michael renton: his hands magic (abridged digital preview copy)

‘His Hands Magic’Edited by Harriet Frazer with Simon Langsdale

The exhibition, ‘His Hands Magic’ curated byJohn Nash, Simon Langsdale & Harriet Frazer

© The Lettering & Commemorative Arts Trust, 2015© The authors (texts) and The Edward Johnston Foundation (artworks), 2015

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced inany form without first seeking permission from the

copyright owners and the publisher:

The Lettering & Commemorative Arts Trust (lcat)Lettering Arts Centre, Snape Maltings, Suffolk ip17 1sp+44 (0) 1728 688 393 | [email protected]

letteringartstrust.org.uk | memorialsbyartists.co.uk

A charitable company limited by guarantee inEngland & Wales no: 07936156Registered Charity no: 1148638

Set in Adobe Caslon Pro, Cover set in ITC Golden Cockerel

Designed by Charlie Behrens | charliebehrens.comCover: calligraphy from M.R.'s final letterhead (page 51)Pages 5 & 6: early print & original woodblock by M.R.

Printed by Anglia Print Ltd, Beccles, SuffolkCover printed on Cairn Almond Recycled Board 325 gsmText printed on Horizon Offset 140 gsm (FSC certified)

Printed on a waterless litho printing presspowered by 100% renewable energy.

This product is Carbon Neutral.

product

ISBN 978-0-9515711-8-7

The Lettering & Commemorative Arts Trust

‘ h i s h a n d s m a g i c ’m i c h a e l r e n t o n

(1 9 3 4 – 2 0 0 1)

Contents

introducing michael. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Michael Renton & Memorials by Artists by Harriet Frazer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Michael Renton (1934–2001) by John Nash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Michael Renton: A Memoir by Angela Lemaire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Extracts from the Address at Michael Renton’s Funeral by theReverend Canon Keith Walker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Michael & Drawing: His Thoughts & Influences by Simon Langsdale . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Engraving Wood, Cutting Stone by Simon Brett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

Letterheads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

wood engraver, artist, illustrator, printer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

lettercarver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

calligrapher, designer, commercial artist, signwriter . . . . . . . 90

bookplates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104

an engraver’s apprentice by michael renton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140

‘Michael left art school to do rather than to study, though none was

better versed in history than he. Always a good drinking companion,

Michael would talk about the work, the craft. He never, ever criticised

other people. If you made a sweeping statement, he’d correct it

exactly — ‘No, that isn’t right’. Everything that came from his hands

had huge confidence. His lettering was quite his own and no

derivation. In wood engraving, he chose a tall italic with the subtlest

of differences between the thicks and the thins; it has an exquisite

quality. The later, drawn lettering developed for Winchester Cathedral

is broad and generous on the eye. As an illustrational engraver his

work reached its best in a balance of very acute observation and

formalised, decorative handling which, like the lettering, was all

his own. No one could combine the engraved image and engraved

lettering so well as he.’

Adapted from a tribute to Michael bySimon Brett, which appeared in Multiples, the

journal of The Society of Wood Engravers,September 2001.

i n t r o d u c i n g

m i c h a e l

12

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’ Thinking of Michael Renton, a phrase of H.D. Thoreau’s comes to mind: ‘No introduction would serve to introduce him, more than if you introduced a woodchuck to your neighbour.’ Like Thoreau’s French-Canadian woodchopper, he lived the life of the self-contained, solitary workman, disregarding politics, fashion and (more often than not) electricity, absorbed in what W.R. Lethaby termed ‘the well doing of what needs doing’ — which to him meant depicting, whether on wood, stone or paper. He was self-effacing to a great degree, and probably rather enjoyed presenting himself to the world as a country bumpkin

— a bearlike, shambling being with a variety of floppy cardigans, a sudden gap-toothed grin, and a bald pate fringed with long hair which remained uncovered in the worst of weathers. But his talents were enormous, and his hands magic. He became supremely accomplished in drawing, pen lettering (he wrote a vigorous and beautiful italic hand), printing, signwriting and brush lettering, lettercarving and wood en-graving, and was a master — perhaps the last — of fine engraved lettering in wood in the tradition of Reynolds Stone and Leo Wyatt. Although private, he was not secretive; he was the most sociable of drinking companions, and everywhere he went he made friends. It’s quite possible that he did not have an enemy in the world.

He was born in Park Royal, northwest London, in 1934. He never knew his father; he and his mother settled in Harrow during the Second World War. In 1949 he found himself at Harrow Art School, where he was first introduced to the rudiments of lettering by Percy Smith’s former partner George Mansell, who taught there once a week.

In 1951 the prospect of National Service loomed. Desperate to find

Michael Renton(1934–2001)

mich

ael renton (1934– 2001) by john nash

|

13

employment, young Renton saw an advertisement in the News Chronicle which read: ‘Boy wanted, keen on drawing.’ Upon ringing the number he found that he had reached S.Slinger Ltd of 105 Horseferry Road, one of only two surviving London commercial engraving firms, and that what they really wanted was an apprentice to learn wood engraving. He agreed to a six months’ trial period, after which (if, as it was put, ‘we get along’) a deferment of National Service would be arranged. They did get along, and he embarked on an apprenticeship of five years. Already in his mind was the notion that ‘I might eventually use wood engraving in my own way for more imaginative purposes.’

Then, as later, he was suspicious of Art — ‘I was interested in illustration, engraving, etc. as a living, but not as a “way of life”.’ He did feel the need to improve his drawing. The City and Guilds Art School in Kennington offered evening classes at one pound apiece; Renton started life drawing classes there in 1954 and soon discovered the lettering class offered by William Sharpington three evenings a week.

Having already read Edward Johnston’s and Graily Hewitt’s handbooks and grappled at Slinger Ltd with adapting a Reynolds Stone design for a letterhead, lettering became his primary interest. Sharpington, aside from his teaching, ran a thriving signwriting workshop from the upper floor of the school, and Renton became increasingly involved with this. In 1956 he finished his apprenticeship and was away for two years on his long-delayed National Service; in 1959 he returned to work for the firm for one more year (it closed down in 1966) before setting up on his own, partly as engraver, partly as freelance lettering craftsman (mainly signwriting) with Sharpington. In 1963 he was finally able to realise his long-held ambition of setting up a ‘country practice’, moving first to Winchelsea, near Rye in East Sussex, then to a cottage on Rye Marsh, and finally to Brook Granary, a small outbuilding on a farm near Icklesham.

Here he remained for some 20 years, working mostly on his own, de-pendent on buses and trains and other people’s vehicles since he himself

14

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

didn’t drive, always quietly humorous, always busy. At first he set up as wood engraver and signwriter only (witness his beautiful lettering on the shop-front of the Martello Bookshop in Rye) but in 1970 a com-mission from a local architect brought him back to lettercarving, and it was lettercarving — mostly memorial work interspersed with some larger projects — which supplied much of his income, such as it was.

Clients included the Church of England (he was a committed, if quiet, Anglican), the City livery companies, Glyndebourne and the Sussex Downs Conservation Board. His wood engravings illustrated such works as Thoreau’s Walden (page 58), Malcolm Saville’s Portrait of Rye (page 98) and various private press books; he designed book jackets and pro-duced a steady stream of beautifully executed bookplates. The Christmas cards which he designed, engraved and printed himself on his Columbian hand-press were a special delight.

Martello Bookshop | sign board, Rye, 1976

mich


|

15

Given his relative isolation, he was a surprisingly faithful member and supporter of the Double Crown Club, the Society of Wood Engravers and the more recently formed Letter Exchange; he was also a founder member of the Guild of Sussex Craftsmen and a mainstay of Harriet Frazer’s Memorials by Artists since its inception in 1988.

Late (as it turned out) in his life he was much involved in the design of public lettering for Winchester Cathedral and was given a degree of freedom which pleased him greatly, enabling him to develop new let-terform ideas he had long been hankering to try out. This association with the cathedral led, in 1994, to a move from Icklesham to a single room in a small housing estate in Winchester where he carried on en-graving, writing and lettercarving (though his hopes of finding a proper workshop in the city remained unrealised).

Following Eric Gill’s example, he carved his own headstone,1 not knowing

Christmas cards | wood engravings, 1986 & 1994

1For The Art of Remembering exhibition (Blickling Hall gardens, Norfolk, 1998).See page 86 & 87 for images.

16

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

he’d need it so soon. His death meant that he joined the ranks of those multi-skilled lettering craftspeople, now all dead or retired, who ben-efited from the Johnston-Gill tradition established in the first part of the twentieth century (Kenneth Breese, Sidney Bendall, John Woodcock, Ann Camp, Wendy Westover, Will Carter, David Kindersley and many others come to mind). From the 1920s to the 1960s this tradition was nurtured and respected by art schools, colleges and institutions, so that English lettering and typography was considered the best in the world. Now, by degrees, it has been systematically destroyed. The notion that well-designed, well-executed, craftsman-like lettering should be part of our daily lives is one which seems to be totally ignored at present by the arts establishment and current educational authorities.

As things now stand, there is a real possibility that the gap left by the passing of practitioners and teachers such as Michael Renton may never be filled. The Edward Johnston Foundation is doing what it can, though with extremely limited resources, to buck this prevailing trend, and it is initiatives such as the Lettering and Commemorative Arts Trust, through the setting up of apprenticeships and workshops, which may make a real difference in preventing these skills from being lost forever.

John Nash, February 2015

mich


|

17

Michael and friend at City & Guilds

18

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’ I first met Michael Renton when I was nineteen. I had been staying with friends in Rye. He took me down the stairs to his little basement flat at Barrack Square, Winchelsea — and there was his workshop — there were the engraving blocks, the tools, the materials of his craft, there were the prints and drawings, the lettering, there were his books. I was full of wonder, overjoyed and inspired. Then he sat at his workbench and began to engrave, to show me, because I had never seen this before. It is a day that I shall never forget. From that time I learnt so much from him, talking with him, looking at him working. The world has been enriched by his life and work.

Later, Michael moved to Rye Marsh Farm. This used to be a ‘looker’s hut’, which had once been used by shepherds and was situated in the middle of the dyked flat lands between Rye and Winchelsea. Here I regularly came to visit. One of the extracts from my journals of that period reads like this:

1966

‘Michael has no electricity only oil lamps and candles. But he likes it like that ... He has just come in, thumped around, and said “The wind seems to have dropped a bit”. I am sitting on the floor, and I have been looking at Blake’s Visions of the Daughters of Albion. Yesterday was a beautiful September day and Michael, Richard [Horner] and I sat outside in the afternoon sunshine. Michael has an old black bike which he rides to Rye on. It takes approximately half an hour to walk to Rye or Winchelsea through the fields. In the evenings we have conversations which are vaguely religious and vaguely everything else. There’s such a

Michael Renton, A Memoir

mich

ael renton: a mem

oir by angela lemaire

| 19

difference in our characters that there is bound to be some confusion in interpretations...’

I remember those confusions, mostly hilariously funny! Michael often had friends to stay, and parties too, on the marshes. We used to go to the Bridge Inn, which was at the bottom of Winchelsea cliff, and in

the evening, when it was dark, walk back to the cottage. I wrote about those times walking in the dark back to his cottage: ‘I can never see a thing; I have to follow Michael’s huge pale shadow just in front of me. And then Timmy (Michael’s dog) goes wild...’ I lived in London at the time, and it was so exciting for me to visit Michael so regularly in the country.

I moved to Scotland in 1973 and though we kept in touch, I never saw him again. Neither of us had cars, and come to that, much money. Michael wrote wonderful letters, as of course many people know. Here

Bridge Inn | wood engraving, 1968, (edition of 50)

20

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

are a few quotes from some of the letters he wrote to me:

Rye Marsh Farm, 21.9.63

‘People may never realise all that lies behind your work; though as your mastery increases you should be able to give it more adequate expression. People don’t realise much of what goes on behind mine, though I can hardly blame them. I want them to and I shall go on trying to make them aware, and you must do the same. That is one of the things art is for: to make people aware, and to evoke or invoke powers and presences otherwise unknown or unnoticed.’


‘As artists we are makers (some of the few real makers left, pre-industrial survivors in fact!) and the world will, I think, judge us mainly by the quality of what we make. God indeed is concerned with the quality of our lives and our personalities, but the quality of our work still comes into it very much because it is likely to have something to do with the quality of our lives, if we take our work at all seriously. How often have I heard it said, “People matter!” Well of course they do but what people do and how they do it matters also, because it is probably some evidence of what they are.

As artists, then, we have a rare opportunity, a privilege even, in this modern world, but it carries with it an awful responsibility as all high privilege does. And as simple human beings we have to learn, or re-learn, our cosmic responsibility; on the shoulders of each one of us, in a sense, rests the whole burden of the Universe, and no wonder we need help, the help of God in Christ to carry it.’

mich

ael renton: a mem

oir by angela lemaire

| 21

Winchester, 26.2.98

‘As you say, it’s the vision that matters, and the technique has to be of its service; though I do think that the experience of a technique — wood-engraving included — can be an active ingredient in the vision, which would not be precisely as it is without that experience and influence...’


‘Your stillness must be a positive thing; not as it were a place of private refuge carved out of the wilderness of worldly clamour and chaos but a source putting out beams of light into the world.’

This could be said of Michael himself.

Angela Lemaire swe

This article was originally written by Angela Lemaire for the Society of Wood Engravers’ (SWE) journal Multiples, September 2001

Angela | wood engraving,1964

22

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Michael 's sketchbook | circa 1984

mich

ael & drawing: h

is though

ts & influences by simon langsdale

| 23

Underlying Michael's skill as a craftsman was his ability as a draughtsman. Michael understood only too well how important it was to draw regularly — though this did not prevent him from occasionally chastising himself in his journal for not doing so more frequently —and, as the photograph shows, he was not averse to drawing outdoors even in the coldest weather. He was especially good at depicting architecture, particularly churches (see Michael's sketchbook, left).

Michael & Drawing:His Thoughts & Influences

Michael drawing:late 1970s or early 1980s

24

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

His ability in this respect is breathtaking at times.

One of Michael's techniques when sketching was to make notes to re-mind himself of what he had seen. For example, on one of his drawings of the interior of a church, he observed: ‘The east window is slightly off centre...due possibly to my perspective in [the] pews. Strong warm light on chancel side walls. Top edge of pews and edges of panelling catch light up.’ Typically, Michael analysed his thoughts on drawing and wrote at length in his journal on the subject:

‘The difficulty about drawing from Nature is how to get beyond it. I am more and more convinced that it cannot be an end in itself, except perhaps for strictly documentary purposes… I see more clearly than ever before (I think) that painting, drawing etc. is not the representation of Nature but the re-presentation — not… simply the record of natural appearance but the making of a parallel reality... All worthwhile art aspires (I suggest) to the condition of Reality. Differing artists have differing notions of what Reality is and some may believe it is essentially abstract: I cannot. Reality is not realism, if by that is meant the attempt to describe the purely visual experi-ence of objects. Reality goes beyond the surface impression of things; yet I believe human perception of Reality, or of realities… cannot do without reference to things seen and therefore representable in art… Yet I am sometimes aware of a power in forms, colours, sounds etc. which has no obvious relation to concrete external eventualities, or which does not DIRECTLY refer to them.’

Michael's visual language was highly influenced by the British visionary painter Samuel Palmer (1805-1881). Indeed it was Michael's discovery of this artist that induced him to begin drawing directly from nature. The watercolour of the country road with trees forming a tunnel over it shows the influence of Palmer (opposite). It is almost a mystical expres-sion of what the landscape meant to him. Deserted country roads or footpaths were a theme that Michael returned to several times over the

mich

ael & drawing: h

is though


| 25

years in his sketches, paintings and writings. Towards the end of his life he wrote: ‘If there is anything better than walking one of the green roads of England I have yet to know it.’ For a non-driver like Michael the perception of travelling through the landscape he so strongly iden-tified with, and expressed himself through, was experienced in terms of space and the distance to be covered. In sharp contrast, the modern world was obsessed with time. Michael argued that:

Hollow Lane | watercolour, 1970

26

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

‘Ever since mechanical transport began...it has been said of each new development that it “annihilates distance”. In the minds of those who habitually travel by motor vehicle, this has now truly been achieved; ask one of them the distance from one place to an-other and the answer you will probably receive is not “x miles” but

“twenty minutes” or “two hours”... Space or distance is thus, for them, an abstraction, not a reality measured by the physical features of the way, a hill here, a river there, a valley, a wood...’

It is this connection to the landscape that is so remarkable throughout Michael's work. The depiction of weather is another defining feature of his wood engravings. From rain-lashed market squares (see page 99), to billowing clouds racing over a cobbled street in Rye (opposite), to the blazing mid-summer sun, to the deathly stillness of a churchyard at dusk, his ability to convey atmosphere and a sense of place can pull the viewer into the scene so that for a few seconds one becomes immersed in his vision of the world. Not only did he live in close harmony with nature, rejecting many of the comforts of modern life that we now take for granted, he used its resources of stone and wood to create compelling visual statements — statements that cause us to pause and reflect on what we have and what could be lost.

Simon Langsdale, March 2015

mich

ael & drawing: h

is though


| 27

The Strand | wood engraving, 1975Illustration from Portrait of Rye by Malcolm Saville

Letterhead for Barrack Square | wood engraving, c. 1960

Letterhead for Rye Marsh | wood engraving, c. 1963

Letterhead for Brook Granary | wood engraving, 1973

Letterhead for Bilberry Court | 1993 | see page 86 for images of M.R.'s memorial to himself and later versionof his artist's statement for The Art of Remembering catalogue

w o o d e n g r av e r

a r t i s t

i l l u s t r a t o r

p r i n t e r

‘Wood engraving is a form of relief print. This is where ink is rolled

onto the surface of a cut block and is then transferred under pressure

from the top surface of the block onto the paper. All that has been

cut away does not print. The traditional wood of the engraver is

boxwood, because of its consistency and denseness. Other hard-

woods such as holly, cherry and lemonwood can also be used. The

block is always cut on the end grain. On the smooth surface of the

prepared wood block the sharp steel engraving tool, is able to make

a clean line in one stroke. Or many fine lines can create tones and

shades. The printed result of an engraved block can have a sharp

focus and allow a great variety of detail, as well as deep contrasts

in blacks and whites.’

Written by Angela Lemaire in 2002 for anexhibition at Aikwood Tower, Selkirk of herwood engravings and other work relating toher book, The Journey of Thomas the Rhymer

(The Old Stile Press 2000)

36

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

West Street & Lamb House | wood engraving, 1976.illustration from Portrait of Rye by Malcolm Saville

m.r: w

ood engraver, artist, illustrator, printer |

37

The Harvest of Sorrow | wood engraving, 1988.illustration for bookjacket of the same title

Untitled | wood engraving, 1961, edition of 20

38

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Walden | wood engraving, 1979

The Folio Society edition of Walden was published in 1980 and illustrated with twenty wood engravings by Michael Renton. Written by Henry David Thoreau between 1845-47 and published in 1854, Walden is Thoreau's account of the two years that he spent living alone in a log cabin at Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts.

m.r: w


39

Walden ( frontispiece) | wood engraving, 1979portrait of Henry David Thoreau

40

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Walden | preparatory drawings, 1979.

m.r: w


41

Walden | wood engravings, 1979.

42

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

m.r: w


43

Walden | wood engravings, 1979

44

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

La Belle Dame Sans Merci | wood engravings, 1986illustrations from a special edition of the John Keats' poem published byThe Cherub Press

m.r: w


45

Apple Tree Wick | wood engraving

Apple Trees | wood engraving, 1974

46

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

‘Tree Becoming an Angel ’ | wood engraved Christmas card & preparatory sketch(pencil & paper), 1997

m.r: w


47

Heredity | wood engraving, 1999 (edition of 50)commissioned by The Crafts Council

48

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Stakes | wood engraving, 1976–8 (Edition of 50)

m.r: w


49Yard at Sunset | watercolour

‘I came to monumental carving by way of wood engraving and a

concern with lettering and typography and the whole business of

communication both by image and by “visible words”. But love of

the English landscape has also played its part. Geology has shaped

the land itself, determining soils and vegetation and the materials

of vernacular building, the variety of which so enriches the countryside.

Among the special satisfactions of memorial work are those of

continuing a traditional craft and making things as it were out of

the bones of England to become a further part of the pattern.’

M.R., 1995

l e t t e r c a r v e r

52

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

m.r: lettercarver

| 53

Brian Shaw | Friston churchyard, East Sussex, 1995.

This headstone was commissioned through Memorials by Artists by Allard Tobin (1939-1996) and Derek Rencher (1932-2014) to their ‘very dear friend’ who was a ‘brilliant dancer with the Royal Ballet’. There were several changes to the design over the three years it took to complete the memorial and much correspondence. Derek Rencher wrote to Michael in December 1995:

‘I have to tell you how thrilled I am with Brian’s grave-stone. It is absolutely beautiful and exactly what I’d hoped it would be. It doesn’t stand out ostentatiously but blends in perfectly with the church. You have made the animals look wild, their fur and the grass on which they stand is perfect, as are the seed heads and the Downs behind... I am sure this couldn’t have been easy... but you have brought it to life in the most amazing way. Thank you Michael, I am so happy with it.’

initial design for the frontof the stone.

m.r: lettercarver

| 55

56

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

The Burial Place of Ashes | St Mary's churchyard, Funtington, W. Sussex, 1990Garden of Remembrance Monument

m.r: lettercarver

| 57

Angela Margaret Trew& Charlotte Lida Miller | Portland stone, Appleshaw churchyard,

Hampshire, 1991

This headstone, commissioned through Memorials by Artists, is for a grandmother and granddaughter who died within two weeks of each other. ‘The sheep are Wensleydales which Angela bred — a ewe and lamb — the oak leaves are from the trees she loved on her farm.’

58

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Life is the Thing we all Want | Welsh slate with rusty streak caused by naturaliron inclusion. This work was likely to have been made as an exhibition piece.

In Tribute to Graeme & Anne JamesonWinchester Cathedral, 1998

m.r: lettercarver

| 59

Irene Mina Kathleen Kosbab | This photograph was found among others of Michael ’s work. We have no detailed information on this memorial.

60

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Charles Dent | Portland stone, Arundel RomanCatholic Cemetary, 1998

The significance of the palm tree was Charles Dent’s love of warm islands. After WWII he lived for a number of years in the Caribbean where he grew nutmegs on Grenada. He then lived in Cornwall growing anemones, then to Malta and finally, for his last two decades, to Sri Lanka. His motto ‘Le Dieu me prête la vie’ reflected his Christian fatalism. (He was a Roman Catholic convert).

m.r: lettercarver

| 61

Paul Broomhall | Penhurst, East Sussex, 1996

62

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

m.r: lettercarver

| 63

Two Minutes' Experience | Purbeck Thornback stone, 1994

Michael ’s artist’s statement:

‘The commission for this piece gave me an opportunity toproduce an experimental design and explore possibilities not often occurring in the course of my everyday work. I have become particularly interested in the scope for developing lettering as architectural sculpture, and this is a small stepin that direction.

‘The lettering is carved in high relief. The edges of the slab are left undressed; the background to the letters is left with a chiselled finish, the face of the letters is fine rubbed, giving a contrast of textures. The work was carried out entirely with normal letter cutting and carving chisels, dummy, mallet etc.’

Commissioned by the Crafts Council. On long term loan to Exeter Health Care Arts.

64

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

m.r: lettercarver

| 65

Domingos and Antonio Vasconcellos | Blue Hornton stone,Putney Vale Cemeterycommissioned through Memorials by Artistsby Mrs Maria Vasconcellos for her two sons

m.r: lettercarver

| 67

Headstone to M.R. | Hornton stone, 1998

Artist’s statement by Michael Renton on his work for The Art of Rememberingexhibition, Blickling Hall Gardens 1998.

The idea of doing a memorial to myself was suggested by the example of Eric Gill who did the same as a specimen for an exhibition in the 1930’s. But so that it should not be taken too seriously or tempt providence (EG’s friends were alarmed and in fact he died only four years later) I have omitted any reference to age or dates (even of birth!). In any case, are memorials only for the dead?

Clients for memorial work are often looking for something fairly conventional, and I am happy to do a straightforward job for anyone. But here, with only myself to please, there seemed room to play a little. The bunch of tools on the back of the stone is meant to represent the various media in which I work. The whole of this side aims to convey the notion – another owing much to Eric Gill and David Jones – of workmanship as offering, which has however to be taken up into something greater to be of any ultimate value. The words from Augustus Toplady’s well-known hymn, ‘Rock of Ages’ rarely fails to raise a lump in the throat if I find myself singing them in church; the wording round the edge of the stone is from the Nicene Creed.

Left: John Nash carved M.R.'s nameand dates; Below & far left: The stone insitu at The Art of Remembering exhibition

68

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

George Michael Warr cbe | Welsh slate wall tablet, Frant, Kent, 1989

Commissioned by the late George Michael Warr’s widow through Memorials by Artists. There was some difficulty in obtaining permission for this memorial, although the rector thought the design ‘very handsome and appropriate’. Our client, Mrs Gillian Warr, consulted the late Rodney Dennys (Arundel Herald of Arms Extraordinary 1982-93), writing a long letter to Michael in which she said, ‘I have consulted an old friend... and he is keen that heraldic designs should be simple and TOUGH. Lions should be fierce and so should eagles…

The faculty (ecclesiastical planning permission) was eventually granted and Mrs Warr wrote to Michael saying, ‘We are all delighted and there is so much admiration from everyone who sees the memorial.’

m.r: lettercarver

| 69

‘Letters are inseparable from civilisation as we know it; so much so

that their existence is taken for granted. I believe there are people,

even in this country today, who are illiterate in the strict sense, but

they must be few. Nearly everybody uses letters at some point, if it

be only to write a note to the milkman, and to do so they will have

gone through the process of learning to write — that is, learning

to form letters in such a way that they can be recognised by others.

It is amazing that so many versions of the same letter of the alphabet

are instantly identifiable despite their differences of form — there

is not really very much in common between a lower case italic and

a roman capital “A”, but we know either at a glance.’

M.R. from his calligraphy trials notepad, 1995

c a l l i g r a p h e r

d e s i g n e r

c o m m e r c i a l

a r t i s t

s i g n w r i t e r

72

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Fressing feld Wine Labelwood engraving, 1982

A Cross Section ( front cover)wood engraving, 1988

m.r: calligraph

er, designer, comm

ercial artist, signwriter

| 73

Fressing feld Wine Labelwood engraving, 1982

A Cross Section ( front cover)wood engraving, 1988

The Sun & The Moon | wood engraving, 1982

‘I recorded The Sun and the Moon album in 1976 and first met Michael Renton in the early 70s when I was booked to sing some folk songs at a charity concert organised by my soon to be wife, Deirdre, who had known Michael for years. As a solo performer and having the opportunity of being exposed to his phenomenal talent, I asked him to design the front of my record sleeve with appropriate lettering, a task he entered in with gusto and for which I am eternally grateful. The haunting evocative image he produced seemed very appropriate for the title track, which was a miner’s wife's lament for her lost husband.’

Don Shepherd, February 2015

74

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Exclusive Knitwear | wood engraving & calligraphy, 1982

m.r: calligraph

er, designer, comm


| 75

Countryside 2000 Logo | wood engraving, 1998Commissioned byCountry Life Magazine

Sheen Sinclair business cardwood engraving

City & Guilds Art School logowood engraving, 1971

76

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Portrait of Rye book jacket | wood engraving & calligraphy, 1976

illustrated with ten wood engravings byM. R. (see also pages 37, 44 & 56)

m.r: calligraph

er, designer, comm


| 77

Town Hall & St. Mary's, Rye | wood engraving, 1976

illustration from Portrait of Rye byMalcolm Saville

78

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Books Maps & Printssign board, Rye, East Sussex, 1976

Antiquarian & Second Hand Bookssign board

m.r: calligraph

er, designer, comm


| 79

The Waveney Bookshopsign board, Eye, Suffolk

Hayle Mill Housesign board, Eye, Suffolk

80

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Charlotte Adams | signwriting

m.r: calligraph

er, designer, comm


| 81

Lettering for Winchester Cathedral | pen on paper, 1993

Domine Dominus Noster | signwriting on wood

This ‘headboard’ hung above Michael ’s bed. Translation: ‘Lord, our Lord, how wonderful is thy name throughout all the earth’

‘Bookplates denote the ownership of books. The earliest were woodcuts

by artists such as Albrecht Durer in Germany; the majority have

been engravings on copper or steel. Wood engraving, using box for

its fine grain, is particularly successful for pictorial bookplates (those

based on an image, as distinct, say, from the many based on heraldry).

This was demonstrated from the beginnings of wood engraving two

centuries ago by Thomas Bewick in Newcastle and later by Gordon

Craig, Eric Gill and other twentieth century artists. A bookplate

often features many personal and emotional motifs concentrated in

a small and intense image — a miniature work of art reflecting the

interests of the owner and the versatility of the engraver. As with

so many things, the simplest form is often the most effective.’

An excerpt from ‘On Bookplates’ byGeoffrey Vevers, in An Engraver’sProgress:Simon Brett, Fifty Years of Wood Engraving

published in 2013 by Oblong Creative

m.r: lettercarver

| 83

b o o k p l a t e s

84

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

m.r: lettercarver

| 85

86

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

m.r: bookplates

| 87

RJ Goulden | wood engraving& preparatory sketches (pencil & paper: left), 1997

88

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

William Halliday Keatleywood engraving, 1990

Joanna Trollope | wood engraving, 1984

Weald of Kent Preservation Societywood engraving, 1984

m.r: bookplates

| 89

Mary Vincent | wood engraving, 1981 Nigel MacKenzie | wood engraving, 1990

90

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

H. Montgomery Hyde | wood engraving 1964

m.r: bookplates

| 91

Valerie & Christopher Fenwick | wood engraving

92

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Stephen Skelton | wood engraving, c. 1986

m.r: bookplates

| 93

Hew Edward Jones | wood engraving, 1998

S. Slinger Ltd, 1951

a n e n g r av e r ’s

a p p r e n t i c e

98

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’ My first sight of a wood engraving must have been long before I knew what such a thing was, or had the slightest idea of how pictures of any sort got into books. But growing up with bookish inclinations, as well as a compulsion to draw and to make things, it was unlikely that I should long escape infection with the mystique of the printed page. Eventually, as a very young student at the local art school, with vague notions that illustration might one day earn me a crust, I stumbled one day on the late George Mackley’s book of 1946, Wood Engraving. This told me very clearly how it was done and what its distinctive qualities were (in much later years I was to come to know George in person, and only recently have been pondering again his superb mastery of the medium). I was interested, but did not see myself plunging into the craft then and there. Soon after this I expelled myself from the art school: imprudently on the face of it, but I was no longer happy with the direction in which I was being pushed, while two of my closest friends there had left and found themselves work. I was not so successful, and approaching liability for National Service did not help. Then a cryptic advertisement in the old News Chronicle caught my eye. Telephoning the number it gave, I was astonished to find that S. Slinger Ltd, of Westminster, wanted apprentices to learn wood engraving. Like nearly everybody else, I had been given to understand that, as a trade (though not as a medium of expression), it had died with Queen Victoria. On a day in August 1951, I made my way to Westminster full (apart from anything else) of curiosity.

Number 105 Horseferry Road had been built, I imagine, late in the last century as one of a row of shops. Lettering now filled much of the square panelled window, proclaiming various trades, among which wood en-graving was not the most conspicuous. Opening the door, I faced a

An Engraver’s Apprentice byMichael Renton

an engraver’s apprentice by mich

ael renton |

99

narrow counter, behind which stood a kind of cabin, like nothing so much as the wheelhouse of a small trawler. This likeness was not alto-gether fanciful, for it was the place from which, so to speak, the business was navigated. It had OFFICE displayed on a bronze plate over the doorway. I was greeted and shown through a door in a wooden partition to the right. At once it was necessary to edge round someone busy en-graving a zinc stencil on a Taylor-Hobson pantograph machine, which made a considerable racket. Then I was led through a narrow gangway flanked by type cases, where someone was setting type for making rubber stamps. The gangway continued between a table on the left and a bench against the wall with gas rings and a couple of screw presses for vul-canising rubber dies (the business end of a stamp), having long runners projecting in front, another hazard. Beyond the table (used I was to discover chiefly for packing or unpacking parcels and making tea) the wood engravers occupied the rear part of the shop. Beneath two tall windows, curtained with dirty muslin and looking onto a sort of brick pit, ran a long bench, at the further end of which the senior engraver, Mr Platt, was working. At his back another taller bench supported a contraption of wheels, handles, screws and springs, such as I had never set eyes on. It was a ruling machine, of which more in due course. Mr Flatt’s colleague Mr Moyles worked, sometimes, at a table which stood against the rear of the office. There was a fireplace, which in the winter months had a real fire in it.

I was interviewed informally by the two engravers, to whom I showed some drawings and art school specimens. They seemed favourably im-pressed, and explained the demands of their own work, showing me blocks and proofs. These were mostly engravings of various kinds of hardware: illustrations for catalogues of surgical, scientific and other precision instruments, tools, electrical equipment and so on. I did not see myself doing this kind of thing for the term of my natural life: but I was aware of a challenge, and the offer of a unique experience which might be turned to other uses in the fullness of time, as well as a lifeline in an unpromising situation. I was told that as an articled apprentice I

100

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

could apply for deferment of my call-up, and probably complete my training before that intervened. This indeed proved to be the case. There could be no real doubt in my own mind, and I agreed to start (for a trial period at first) as soon as possible. They kindly reimbursed me for my travelling expenses, gave me a mug of ‘Sidney’s tea’, and I went home with the next five years of my life decided.

Arriving for the first day’s work, I was given an offcut of wood and a tint tool, shown how to hold it, and told to practise cutting spirals, trying not to bruise the wood with the belly of the tool as it turned the curve. I was also shown how to clear, i.e. remove waste wood with a scorper and ‘card’ (actually a piece of leather against which the tool is levered to give the necessary digging action). From such exercises I soon grad-uated to ‘facsims’, facsimile signature blocks mostly used in making rubber stamps, a considerable part of the firm’s business. The die is made by forcing raw sheet rubber into a mould under heat and pressure. The mould (here of plaster mixed with dextrine) requires a pattern. Many stamps can be typeset, several in one form, from which the mould is taken. But anything non-typographic calls for a block, and wood blocks were preferred as they could be cut deep and with a smooth bevel which would pull out of the mould cleanly. This work provided a useful training ground for apprentices: while no other rubber stamp manufacturers enjoyed the luxury of their own resident wood engravers, and we were able to supply a number of firms besides our own. You started a ‘facsim’ by digging out all the sharp angles with a graver, then outlining the strokes with a tint tool and routing round them with a machine. You did not, of course (except by accident!) take the routing cutter too close to the line, but bevelled away the remaining wood with a scorper. I was told I should eventually be able to cut an average signature in twenty minutes: I think this was occasionally achieved. Often several were engraved on one piece of wood and separated afterwards, careful work with the circular saw, fingers sometimes less than an inch from the whirling blade. At the time, I learned to do this without turning a hair: but I should hesitate to try it now. We kept a stock of cheaper wood for


ael renton |

101

these jobs, some of it being of a nasty fibrous consistency. If the saw was blunt (as it often was) this would burn as it was cut, giving out an acrid smell which came to have unpleasant associations.

My first day also revealed the purpose of the dirty curtains at the back windows. It was the window cleaner’s day, always an occasion for repartee concerning someone or other’s favourite football team. This time the prowess of Chelsea was in question, and the window cleaner issued a challenge: ‘If Chelsea wins on Saturday I’ll wash them curtains for you!’ This elicited howls of protest from the wood engravers. The filth with which they (the curtains, not the engravers) were impregnated was a prophylactic against hot sunlight, which could have played havoc with any block on which it was allowed to fall. I had yet to encounter the sad story of Bewick’s Chillingham Bull, which suffered this very fate.

I was one of two apprentices who started on the same day. This may be the point at which to say something of my employers and workmates. The office was usually occupied by Mr Slinger himself, also known as Sid, or the Old Man, according to speaker and occasion. He was not an engraver but a rubber stamp maker who had also formerly traded in general stationery and books. He was said to be a member of the Dickens Society and a collector of that author’s first editions: ‘Dickensian’ gives something of a clue to the charachter of the whole establishment. At some stage he had taken into partnership his brother-in-law Bill, a nameplate engraver and stencil cutter, and one of his sons, Edwin. Another son, not part of the firm, was a commercial photographer. Edwin was a kind of general factotum, and increasingly his father’s aide in the general running of the business. The two senior wood engravers, Arthur Platt and Frank Moyles, had learned their trade about the period of the First World War. In the Second they had, I believe, been bombed out of premises in the City where, as well as engraving, they had carried on a job printing business. From this disaster they had salvaged a platen machine, now housed in the basement (or rather cellar) at Horseferry Road and used for printing the firm’s own stationery, as well as the odd

102

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

job for some special client. Another survival (I imagine) from their former enterprise was the amount of process engraving taken in, and immediately farmed out to the City Photo-Engraving Company. Mr Platt was the senior of the two, and the finer craftsman. He rarely if ever left his engraving bench, except to mount the high stool at the ruling machine: whereas his colleague was usually bustling about doing half a dozen things in any given day, and sometimes hardly touched an engraving tool in weeks. Good humour had sustained both of them through less-than-easy times. If anything Mr Platt was the more obvi-ously ready for a joke. Travelling up from Sussex he was liable to collect a new one (usually ribald) from some fellow-commuter almost every day. Now and again, too, he might break into some music hall song remem-bered from earlier days.

These five were directors of the firm, and for one brief period at least they outnumbered the employees. Senior among these was Albert, really a wood engraver by trade but now employed largely as a compositor on the ‘rubber stamp side’: a dark omen for the future. General assistance was given by a succession of boys and young men. Roy was my contemporary and was soon swallowed up by the Army. He had started on trial as a would-be engraver but had not settled to the work. Neither had Sidney, whose tea we drank twice daily despite its fearful reputation. It was made in a large blue enamelled pot whose inside it was better not to investigate, and dispensed by running it along a row of mugs lined up on the table, the tea pouring continuously whether or not there was a vessel to receive it. Once it had been served round, the residual puddle was swept down the centre of the table (hollow with repeated treatment of this kind) with a villainous-looking cloth, streaming off the end onto the floor, where no doubt it helped to lay the dust which always accumulated thickly in spite of daily sweeping. Sidney was a cheeky native Westmonasterian, his family lair a tenement in Old Pye Street, whereas the rest of us mostly converged on the place daily from some distance: myself from ‘leafy Middlesex’ (not yet quite unworthy of John Betjeman’s epithet), others from north, east or especially south of London,


ael renton |

103

Arthur Platt all the way from Worthing. When Sidney too vanished into the Forces he was succeeded by Gordon, who among other things was a bugler in the Boys’ Brigade. He wore heavy boots and whatever he was doing seemed to be perpetually on the march: but he became a loyal and useful helper, though he never attempted engraving as far as I recall.

My fellow apprentice Alan, two years my junior, lived in Essex. He claimed no ‘artistic’ pretensions, but he stayed the course of his training and remained with the firm till near the end. His quiet loyalty could, I think, have been better requited than it was. Lastly, there was David, in his mid-twenties and slightly apart. For one thing, in my earliest days there he worked only part-time. For another, he was an Artist, regarded with a mixture of awe and suspicion by the others. He had had a full art school training and had done some teaching: but his hearing was impaired, which had led (it was said) to his abandoning the latter. It was sometimes hinted that he was a careless workman, and potentially a bad influence on me: but we disagreed about too many things, I think, for that (we would argue furiously, but our exchanges hardly resembled the clash of finely-tempered blades. The thud of bludgeons was more typically to be heard, and sometimes the squelch of a custard pie.) As for carelessness, I think he saw himself as employed largely on hack work, and did it no better than he thought it was worth doing. He was in fact a very competent wood-engraver, with some wit and imagination, and I regretted his total disappearance from the scene in the last year of my ‘time’.

Readers will by now have some idea of the variety of the firm’s activities. Odd jobs which occasionally came the way of the wood engraving de-partment included bits of artwork for process reproduction, and large blocks (about two feet square) for printing on hessian sacks. These were cut on canvas-backed rubber about three-eighths of an inch thick, for wrapping round the drum of the machine: you cut round the letters, etc., with a knife and peeled the waste away from the backing. David

104

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

handled most of these out-of-the-way items until he left, after which they were often given to me. Very deeply cut wood blocks were also made, with a handle screwed to the back, for impressing on rubber balloons. In the Coronation year, 1953, one such involved a portrait of the Queen: but this was not entrusted to either of the apprentices! (The ‘facsim’ business brought us now and again the signatures of Cabinet ministers or even Royalty. Once I had to engrave the signature of King Edward VII, though for what purpose, nearly half a century after his death, I cannot imagine.)

My own first step up from ‘facsims’ was to engraving trade marks and the occasional heraldic device, still mainly for the rubber stamp trade. Of course this often involved lettering, though rarely any calligraphic or typographic finesse. One little job, however, about the end of my first year, pointed to more rewarding things. Here I must mention Mr Perry. Clifton Harcourt Perry had been an engraver himself, of some distinc-tion: Albert had once worked for him. He was also a collector of Old Master prints and rare books. Now nearing eighty, he had long since laid down his own tools, but still accepted work which he brought to us. At times he was almost a daily visitor, who would generally read out some especially tortuous clue from the Daily Telegraph crossword. We were supposed to (but never did) guess the answer, which he thereupon had the chuckling satisfaction of telling us himself. The senior engravers sometimes groaned as his voice was heard at the door, heralding inter-ruption to their work: but I enjoyed the brief diversion, especially on those occasions when he brought a bag of buns (or once or twice ice cream) for the whole ten or eleven of us. One day he produced Myfanwy Piper’s then recent book on Reynolds Stone, and asked us to adapt one of the designs in it for his own private letter heading (I have no idea whether he had permission for this!). The job was given to me. The result was a travesty of Reynolds Stone’s effortless assurance and grace; but it helped to open new vistas for me. Through the kindness of the late Mrs Perry I now own the same copy of Mrs Piper’s book.


ael renton |

105

It has to be said that we hardly ever handled work giving even limited scope for design or imagination. It was either straight reproduction, or interpretation according to more or less mechanical formulae. There was indeed a formula for everything and departure from it was likely to be viewed with a frown, or to evoke such comments as, ‘I don’t know why you want to be apprenticed: you seem to know it all!’ Of course the ‘catalogue work ’ which was the most demanding and altogether superior side of the business required a precision properly associated with me-chanical things. It was only that the approach so admirably suited to this was liable to be followed for everything else. Albert said to me one day, ‘nobody can call himself an engraver who can’t cut a hand tint’. But I had to teach myself such things in my own time: in the shop, the ruling machine reigned supreme, and little or nothing was done freehand that could be done with mechanical aids. Although at quite an early stage I was entrusted with clearing catalogue blocks, it was a longish time before I was allowed to try my hand at engraving one from start to finish.

Among our clients for this work were Allen & Hanbury’s (surgical in-struments), Griffin & George (scientific instruments and laboratory equipment), Hall Harding (drawing instruments), Bulgin & Company (electrical accessories), Buck & Hickman and Herbert K. Staub (tools), Exide Batteries, Bush Radio & Television, Lloyd Loom furniture, Frank Love (sanitary fittings) and a leading dental supplier whose name I cannot recall. The instruments we illustrated for the latter had always to be drawn on the wood as precisely as if working drawings for their manufacture. Many other articles were photographed and the negatives printed straight onto sensitised blocks. Mr Moyles had a corner of the basement set aside for this, with a big wooden camera (complete with tripod and black cloth) and a tiny dark-room which was hardly more than a cupboard. He worked away accompanied by the raucous polyphony of router, saw, ‘bowler’, linisher and various other machines (shouting ad lib), all housed down there and of which any number might be in action at once. They enjoyed, too, a somewhat unhealthy intimacy. Sitting

106

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

Exide Battery | wood engraving, c. 1951–1956

Bush Radio | wood engraving, c. 1951–1956


ael renton |

107

at the routing machine while electros were being trimmed with the bowler alongside, great slivers of metal would fly up at you as the latter’s twin blades hurtled round. Despite all this lethal ironmongery, and some intriguingly original wiring, accidents were few. A factory inspector once called and insisted on proper guards. He also insisted on a wash basin. Before this, at about ten minutes to six each day, Mr Platt would put a kettle on the gas ring and an enamelled bowl — in which the teacups were also washed — on the table. The water was soon hot: he would pour it out, wash his hands and prepare to catch his train to Worthing. Thereafter, one by one everybody else would come up to wash in what soon became a grey lukewarm soup.

It was not always possible to work from a photograph on the wood as it stood. The purely optical perspective of the camera had often to be adjusted, to look convincing when engraved, with pencil and white paint. Too wet a brush could easily soften and lift the sensitised emulsion, producing a mud pie effect. The consistency of the coating could vary, and might peel off in lumps as soon as it was touched with an engraving tool. This might mean further drawing up on the wood, or occasionally a fresh start with a print on another block. Whether drawn or photo-graphed, the main lines of the subject would be established with the finest tint tool. The image was then washed off, the block rolled up with ink, wiped to leave the surface dark but not sticky, and French chalk was dusted into the cuts to show them up. The block was now ready for ruling the tints.

An engraver’s ruling machine is a moderately complicated affair, and I can hardly do more than indicate the principles on which it works. The block is clamped to a horizontal faceplate, which is moved along a bed by means of a threaded shaft. For laying an ordinary tint, its movement is regulated by a treadle operated ratchet with a stop which is adjusted to give the required ‘guage’, i.e. spacing of the cuts. The cutting tool travels at right angles to the bed, towards the operator. The toolpost or carriage is moved on a rack and pinion principle, by a wheel operated

108

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

with the right hand, the other pressing it down to obtain the cut. The tool having a triangular point, depth and width of cut are simultaneously adjusted by screwing it up or down. If adjusted after each stroke or series of strokes this will give a tint graded from dark to light or vice versa. If the block is secured at a tilt, the cut will automatically expand or di-minish in width. By disengaging the ratchet and engaging a handle at the side the faceplate can be rotated for cutting curved tints or perfect circles. A ‘wave bar’, of brass with a series of regular indentations, at-tached to the rack on which the tool carriage moves, will produce wavy tints, which can be overlaid to give watered silk patterns. Indeed all sorts of combinations and permutations are possible. (A machine still more elaborate and versatile than ours has, I believe, recently been acquired by Mr Ian Mortimer.)

Involving both hands and at least one foot in concert, machine ruling requires all the operator’s wits and co-ordination. Its virtue is its perfect regularity, easily upset by inattention: if anything does go wrong, it is difficult to retrace your steps with absolute accuracy. For safety each cut would be stopped a fraction short of the limit of the tinted area, and the tint ‘returned’ or ‘backed up’, i.e. re-entered by hand to finish off the edge. Mostly this was done with a multiple graver (‘mult’ for short), the settings of the machine being marked to correspond with the avail-able range of these tools. Multiples were often used also for cross-hatching a ruled tint, for incidental highlights and various special textures. There was usually a fair amount of hand-work to be done, with these or single tools, even after the main tints had been ruled.

But the whole business inevitably sounds more involved than it actually was, at least in the hands of a master like Arthur Platt. Once the basic formulae were grasped, many jobs were fairly straightforward, though always demanding concentration, of course. As I graduated very slowly to this kind of work, I found myself sometimes handed the more awk-ward or niggling jobs which no one else wanted to do! I also acquired a reputation as a plugger. Apart from correcting the odd slip of the tool,


ael renton |

109

blocks now and again had to be altered for other reasons, which might mean putting in large and odd-shaped plugs. My reputation did not seem to suffer permanently from the occasion when I routed out the hole for a plug far too deeply, and managed to split the block almost in two when inserting it.

Proofs for clients were taken on art paper, giving a hard brilliant im-pression. I was early shown how to take a print by hand burnishing, but for most proofing we had, at first, a medium sized Albion press of (I think) 1859 vintage. Unfortunately part of the toggle mechanism had once broken, and been repaired by welding. Eventually it fractured again, and was again welded: but in a fortnight or so it cracked finally. Metal fatigue had set in and further repair was impossible. The press was dismantled and the bits stowed away in a corner. Search for a replacement at length produced a much heavier press, with a fixed platen and a bed which was first moved in and then raised to meet it by means of a long lever at the side. Pressure was adjusted by a hand-wheel underneath. (This press was said to be of German origin: but in the 192os it appears that A. W. Penrose & Co. were supplying a press of essentially similar type, called the Empire Press, and proudly advertised as ‘all British’.)

Few clients printed direct from the wood: we usually kept the blocks as masters and supplied them with electrotypes. Thus it was not often necessary to clear all the waste wood: a channel would be scorped out round the image and the rest left standing, to be masked out with an ‘overlay’ for proofing. Latterly our electros were made by the I.L.N. Foundry, who alone used a process which did not submit blocks to a dangerous amount of heat. (The Illustrated London News had of course been a great user of wood engraving in the nineteenth century. We were once approached about re-engraving its title-heading, a panorama of Thames-side. The existing master of this was an ancient brass block, becoming much worn. I think I was ear-marked for this job, but it never materialised. This was, however, after my return from National Service, in the late 1950s.)

110

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

* * *

It may seem extraordinary that wood engraving so long remained viable in such a purely commercial context. Demand fluctuated, but then clients did not produce new catalogues every week or even every year, and I recall only one short period when we faced the possibility of no work at all. For brilliance and precision wood engraving clearly possessed advantages over half-tone, and more ‘guts’ than the average line drawing. Scraper-board might have served, of course: but ironically the practi-tioners of that medium (invented as a supposedly cheap substitute for wood engraving) charged much higher fees than we did. I suspected and still suspect that the firm was, in fact, undercharging. Certainly, even by the standards of the time none of us was paid a king’s ransom, and it was sometimes suggested that my fellow-employees and I were being exploited. But I do not think the firm really made very much money out of us. The Old Man used to hint half humorously that rubber stamps subsidised the wood engravers: and the humour seemed forced at times. My mentors had learned their craft at a time when their kind were fighting the process block for survival, and each other for the dwindling amount of work that came their way. They still seemed to live in dread of having their throats cut by rivals: but by the 1950s there was not more than one potential rival, at least in this country (and we never, as far as I remember, received work from overseas. But we did once receive an interesting brochure from the Sander Engraving Company, then of Chicago, who were then in the same business as ourselves. Subsequently, this company developed a new role as suppliers of wood and engraving sundries, and promoters of the craft in general. It has lately become defunct, I gather.) My seniors, however, seemed hardly aware of their possible scarcity-value, and certainly uninterested in exploiting it. Yet there was virtue in this too, as I was not unaware even then.

There was a suggestion of fear that Alan and I might defect, once out of our time, and that our training was not expedited as much as it might


ael renton |

111

have been. My own advance to catalogue work was certainly by slow stages: from clearing to backing up, then to simple outlining, bits of lettering on articles, high-lighting, and finally ruling and carrying an engraving right through from start to finish. But as an apprentice I was there not simply to learn, but to earn, for the firm and ultimately for myself, so that much time was necessarily spent on purely routine work. This in itself was not without value, even if it did not obviously advance technique. There were glimpses now and again of what went on in the wider world of engraving. A big block of John Farleigh’s was one day given to me to be routed. We sometimes photographed his drawings on to wood, as we did those of Robert Gibbings for his last book, Till I end my Song (these jobs were passed on by the blockmaker, Stanley Lawrence). But most such ‘artist’ engravers ranked as ‘amateurs’ in the eyes of my seniors.

In the summer of 1956 I was medically examined for the R.A.F., and call-up followed the expiry of my indentures. For two years the only engraving I did was a Christmas card. Afterwards, not without a half-glance around for possible alternatives, I returned to Horseferry Road. Little had changed, except that (significantly) Bill was no longer en-graving nameplates, but mounting rubber stamps. Also, to my disgust, the old dismembered Albion had been given away for scrap! It was not difficult to pick up the threads again. But it was not long before I was painfully torn between loyalty to the men who had taught me my craft and the wish that I had made a dash for liberty at whatever cost. My respect for their skill and the continuity of craftsmanship they repre-sented was greater than ever, but the prevailing narrowness of professional outlook was now a real frustration. I began to make myself a thorough nuisance to anyone who would listen to my grumbles. (I should have mentioned that I had been attending the City and Guilds Art School at Kennington, in the evenings, during the last two years of my appren-ticeship, and now resumed this.) Then suddenly, about eighteen months after my return, the air was full of changes impending. It appeared that Edwin was leaving to set up a separate business, with backing from his

112

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

brother. Then his father announced plans for retirement. On the face of it these events need not have affected the wood engraving side of things. Its marriage to the firm’s other interests was, after all, something of a shot-gun affair. But there had been other signs of an unpromising drift in the fortunes of the business. Unless memory plays false, general uncertainty was in the air.

In this situation I do not know if the proffering of my own notice came as more or less of a surprise. Certainly, it was received with genuine disappointment in which there was also, perhaps, resignation. It must have seemed the confirmation of my teachers’ worst fears: though there was in fact no danger that I was going to take the bread out of their mouths. I simply wanted to go my own way. I could not add that, while I had every faith in the future of wood engraving, I was beginning to have less in the future of that particular establishment. It was hard enough for them as it was. I had been a far from satisfactory employee, but they had trained me, and apart from Alan there was no one else: they would have to start from scratch again.

In fact, the ship I so unheroically deserted remained afloat for another five or six years. Another apprentice was taken on, though I do not know what eventually became of him. My own belated Wanderjahre had brought me to rest near Rye in Sussex, and to a new life. Direct links with the old one were broken. Alan left some four-and-a-half years after me, having for the last two of them been translated from engraving to helping Albert as a compositor. He eventually joined a firm doing industrial die engraving: but to him is due not a little of this obituary paragraph. In 1966 (as far as I can discover) what was left of the business was bought out by the new Slinger family consortium, and the premises turned over to litho printing. Since the early 197os they appear to have been empty. Arthur Platt and Frank Moyles went into retirement, and everyone else was scattered each to his own. As late as 1973 I met Albert, working for Stanley Lawrence: but he has since died, as has Arthur, whose widow has also helped with a few facts about the last years. The one rival


ael renton |

113

establishment I have mentioned, Frampton and Co. of Clerkenwell Road, only ceased business this year: but had not (apparently) handled any catalogue engravings for at least a decade. Curiously, I paid them my only visit in their final weeks. One of their engravers still carries on independently, with blocks for the rubber stamp trade.

I have been describing the end of an era, but not, happily, the end of a craft. The actual disappearance of any human skill is usually matter for regret: its continuity is correspondingly a reassurance and even an in-spiration. The men from whom I learnt may have been able to trace their professional lineage to Bewick himself, or even further. To be any sort of a link in a succession like that is honour enough for anybody.

116

| m

ich

ael

rent

on: ‘

his

han

ds m

agic

’

AcknowledgmentsThe exhibition on Michael Renton, ‘His Hands Magic’, is the first to be devoted to his work and could not have taken place without the grant received from The David Cock Foundation. We are profoundly grateful. The title for the exhibition is taken from John Nash ’s obituary to Michael,

‘…he lived the life of the self-contained, solitary workman, disregarding politics and fashion, absorbed in “the well doing of what needs doing”. He was self-effacing to a great degree, but his talents were enormous, and his hands magic.’

In our enthusiasm for this project, and as we discovered more of Michael ’s work, the catalogue became far larger than we initially envisaged and is now a book, which we are publishing in conjunction with the exhibition. My heartfelt thanks to Julian Francis who has so generously supported this larger publication. My gratitude also to Douglas Hall, Matilda Hall, Jeremy Greenwood and Alan Swerdlow.

I owe enormous gratitude to Simon Langsdale, who is not only one of the curators for this exhibition but has also been the volunteer archivist of the Michael Renton Collection for The Edward Johnston Foundation, cataloguing the extensive archive of his works since 2011. He has somehow made himself available with advice and to answer my endless questions, in spite of all his other work commitments. John Nash too, also one of the curators of this exhibition, has been a great support throughout.

Gerald Fleuss of The Edward Johnston Foundation has trusted us with the loan of many of the works shown in this exhibition and he has been unerringly helpful.

Simon Brett has given gentle guidance and I have learnt from him.

Susanna Powers has helped me in the most sensitive and generous way with the editing of the catalogue.

My heartfelt thanks also to Nima Reid, a client of Michael Renton’s through Memorials by Artists. In 2002 she quite unexpectedly discovered a collection of Michael ’s work being sold in a market town and donated this to our trust, on the understanding that any proceeds from the sale of Michael ’s wood engravings should go towards our Apprenticeship Scheme.

acknowledgm

ents |

117

My thanks also to Pete Draper, the framer of all the works in this exhibition.

Angela Lemaire, a friend of Michael ’s since the 1960s, has guided me too and given me great encouragement. Deirdre Shepherd, also a friend of Michael ’s from this time, and her husband, the folk singer Don Shepherd, have lent the two watercolours by Michael and the cover for Don’s album The Sun and the Moon.

The article by Michael Renton, ‘An Engraver’s Apprentice’ originally appeared in Matrix 3 (Winter 1983) and is included courtesy of John Randle of the Whittington Press.

The photograph of Michael carving the memorial to the late George Michael Warr is by Anthea Sieveking. The photograph of the Two Minutes’ Experience carving by Michael Renton appears courtesy of the Crafts Council (B53).

The Roe and Moore Art Gallery holds a large collection of Michael ’s work and Deana Moore has been extremely helpful, including sending us images of some of the works to illustrate articles.

Several people have advised and helped me in various ways and I thank them all:Gary Breeze, Kate Dicker, Dave Farey, Gerald Fleuss, Robyn Golden-Hann, Richard Kindersley, Peter Mimpriss CVO, Mark Noad, John Neilson, Tom Perkins and Nicholas Sloan.

Harriet Frazer, March 2015

As the archivist of Michael ’s archive, it has been my privilege for the last three years to have been cataloguing the items saved by Gerald Fleuss and John Nash. It is hoped that this exhibition and its accompanying book will not only bring Michael ’s work to a wider audience but will provide as much pleasure for others as they have for me.

The majority of the items in this exhibition have been kindly loaned from the archive of The Edward Johnston Foundation. Indeed, without the timely efforts of Gerald Fleuss and John Nash, almost all of Michael ’s archive would have been put on a bonfire and lost to posterity and with it the opportunity that these surviving documents give us to study Michael ’s working methods and development of ideas.

Simon Langsdale, March 2015

michael renton: his hands magic (abridged digital preview copy)

Documents