Bill Oblock: Baker

Posted on August 4, 2011 by troypaff
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9 February, 2011: Bill Oblock: Crumb Brothers Artisan Bread

Logan, Utah. “It’s all in the crumb.” That’s the take home message from a day spent learning the finer points of bread making from Bill Oblock, master baker and owner of the aptly named Crumb Brothers Artisan Bread. While that sounds convenient, and maybe even obvious, I’m here to report that crumb isn’t what the layman (ie., non-baking me) thinks crumb is. Confused? I was too. Yes, crumb does refer to those bits of loose bread that falls from the loaf, from your fingers and mouth, hangs out on your beard and litters the tablecloth (thus necessitating the need for the crumber). But more on that later.

Crumb Brothers’ bakery resides in a modern, architect-designed building customized with geothermal heat exchange and passive solar to augment the heat generated by a large oven. Low-E windows and functional blinds work in tandem to regulate airflow and fills the space with natural light. Outdoor landscaping is primarily native and water-conserving. In these ways, the bakery is a commercial pioneer in Logan, making small demands on the grid and providing an example for local construction projects. This conscientious approach to operation mirrors the approach to creating bread.

When I arrive at the bakery, Bill is settling on the recipe he’s going to use with an experimental stone ground flour he’s received from one of his vendors. He’s only got a small amount of it, and from some online research decides that starting the bread with a liquid leaven in lieu of a stiff leaven (or a combination thereof) will improve its outcome. Because the quality of the bread correlates to the ‘floor time’ it receives, we are quick to get started on what Bill is calling the Petra Italiano, otherwise known as a French leaven style of bread. Sports car, fashion model, or loaf of bread, it just sounds sexy.

The mixing process combines the four basic ingredients that comprises bread: flour, water, salt, and yeast. The manner in which the yeast is presented is known as the starter, which might be an overnight variety created from the mundane instant yeast one can buy in the grocery store or a perpetual starter which is fed/replenished with flour and water for continuous use. Sourdough is known for this latter approach to starters, where the waste product of a friendly bacteria imparts the characteristic sourness.

Bill’s goal is to keep his perpetual starters more on the warm side, closer to room temperature, in favor of a cooler starter one might produce with refrigeration. “A warmer approach encourages a lactic acid response, yielding more of a buttery flavor. Retarding the starter with refrigeration results in a sour flavor.”

Ah, the particular-ness of the connoisseur comes forth. Besides the attention paid to temperature, there is an obsession with ingredients. Bill favors locally sourced organic flour, and takes pride in the fact that the mill he uses generates a premium product to Crumb Brothers’ spec. Because Central Milling Company is right down the street, Bill can play an active role in quality control. This convenience of close collaboration helps the mill as much as it does the bakery.

Once the mixture of starter, flour, water, and salt (and here a bit of malt) comes to rest in the bowl, Bill wets a hand and lifts a handful to the light. He pulls it into a thin membrane for careful inspection, and gazes at the product with the intensity of a tea leaf reader. He pulls some more. Sensing the implicit significance of this moment, and fearful of the potential of my missing something, I lay bare my ignorance. I ask the question: “So, Bill. Is this … Dough?”

Now at this early point in our day, Bill has yet to entrust me with the confidence of a collaborator, never mind a person of reasonable intelligence. The gaze I receive is part reticence, part wonder. I figure I’d best elaborate.

“What I mean is that there is nothing more to do with it, other than bake it. I mean, ultimately, that’s our complete bread in an unbaked form. In other words, it’s no longer in need of anything, the process is complete, so it’s officially dough.”

“Uhhh … Yes.” Bill says.

Clearly I’ve done little to groom my credibility. Bill shifts his attention back to The Dough. Still analyzing, he continues: “But we can’t just bake it.”

“I guess it needs to rise first,” I say. Now I’m really talking shop. “What are you looking at?”

“The protein in wheat, when hydrated, develops bonds in a network with elastic and retractive characteristics.” He gives the dough a bit of a pull. It’s springy. “That’s what gluten is. The more you handle the dough, the denser the bread will be. This, with the amount of water added to the dough, affects the crumb of the loaf.”

The crumb of the …? The plot thickens. I feel like I should know what Bill’s referring to here. I mean, I’ve baked before. Maybe not bread, but I can make a decent scone. My scones definitely have crumbs … Ah well, I figure it’ll become clear.

Bill gathers up the rest of the dough and gently lays it into a plastic tub. He covers the tub with a weathered sheet of plywood, being careful to segregate the tub from other stacks of tubs in the room. Thus begins what Bill calls floor time.

Bill strives for a four-hour floor time, which is quite long when compared to factory bread. Typical factory bread receives no floor time, resulting in a comparatively boring loaf. This crucial period allows for fermentation to occur, where lactic acid generates carbon dioxide as a bi-product. “And this,” Bill emphasizes, “develops flavor and affects the crumb of the loaf.”

Bill starts turning over boards to reveal variations of dough in various stages of floor time. He gently pushes the surface of one mass to demonstrate its lack of readiness; the pliability isn’t quite resolved. The board goes back over, and we move on. I see flatter dough, rounder dough, darker dough, lighter dough. Dough with seeds, dough without seeds. Or is that whole grain? And behind him, assistant mixer Alicia is mixing up a batch of polenta dough. It strikes me as very yellow for bread, and corn-mealy, and Bill agrees that while it is not a purist’s loaf, it is a customer favorite.

I’m considering my strategy into addressing this crumb thing when Bill announces that we now have down time, because the dough can’t be rushed. Not at Crumb Brothers. Later on, after lunch, we will form and, at last, bake. Until then, would I care to see the mill up the road?

On the way to the mill, which takes all of five minutes to drive to, I learn about the origin of Crumb Brothers. In 2002, friends Josh Archibald, John Reichert, and Bill Oblock combined their passion for hand-crafted, artisan bread making with a commitment to build an environmentally and socially responsible business in Northern Utah. Bill’s unique slant as a successful restaurateur provided a solid foundation on which to do this; in fact, his commitment to the bakery’s success predicated closing one of the top restaurants in Logan.

“The restaurant lifestyle owns you. With a wife and two young daughters, I was ready to pursue a better quality of life in a similar field.”

It seems that Bill has achieved that. No longer needing to work ungodly hours in conventional food service, and able to approach the work day with a pleasant predictability in a field ripe for refinement and growth, Bill has been able to build a strong reputation in the region, with a growing demand for Crumb Brothers bread in greater Salt Lake City and beyond. Josh and John have since bowed out of active duty, leaving Bill as the owner and head baker. Now the bakery is more of a family business. Wife Diane does bookkeeping, brother David handles sales, and even his daughters chip in seasonally to join other college students and several full-timers as assistants on the floor.

After the mill field trip (a walk back in time which proves yet again that they don’t build machines like they used to) and a photo op on the roof, we break for lunch. In Crumb Brother’s adjoining cafe, I join some old friends for one of the best turkey sandwiches of my life. The secret? It’s the bread, silly. I had a killer ciabatta. It’s got tooth, texture, flavor, tug … I could go on.

In the closing throes of my sandwich ecstasy I am gathered once again by Bill, who announces that forming is about to commence. We make our way to the kitchen. On the floor, flanking both sides of a large table, is bread manager Kevin Willeto and a team of college students readied for … some kind of big process.

Bill takes up a spot next to a gal with a dough knife and a scale, and suddenly they’re off: no sooner is a massive mound of dough laid out like some kind of offering does the gal start lopping off large chunks of it, hefting them onto the scale and adjusting weight with smaller bits, and then heaving the final revision toward the center of the table, where one of the supporting players grabs it with flour-dusted hands and lays it quickly-yet-oh-so-gently into a round whicker basket, and then re-dusts hands just in time to collect the next glob of flying dough. In minutes the process is complete, and the scores of baskets are transferred to rolling racks.

This batch of loaves will be Polenta Jack and will retain the roundness determined by the baskets. The next batch of dough, Sunflower Oat, will be laid laterally between folds of linen couche (cloth), resulting in an elongated oval loaf, and so on.

“And now we bake them?” I ask.

There are snickers.

“Not these loaves,” Bill says. “These have to proof for awhile.”

What’s that? I’m thinking maybe I have time for an afternoon coffee.

Bill continues: “We strive for a six- to eight-hour period on the proofing racks before baking. Proofing achieves maximum volume and the development of interesting flavor components.”

I definitely have time for an afternoon coffee.

Bill flips the cover back on one of a small army of proofing racks. “But we’ll bake some loaves that are finished proofing, and the Petra will be ready soon.”

So much for the afternoon coffee.

Over the next hour, Bill empties proofed loaves of various shapes onto a large gurney and preps them for their respective durations in the oven. Many are split with a razor blade to control bursting and enhance curb appeal. Bill and Alicia work fast, and it’s very exciting. Finally, after the textbook goal of perfect golden is attained, Bill uses a massive peel to remove the loaves. There is a particular grace to the whole proceeding, but nothing beats the beauty of the completed loaves. They are like little sculptures … sculptures that smell amazing.

Bill wipes his hands on his apron and grabs one each of five cooling loaves. “Follow me,” he says.

We make our way to a small tasting kitchen just off the hallway to the main floor. Bill puts the loaves on a large cutting board, and with a long, serrated knife slices through golden crust and into the steamy tenderness of warm French leaven. He slides a small dish over to the cutting board. It holds a quarter stick of butter–room temperature, still in its wrapper. But not for long.

“This is not only the inspiration for the name of the bakery,” he says, spreading a knife full of butter across the white of the bread. “It’s what we strive to perfect with every loaf.”

The butter disappears into the slice like slow magic, the delicate, fibrous voids in white embracing the golden fat. Delicious. The crust has a delicate crack to it. This is surely why someone invented the word crust in the first place. And then the velvet and tang of the white, and its perfect resistance to chewing. Then it occurs to me… The white? No, the crumb! I understand!

The crumb is itself sublime, but, then, it suddenly serves to emphasize the toastiness and snap of the crust. And so forth, the crust elevates the crumb. Like a double helix of taste and texture, this simple yet elusive construct–bread–is here a journey, and that journey is a revelation.

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David Wolfgram: Reclaimed Woodworker

Posted on June 16, 2011 by troypaff
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7 February, 2011: David Wolfgram: Eco-Hardwoods

Ogden, Utah. With a couple of weeks available to devote to the Project, I’ve set my sites on a westward journey. With an ultimate destination of California, I figure that along the way I’ll look for tradesmen in Utah and Nevada. Calling on my resources in those regions, it is my friend Reese Zollinger that makes some notable recommendations in the Salt Lake area. As a native with a historical perspective on farming and handwork in the area, Reese suggests that David Wolfgram is someone I should meet, a renaissance man who is living an “artisanal existence.” An email introduction is made, and soon I am driving into Ogden to see for myself just what that means.

Before our meeting I am not sure if David will qualify for the themes of my photo essay. While a jack-of-all-trades is always interesting to me, the breadth of skills exhibited by that type can overshadow the specialization of the tradesman. After all, the investment in and mastery of a particular skill is what this project is about. Knowing that David makes a living from his woodworking puts us in the ballpark, but learning that he uses only reclaimed wood is more profound.

The Wolfgram residence is located in Central Ogden, in a middle class neighborhood comprised of tidy blocks of early 20th century single family homes. If ever there were a Norman Rockwell town, this would have to be it: a tight grid of sidewalks, stop signs, tree lawns, churches, and, as a bonus, glorious views of the Wasatch range down every east-west avenue. But, upon closer inspection, the Wolfgram residence is different: besides boasting a double lot, it is covered with massive pines. In fact, this is the cue David has given me on the phone: “Just look for the pine trees.”

I am greeted at the door by an athletic fellow with bright eyes and an impressive beard. This is David, and immediately he wants to know if there’s anything I need after my long drive. He and his lovely wife Shauna are intent on making me feel at home, and I am nearly overwhelmed by their hospitality. No sooner than I’m through the door am I treated to a multi-course spread of homemade vegetarian stew, homemade bread, homemade beer, and homemade cheese, around which I am given a tour of the house and grounds.

The former is a fixer-upper David has been working on since buying the place several years ago. It’s filled with personal touches expressing a craftsman’s attention to detail, with an emphasis on workability. He’s leveled the foundation and replaced the floor– not with a prefab product or lumber from The Home Depot, but with a thoughtfully designed mosaic of reclaimed–and personally milled–hardwood. He’s added a passive solar hot water system to the roof, an efficient wood burning stove to the living room, and he’s rented out the upstairs apartment to offset the mortgage (which he makes extra payments on at every opportunity).

The latter is a multi-zone patchwork of permaculture, including various gardens and beds, grape vines, DIY sculpture, and a pond project in mid-construction. A few chickens patrol the area, and lay eggs in their coop. Though it is still winter and no crops are growing, it seems that nary an inch of the double lot is wasted. David admits that it is difficult to justify any presence of lawn where food production can be maximized. This refinement ethic, combined with seasonal canning sessions and a killer root cellar, necessitates few trips to the grocery store. “We’d love to have some goats around here, but I don’t know where the neighbors would draw the line.”

As impressed as I am with the degree of sustainability the Wolfgrams have created, I am not convinced of David’s role in my photo essay until I see his handmade furniture and the troves of reclaimed wood that comprise each piece he makes. Filling his shop and the storage area behind, massive trees have been milled and re-stacked into logs to cure–typically for years–and await a speculative future as fine furniture.

After observing various examples of superior craftsmanship supported by a creative eye for what I would term ‘wabi-sabi’ design, it is the anecdotal evidence of david’s ethic that excites me the most: An old Mormon family was forced to cut down an ancient, dying tree from their backyard, a stately black walnut that had served generations as host to swings, hanging tires, tree houses, and as a canopy to countless picnics and weddings. The tree, the family expressed, was itself a family member and should be revered. They worked with David to carefully dismantle and mill the boards, and from it create a dining room table that would serve future generations.

“It took nearly a year to create the table, leaves, and twelve chairs but I’m really pleased with the results.”

And what about the design? Did the family embrace the naturalistic, minimalistic style that seems to personify your work?

“No. What they wanted was a classic expression, but not Old World classic. They didn’t want future generations to be alienated by that old antique-y feel. They wanted something timeless but classy, modern yet traditional, so that’s what I strived to come up with. Fortunately, they were satisfied. I am too. The set is down near Salt Lake City, but I could show it to you.”

And so I’m sold. Being that the majority of David’s unsold work is currently in a gallery in SLC, a field trip to the city is in the cards. And so we agreed that in a couple of days, after the necessary phone calls to the owner of the dining room set, we’ll do our shoot–during which I’ll be shown a cross section of tool usage and practices that bring about David’s unique, characteristic, hand-worked results.

* * * *

On the morning of the shoot I am greeted at the door by a trimmed-down version of our hero. I inquire as to the whereabouts of the spectacular beard, but a reticent David proclaims it had been getting out of hand, and today was a good excuse to take care of it. A look from Shauna suggests a popular consensus.

We begin our day with some tool sharpening and a bit of family history. (Of course I am treated to homemade waffles and a fine cup of French press coffee while all of this is conducted.) Much of the work David does is in the hand, or to be more precise, is worked with a non-powered, bladed instrument. David introduces me to the adz, which I know as a handy Scrabble word but had never before encountered. It swings as a pick axe does, but the business end is a sharp spoon or gauge, efficiently removing bits of wood like a melon baller. This dynamic of motion informs other tools as well, in varying sizes and shapes of blade, from curved to flat. The variety of choices gives David remarkable control over the results of the work, but necessitates the blade being very sharp. In fact, keeping the blade sharp is its own skill, the process of which is quite meditative. From whetstone to sandpaper, there is no compromise when it comes to honing an edge. Observing David in this process, it’s clear that this regard for and interaction with his instruments is itself near the heart of his passion–to the degree that David has on occasion made his own specialized tools, each with a unique purpose and expression.

Though born into a Mormon family, David conscientiously chose a different path. As a young man he left the Church, began working in construction, and with his first wife journeyed to the jungles of Hawaii, whiling away the cold Utah winters living a subsistance lifestyle. There in the bush he found an old rusty World War II-era machete, and with it, built shelters and harvested coconuts. The first serious project he undertook employed that salvaged machete: a djembe, or African-style drum, carved from the trunk of a coconut tree. For five years David made the seasonal round trip between homes, though it was in Hawaii that his first son was born.

Years later, with the skills he had refined with more sophisticated tools, David crafted a second djembe from a reclaimed piece of Ogden cherry. As a tribute to the growing Kaleb, he illustrated a favorite icon of his son’s memory of the islands: the hammerhead shark, surrounded by the narrative history of Hawaii. David discovered that cherry is not a forgiving wood for such delicate work, as it dries quickly and is prone to splitting. As the neck of the instrument began to separate, he carved a ‘butterfly’ to stitch the split together. The butterfly he designed in the shape of the hammerhead–an example of form following function. As his work with reclaimed woods evolved, this practice of ‘butterflying’ natural splits continued, becoming a theme in his work.

Throughout the morning, David gives me an immersive tour of his space. We inspect some black walnut boards that have been curing for years, and we compare those with a recently milled cottonwood whose ends have been waxed to regulate the drying process and thus control splitting. We are joined by David’s two youngest boys, Jonas and Kaleb, to cut some cherry with which to make a rustic bowl. Then David demonstrates the process of laying in a butterfly, with the scribing, chiseling, hammering, and pole-sawing required to make a seemless joint. Finally, to emphasize the point of minimizing waste and maximizing product, David has me select a bit of scrap hardwood from which to make a modest gift. I choose a small block of cherry, and David asks me what kitchen implement I’d prefer. No sooner do I suggest a flat-edged stirring spoon does David have the shape roughed out on the band saw. Then it’s inside we go, to the coziness of the fire, to bring my spoon to life.

Sitting there by the stove, one man and a blade and a hunk of wood, the archetype of the whittler comes to mind. I haven’t seen this kind of work done since I was a boy visiting relatives in South Dakota, where my great uncles would while away the evening hours on the farm with a pocket knife and a tree branch, sharing stories of barn dances past, the Dust Bowl, and The War.

Joining us in the living room is Shauna and Kaleb, the former eschewing Legos and even video games for some carving time with Dad. It’s unfortunate that me and the camera usurp the discussion, as this opportunity of quality time has become a commodity for the typical modern family. As commonplace as this social time was for my kin, it seems exotic now–and I confess a certain excitement to know that the one-of-a-kind spoon being made, by hand, right now, with such soul, would belong to me. And every time I would use it, I would have this great memory of David and the Wolfgram clan to recall.

David explains that on cold days he’ll spend his hours here creating specialty pieces that can be sold at farmers markets, or online. “It’s much better than burning the scraps, which is typically what happens on the mass production scale.”

About this time, David’s expression takes a sour turn. He’s just jammed a small and very sharp gauge into his thumb. We’re in the middle of that odd moment of shock where nothing makes sense, where time kind of stops. There is blood. It drips on the floor, and it drips on my spoon. Suddenly David grabs the offending appendage, and the sheepish smile forming on his face betrays an interesting truth: David hasn’t had an accident in a long time. A very long time. So long, he can barely remember what it feels like, never mind how to act. Same goes for the family: Kaleb is on his feet, a little freaked out, while only Shauna can remember where the band-aids are.

I feel terrible. I attempt an apology for being the obtrusive photographer, sending everything to hell in a handbasket. As the bandage is applied, I think better of making the obvious joke about blood, work, and the one going into the other. Kaleb stands at Davids knee, knife tenuously in hand. He’s looking for some reassurance from Dad.

Dad looks him in the eye with a confident smile, and concludes the thought originally meant for me. “This hardwood is valuable, the old stuff is getting rare, and most people don’t even realize we’re losing it. If we respect what we have, it will take care of us.”

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Joel Larson: Letterpress Printer

Posted on March 11, 2011 by troypaff
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1 February, 2011: Joel Larson: The Cowboy Printer

Taos, New Mexico. Just as there are individuals who prefer the organic sound and tactile experience of the analog LP to the digital CD, there are graphics aficionados who find a particular allure in the graceful imperfections of the letterpress-printed product over the laser-produced: the subtle embossing of the letters on exotic paper, the intricacies of the registration and alignment of characters and blocks over multiple impressions, the color and consistency of hand-mixed ink and the integration of that ink with the design … The grace of the harmoniously imperfect.

These are the reasons I wanted to create calling cards for The Journeyman Project using a letter press. The trick was in finding a skilled printer, and for that matter, a skilled printer with a working press. How great, then, that Joel Larson would be a stone’s throw from my house.

Though technically we’re neighbors, I only made Joel’s acquaintance this winter when my new girlfriend made mention of her housemate’s old printing press. After a bit of follow-up, I was introduced to Joel– bartender by day, caretaker of a sprawling Taos homestead by night, activist, musician, puppeteer, experimental filmmaker, illustrator, and letterpress printer.

As many artists in Taos are from somewhere else (myself included), it didn’t surprise me to learn that Joel was originally from the Midwest, by way of Los Angeles (myself included). There he’d dabbled in the indie film scene, and worked days as a commercial artist and press setter at an exclusive printer in Beverly Hills called Soolip.

After moving to Taos several years ago to pursue a ‘better way of life’ (read: affordable property, clean air, community, nature, and an environment of rich history and romantic inspiration), Joel acquired an 1886 Chandler & Price press. Originally intended as more of an instrument with which to explore creative pursuits and less as a tool to conduct business, a growing demand for the one-of-a-kind results afforded by his expertise guided Joel’s efforts back to the same niche industry he inhabited in Beverly Hills.

As a former graphic designer, I’ve long held an obsessive appreciation for typography: Serif and sans. Bold and italic. Lead and kern. When I was an art student, a set of graphical characters comprising the complete alphabet, in combination with requisite numbers, symbols, and dingbats, was known as a ‘typeface.’ Twenty years later, the same set is known as a ‘font.’

With the advent of computer desktop publishing, the evolution from analog to digital has had a sweeping effect on the printing industry, rendering the classic method of printing impractical, if not impossible to the revenue-minded professional. Digital printing today provides the masses with an out-of-the-box equivalent, one that yields a cost effective and precise result, which, by comparison, makes an analog printing press an obtuse endeavor– heavy, clumsy, replete with the trappings of dirt, grease, waste ink, and the need for copious amounts of storage and the organization that must accompany the multitude of movable type and graphic blocks.

The printer in Joel’s possession is a stately dinosaur. The precision of its operation is a wonder. The thing looks like it would just as soon mangle you and spit out the bones as soon as it would lay a delicate pinpoint of ink on tissue paper. Yet, when the switch is thrown and a worn leather belt brings the gears to life, it is with nary a whisper. When the rollers lap the surface of the ink wheel, the choreographic exchange of color is silent, flawless, and belies the force of its massive iron gears. When, on one side, Joel lays up the registration clips to accept the blank paper, and on the other side, the frame of type/character blocks that accepts the ink from the rollers and transports it to the blank paper, I find myself bewildered by the painstaking attention to detail that Joel must command in order to make a registered, straight impression that is neither too hard nor too soft.

Joel toils away in a laboratory of creative artifacts. From the dusty Bolex on the shelf to the creepy puppet hanging in the corner, from the Moog setup to the VHS shrine to Hollywood intelligentsia, to visit The Shop is to enter Joel’s mind. It’s worth the visit. Throughout the course of my coverage I become acquainted with a recurring cast of characters: Joel’s writer-editor wife, Shawna; nine year-old gymnast Lily; five year-old super hero, Cole. But that’s not all. Holding court in this colorful country is Bernie the Cat; emanating a particular Zen is Henrietta the Chicken; and keeping the dust on the move is Whiskey the Dog. Over four separate visits, I observe Joel in the throes of the various stages of his work: design, layout, block repair, frame set up, press maintenance, cleaning, smoking, and, eventually, printing.

“The work? It’s all in the set up,” he says. “And cleanliness is everything.”

So I learn. Printer’s ink is thick, sticky, and insidious in the way it can sneak up on you. From burying chunky or watery ink into old phonebooks and monitoring its proper consistency on rollers, to de-inking the rollers and plate with (Trade Secret Alert!) Pam, to be a pressman requires copious visits to the restroom to scrub up. At the conclusion of a project, Joel re-commodifies the unused pallet of otherwise corrupted colors by scraping them up and laying them down on large boards. The resulting effect is Pollock-esque, albeit in a Cowboy Printer way. These compositions are, of course, art. And they’ll eventually be cut up and used as texture or base layers for future avante garde press projects.

We make a service call to a local copy center to administer some TLC to a vintage industrial paper cutter. Apparently it’s visage is intimidating to mere mortals, but here Joel coaxes and cleans, oils and adjusts, and he waxes poetic about the functionality of the old beauty. “There’s a reason why this shop doesn’t replace this thing.” At Joel’s invite I cut a phone book in half to test the calibration of the clamp against the blade edge. The enormous lever handles the task in short order. “This would save me a lot of time in my own business,” he says.

Which strikes me as less than ironic, since we all know that time is money. This is exactly why Joel is trying to assess if the inherent limitations of the “printer’s conventions” can be made valuable in the minds of customers who, while they might appreciate the luxurious output of his work, may not justify the expenditure of time necessary to deliver that work. That consideration is substantial, and is inversely proportionate to the care and talent it requires to yield a satisfying result. Joel’s pursuit mandates a painful attention to detail and an obsession with craft– not to mention artistic ability. That he exhibits all three is miraculous.

It’s late, and the shop has a quite different mood at night. A couple of desk lamps put cones of light only where it’s needed. Right now, that happens to be on the set of moveable type that will print the backside of my business cards. It is comprised of a small, 10-point Century typeface. After a fourth test impression on the printer, Joel has returned the frame to the bench, and, with the ‘key’ tool, pulled the set for additional surgery. What he’s trying to do is coax a problematic “o” into printing harder, and an “a” to back off a bit, all the while maintaining the aesthetic harmony of proper typesetting: the delicate balance of horizontal negative space that resides between each letter and between each word, and the vertical space above and below each subsequent line of text. On this night, the tools required for such finessing include Scotch tape, a razor blade, an awl/punch, a needle, and … a porcupine quill.

At this juncture I cannot know if we will have business cards tonight, tomorrow, or next week. All I know is that they will look great, and it’s because of Joel’s obsession with rightness. He takes a drag on his cigarette, and through the smoke, laughs.

“Can a truly successful business sustain this craft? Will people pay for such ‘printer’s conventions?’”

While it is true that the Information Age has all but rendered the offset letterpress printer extinct, I can’t help but think that the same Age may be its salvation. After all, it’s the world wide web that provides the conduit to the kind of clientele needed to maintain such a boutique trade. Digital fabrication of plates for graphics and font layouts has become quite affordable, allowing designs to be emailed in. Thanks to a ‘craft letterpress’ revival brought about by individuals looking for a personalized look and feel for micro-press publishing, stationary, posters, and advertising, I wonder if Joel isn’t in fact catching the market at a most opportune time.

Can the Cowboy Printer survive in the 21st century? I sure hope so. I’ll be needing new cards soon.

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