughtfully against pursed lips. “To be frank, Duncan, we haven’t ultimately decided on calligraphy for the opening sequence.”

“You haven’t?”

The younger man back-pedalled in tandem with his colleague. “We have another option to consider,” he confirmed. “We have a Plan B.”

“Oh… a Plan B… OK,” I replied, a little flustered. My pen stuttered to a halt, mid-stroke.

So. A Plan B. I was confused about this unexpected u-turn, this Plan B that had turned up unannounced. Without warning, Plan A had gone to the dogs, and I wondered if I had somehow helped it get there.

As if reading my mind, the younger man gestured enthusiastically towards my pad, which he continued to view upside-down. “Oh, we definitely like what you’ve shown us,” he gushed (at this point, I swear to God, he told me how much he admired my ‘r’s). “Definitely!” he continued. “We just have to consider our options.”

“Of course,” I replied, gathering my pad and my pens and packing them away. In the midst of this anti-climax, the older man got to his feet, thanked me, and rushed off somewhere in his gaily chequered trousers.

The younger man escorted me to the exit, where he thanked me with his signature friendly voice and firm handshake. “We’ll let you know,” he said, before he too disappeared.

While walking back to the railway station, I remembered something I once read. When they say, “we’ll let you know”… you know!

***********

Disappointingly, (and discourteously) they didn’t let me know. But, as I said, I knew.

The reason I’m relating this story months after the event is that the series is now being broadcast on tv. Selfishly, I’m disappointed that my rejection didn’t cause the cancellation of the series (I like to think of myself as indispensable).

It’s childish, I know, but I’m boycotting the series. I’m determined not to watch a single episode. Blame my ego, but I simply do not wish to see the title sequence and discover what I was discarded in favour of. Although, it wouldn’t surprise me if I was discarded in favour of Copperplate with a quill.

So, It looks like my right hand needs to wait a little longer before it gets its big break on tv. And I’m digging my heels in… television studios please note… it’s Italic or nothing. It’s time for my favourite script to get the tv exposure it so rightly deserves.

And, finally, for the sake of my reputation… I would like to confirm that (in my opinion, at least) my calligraphy isn’t as bad as the above experience might suggest. It invariably looks best when viewed as I intend.

Which definitely isn’t upside-down.