The Forgotten Forest
How bad of me. While rummaging through past photographs, I came across an image of a lithograph I had done a few years ago. It is one of my favorite pieces that I had done. And I had forgotten about it. I had never gotten around to framing it and so the edition that I had run remained stored in my portfolio. It’s time to pull it out. It’s called “Pine Forest At Night”, or in this case, “The Forgotten Forest”. But no, I’ll stick with the original title:
I love the look of a litho, but unlike some artists, I find the process pretty tedious. I felt like I always had to be oh so careful, whereas with intaglio I felt more free to scrape and bang up a zinc or copper plate with abandon. I could even drop a plate on the ground and mess it up with no worries. If I were to drop a litho stone on the ground I would risk breaking the stone AND my foot. And that would not be a good thing. Still, I’d give litho another shot if I had the chance. It’s such a beautiful medium.
The studio in which I had done this piece was a fun place to create. The teachers were great and the students very passionate. But it is in Chicago and I am not. So I’ll have to find an equivalent here in my neck of the woods. That may be hard to do, every studio has its own unique energy manifested by the artists who frequent it and the environment in which it exists. I thoroughly enjoyed my time at Anchor Graphics where I was able to produce a few editions of intaglio prints and lithographs. I have a few photos to remind myself of my time there and that despite myself, I WILL BE SAFE:
That’s always good to know. That’s the litho press reminding me to be safe, that nice, big hunk of a press that always made me smile and tremble. But it is the intaglio press that has a secret spot in my heart. There’s something about pulling on that big wheel to run the plate through the roller on a hot, summer night that made me feel so good, followed by the ceremonial lifting of the blankets to reveal the results of ink transferred from plate to paper:
And then there is the ink, that motley collection of shiny, creamy, lovely ink. The smell of it alone always sends me right back into the studio if only in my brain. There was something therapeutic and soothing about pulling out some ink and working it up on a slab, over and over and over before rolling or dabbing it on the plate. I remember going in to work the next morning with fingers still stained with ink. By the time a few days would pass and I finally got the ink worked off of my hands, it was time to go back in the studio and do it all over again:
Boy do I miss that!