I’m a woodcut artist. I give talks at galleries and museums a few times a year. In 2015, I hosted an evening workshop at an art gallery in West Hollywood. I spoke the history of woodcut printing then invited guests to carve their own blocks. About 12 people attended. I brought linoleum and rubber blocks, tracing paper, drafting pencils, light boxes, carving tools and printing supplies.
For the next two hours, I showed participants how to draw an image on paper, transfer it to a block, carve the block and make a print. One man, a photographer, carved an image of a Nikon camera. Another, an assistant curator from the Natural History Museum, carved a butterfly. A casting agent who’d once cast Bryan Cranston in a movie carved an image from Breaking Bad.
Near the end of the event, a woman in her sixties joined us. I told her we were out of time but she said she had something to show me. She reached into her purse and pulled out a fabric wrapped box with a bowstring. She untied the pouch, and revealed a vintage carved wood block with faded black ink. She placed the block in my hand.
“This is a family heirloom,” she said. “My family carved blocks every year so we could print our own Christmas cards. This one’s from 1873.”
The block was about 6" x 8" with numerous scratches. It seemed solid and in good condition but I knew that aging wood blocks were prone to damage. If exposed to moisture, there might be rot on the inside. Old ink applications could yield mold if the block wasn’t properly cleaned. I noticed several small cracks on the sides of the block, an indication the integrity of the wood might be compromised.
“Where did your family live,” I asked.
“Minnesota.”
“That means cold weather in the winters. How did they store the blocks?”
“They kept them in the garage, I think.”
“I’m surprised termites didn’t get to this,” I said. “It’s beautiful. Thanks for showing me.”
I handed the block back to her.
“Do you think you could make a print with this,” she asked.
“I could definitely make a print. But since I don’t know what condition the block is in, I’m afraid I might damage it.”
“I’m willing to give it a shot,” she said.
“I don’t want to ruin your family keepsake.”
“I won’t hold you responsible.”
My spidey-sense told me to walk away, but I was curious to see what kind of print this aging block would yield.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” she said.
By this point everyone in the class had gathered around wanting to see if the block would produce a print. I felt their excitement.
“You’re all witnesses,” I said. “If something happens, don’t hold me responsible.”
“It’s okay,” the woman said. “I have other blocks at home.”
I retrieved a damp cloth and wiped away the dust atop the block. I noticed small blemishes on the wood as if bugs had eaten away at the surface. I squeezed black ink onto an ink tray then rolled a brayer into the pigment. I covered the block with a thin layer of ink then placed a piece of print paper atop the block. I reached for a baren and prepared to make a print.
This was the moment of truth.
I pressed down and made circular motions, applying light pressure. I held my breath praying the block would remain intact. A few seconds into the process, the block gave way. I continued burnishing the print even though the block was now at a strange angle, halfway compressed like an accordion. Another few seconds and the entire block collapsed like a poorly cooked soufflé.
I pulled my hand away and removed the print. The block resembled a deflated balloon. The wood was partially compressed and half its original thickness. Everyone gasped.
I peered at the woman from Minnesota. Her eyes were wide and her mouth agape as if watching a slow-moving car accident. I looked away, heartsick. The woman reached for the print. It displayed an image of a small house in a forest with a full moon in the sky. Despite the damaged block, the print was beautiful. The woman smiled.
“Can you try printing another,” the woman asked.
“Really,” I said, confused.
“It’s already damaged,” she said. “You can’t make it worse.”
I applied ink to the wounded wood block. Amazingly, the block yielded several more prints. The woman gave me one of the prints.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve made me very happy.”
“But I destroyed your block,” I said.
“No you didn’t. You gave me a gift from my ancestors.”
I carefully wiped away the ink from the block surface then wrapped it in paper towels. The woman placed it in her purse. She noticed the chagrined look on my face.
“Don’t worry, I’m not mad,” she said. “I’m grateful to you.”
I hung my head. She gave me a big hug before exiting. I learned an important lesson regarding aging art antiquities. I will never again attempt to make a block print from someone else’s collection.