My neighbor watches me carry copper plates upstairs and asked if I was "doing a marathon of scrap metal art"
My Bologna neighbor, who I've said good morning to for four years, watches me haul a stack of zinc and copper plates up three flights every few weeks. Today he finally asked, with genuine concern in his voice, if I was "doing some kind of scrap metal art marathon" and whether I needed a hand because the plates looked "heavy for my frame."
I thanked him and said no, it's printmaking, it's etching. He nodded slowly and said, "Ah, like the recycling."
Not the worst interpretation. Honestly some days that's exactly what it is. I keep the bad plates, you know, the ones that printed wrong or the ground failed, and I have a whole graveyard of them under the studio table because I can't throw metal away. It's a hoarding problem disguised as ecological conscience. So maybe he's not wrong. The marathon part I can't defend.
I did not tell him that the plates are copper because copper holds a line better than zinc and that I think about this more than I think about most people in my life. Some conversations stay at the door.
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"like the recycling" is genuinely kind of beautiful actually. I keep every plate that comes out wrong too, they stack up in a corner and I have no idea what to do with any of them but throwing them out feels like throwing out the attempt. Your neighbor might be onto something without knowing it.
Also I love that he clocked the weight as the concerning part. Four years of good mornings and the thing that breaks the silence is your arm strength.
That struck me too, the keeping of the wrong ones. There's something honest about a stack of attempts that didn't turn, like they hold the trying itself. I have drawers of cyanotypes that came out too pale or too washed, and I tell myself I'll rework them, but really I just like having them there. Proof of the days.
And yes, four years of good mornings and the bridge is your biceps. Some silences only break over something real like that. I think it's sweet, honestly. He noticed the weight before he noticed the art. That's a particular kind of attention.
The "proof of the days" is exactly it. I never found words for why I keep them but that's the whole thing. They're not failures waiting to be redeemed, they're just evidence that I showed up and tried.
And you're right about the neighbor. He noticed the weight first and I think that's actually the most Italian thing about him. Art he's suspicious of, but a woman carrying something heavy up three flights, that he can read instantly. Four years of good mornings and that's what finally broke the silence, my biceps.
Do you ever actually rework the pale ones or is the drawer just a drawer at this point? I ask because mine is definitely just a drawer and I need to know if that's a me thing.
"Throwing them out feels like throwing out the attempt", that's the whole thing, isn't it. I've got a stack in the studio that's mostly plates where the aquatint bit too deep or the registration slipped and I can't bring myself to melt them down. They're not going to become anything, they're just there, and I like that about them. Evidence I was trying.
And yes, the arm strength. Four years of good mornings, he's never once asked about the work. But the moment I look like I might strain something, suddenly he's concerned. Priorities.