Profane and iconoclastic and filled with penises... (and brilliant)

While I’ve been fiddling with 2014-celebrating type over the past two weeks it’s been more than a few times that I’ve been sharing workspace with the team behind the 2014-celebrating Tall Hat Chronicles, who have been writing and rehearsing here at The Guild. We’ve both found ourselves weaving and dodging to keep out of the way of the all-pervasive Anne and Gilbert, the cast and crew of which, deep into their own rehearsals, seem to ooze from every pore of building.

Having a “Tall Hat Chronicles: Behind the Music” view into the creative process has left me with a deeper appreciation for the fine crafting that goes into making the funny: the show, described for tourismocratic purposes as a “comedic and satirical look at our Island history as it relates to the wider history of Canada and the world,” is, as you might expect, profane and iconoclastic and filled with penises.

And brilliant.

And it is, I can attest, being thoughtfully crafted (I believe I may have heard one of the cast say something like “I don’t think James Palmer would say something like that”) and there were several times when I was at the letterpress and they were reading lines on the sofas around the corner when it was all I could do to contain myself from bursting out in (likely inappropriate) laughter.

I’m looking forward to it. Here’s a taste:

Most Wednesday and Saturday nights this summer at The Guild starting July 2. Get tickets here.

Our Family Walks

After I spoke at the Winsloe Lions Club Charter Dinner last Saturday, we were presented with a lovely gift: a framed photo of Catherine, Oliver, Ethan and I walking down the Confederation Trail during the Purina Walk for Dog Guides.

Not only is it a great photo, but it’s the first one of our newly-expanded-by-dog family, and, indeed, one of the few photos we have of our entire family at all, as it’s usually one or the other of us that’s taking pictures.

I was such a nice gesture for them to do this.

Free Paul Offer!

I have been buying eggs and mushrooms from Paul Offer at the Charlottetown Farmer’s Market. I know him to be a man of both good humour and exacting standards, and I feel proud to be one of his customers.

(Photo from The Guardian)

The CBC reported this morning that the dining room that Paul and his wife Jean operate out of the home in Tyne Valley has been ordered closed by the Public Health department because of new Food Premises regulations under the Public Health Act.

This isn’t because they’ve done anything wrong: simply because the new regulations don’t allow public meals to be cooked in private kitchens.

While I sympathize with the desire to enhance food safety, I’m uncomfortable living in a province where people like Paul and Jean Offer, 35 years into a project that’s an anchor in their community, a tourist standout and an important source of income to them, are shut down in its name.

Surely we can find a creative way to allow Paul and Jean to continue doing what they do, can’t we?

The regulations that threaten to shutter the Offers are only in draft form now, and public comment is welcome: send yours to the Chief Public Health Office and to the Minister of Health and Wellness.

And, of course, for now at least, you can make a reservation, for up to 6 people, for supper at The Doctor’s Inn.

First a call to the Cross Keys for a bracer...

It seemed like such a simple job: six sheets of paper, 790 words, 4,695 letters and spaces.

Brenda Whiteway approached me in February to see if I’d be able and willing to typeset and print passages of text for her Confederation Country Cabinet. She’d found me via the man who provides us both with paper – hers for the brush, mine for the press – David Carruthers at Papeterie Saint-Armand in Montreal. Odd that it took David to connect us, as we live only a few miles apart and know many of the same people.

“Six sheets: how hard could that be,” I told myself.

There was funding to buy some new type, and the paper. The passages Brenda had selected were interesting: Jack Layton, Frank Ledwell, Emily Carr, and more.

And Brenda’s larger project, a cabinet of curiousities, tickled me in all the right places.

How could I not.

What I discounted, of course, is that despite my best efforts to cultivate post-apocalyptic neo-luddite letterpress street cred, I am but a babe in the woods when it comes to the printing office: I know the broad strokes, I can print a decent coffee bag.

But lines and lines of poetry and prose, printed evenly, accurately, and by the beginning of May?

Well, that was interesting.

Today, almost 45 days after the first tentative deadline, the final piece – a reprint of a Frank Ledwell poem, reprinted because I’d bungled the citation on an earlier printing – rolled off the press.

To commemorate the end I left the ink on the press and set up a celebratory piece, taking the big bold and familiar Akzidenz Grotesk out and honouring my favourite line of all those I set, from that selfsame Frank Ledwell poem, “Charlottetown Conference”:

Along the way I learned so many things.

I learned, when starting off on a new print job, to leave the chase off the press while the rollers are being inked: that way the type doesn’t get over-saturated with ink, printing is much cleaner, and the cleanup afterwards goes more easily. Unfortunately I learned this – from “General Printing: An Illustrated Guide to Letterpress Printing with Hundreds of Step-by-Step Photos” – halfway through the project, and so suffered through three jobs worth of gloopy over-inked type, something that will be polluting my type cases for years to come.

I learned – after almost 3 years – how to adjust the platen of my Golding Jobber № 8. I should have learned this a long, long time ago, but I’d been afraid that, given that it’s 99 years old, if I removed a bolt here, adjusted a thumb-screw there, the entire thing might come tumbling apart. It didn’t, and the last two jobs in the project went so much quicker because of the simple adjustments I made.

I learned that my old friend Fred Louder – we’ve know each other for almost 20 years, but have probably spent less than 2 hours in the same room – is a fount of printing knowledge, which he dispensed liberally over Facebook chat in recent weeks at times I really, really needed it. Sometimes just explaining the problem at hand to Fred led me to an answer before he replied; more often, though, his counsel proved invaluable.

I learned how to take my “makeready” – the fine-tuning process, once the type is set and on the press, but before printing can start in earnest – to the next level, employing bits of tissue paper (especially cigarette paper, which is cheap, readily available, and comes with its own adhesive; thanks, Fred). There’s years more of learning to go, but at least I know the general terrain now.

I finally, years after meeting him, got to order newly-cast type from Ed at Swamp Press in Northfield, Massachusetts, the 14 point Bodoni that I used for the body of the pieces. Figuring out how to order type had its own learning curve and language; Ed made it easy, and I’m ready for the next time.

I got to have another lovely conversation with David at Saint Armand about his paper, and ordered and quickly received a ream (give or take) of their Canal paper, which proved a joy to print on.

I learned how entering a Zen-like state aids in the sorting of type after a job is complete: if my hands didn’t know the California job case layout before this project, they certainly do now, and the challenge when sorting type back into the case is to switch my brain to an idle state so that it doesn’t interfere with what my hands can do on their own.

I learned that, at 48 years old, I had to carefully budget my time for setting and printing because it really only works when I’m well-rested, well-fed and in a good mood. Staying too late in the evening, as I did a few times, results in frustration, spilled ink and, had I unwisely stayed any longer, accidents. Pushing through without taking breaks results in errors (see aforementioned Frank Ledwell 2.0). Slow and steady. Deliberate. Careful. That’s what works. Keeping the workspace clean – which I haven’t mastered – helps too.

I learned that setting an author’s work allows me to experience it in a way completely unlike simply reading it on the page.

“Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean’s briny wave”

“Water was not wet nor deep, just smoothness spread with light.”

“Canada is the scent of pines.”

“Our Hero keeps a precise record of how much he drinks, to the beer.”

“Optimism is better than despair.”

All those lines mean so much more when you’ve plucked each letter from its spot in the case, manipulated it into place in the composing stick, gently transferred it to the chase, locked it into place, whispering each line a hundred times by the times it’s all done, both to double-check and to aid in the process of returning it all to the case.

I learned that Brenda Whiteway is a patient, creative, witty taskmaster, the ideal client for my first big printing job. She took each delay with good humour, and wrote very nice things about me to boot.

And so here’s what I ended up with:

I came nowhere near perfection: the inking on the Jack Layton & Adrienne Clarkson piece is little inconsistent, the Milton Acorn inking is consistent, but with a too much ink, so that it’s bordering on looking like Bodoni bold, the “Frank Ledwell” in the citation for his poem is stands out a little too much, and the “m” in “poems” has a tiny nick in it.

But therein is another lesson to be learned: while my day-to-day life as a digital worker has a comfortable binary precision to it, and the possibility of endless iteration toward perfection, once the job is printed, the type sorted and the piece completed, well, that’s it.

There’s nothing more that I can do.

And so, for the next 50 years I’ll be walking by Brenda’s Confederation Country Cabinet in its home in the Coles Building and seeing that “a” is a little out of place, or wishing I’d staying in the shop an extra half hour that night to make the Emily Carr piece just that little bit cleaner.

Or I can, perhaps, just be satisfied that I worked hard, did the best job I could, learned a tremendous amount in a short space of time, made some new friends and cemented some others, lost some sleep, had some moments of pure printing bliss, and rest easy that in all that is where the craft lies.

Now, off to the Cross Keys for a bracer. Lord knows I need one.

Democracy Happens in the Engine Room

A few weeks ago, reading through the City of Charlottetown’s Pedestrian Mall Bylaw, I noticed that section 5.7 of the bylaw specifically prohibits dogs from the pedestrian mall, with one exception:

No person shall bring, ride, or leave standing any horse or any other animal of any kind whatsoever onto the pedestrian mall excepting a seeing eye dog.

That exception – for “seeing eye dogs” – while laudable, leaves out many other types of service dogs, and so I sent an email to the chair of the Planning Commitee to see if it might be updated.

To my surprise and delight, he agreed that an update was in order, had a change drafted, and this change received 1st and 2nd reading at today’s council meeting; it will, barring any unforeseen actions in the interim, be passed with 3rd reading at the July meeting.

The amendment will simply change “seeing eye dog” to “service animal.”

Who knew it was so easy to get a bylaw changed!

Now, of course, I wasn’t asking for money to be spent, nor for some controversial step to be taken, just a minor wording change, but it reinforces to me that a lot of what’s important about democracy happens not at the barricades, but down in the engine room.

As it happens there were unexpected fruits of earlier labours in evidence at the same council meeting tonight: council approved the holding of a public meeting to review stylistic and wording updates to the Zoning and Development Bylaw, a move prompted, in part, by the presentation I made to the Atlantic Planners Institute last fall, Planning in Secret: Effective Strategies for Keeping the Public Out of the Planning Process, a presentation that suggested, among other things, that simply through adding whitespace and changing case could great things happen:

Slide from Planning in Secret presentation.

I presented the same talk to the city’s planning department a few weeks later and, apparently, they took some of my ideas to heart: they’ve reformatted, reorganized and reworded the bylaw and will present the results at a public meeting (date to be announced) for review.

Perhaps a drive toward a more open approach to data and information maintained by the city is a reasonable next project? (Although I’m feeling heady now, and wonder, now that I’m on a roll, if I should ask for citywide espresso-plumbing or mandatory letterpress training for all children).