Chapter II: Part 2

There are three primary colors--red, yellow, and blue--and three composite colors, which can be formed by mixings of primary colors--green, orange, and violet. It is of importance to the printer to know which of these colors are complementary and which uncomplementary. Complementary colors are those that may be used in close conjunction without one unfavorably affecting the other. This is the secret of complementary, or harmonious, colors: Will they make white if mixed? This means a natural and perfect union of the light rays reflected from the color scheme upon the eye's retina, and so passed along to the sensory nerves--the telegraph line from the physical world to the appreciative brain. It appears that those complementary color schemes which can be perfectly justified are such as reflect light rays nearest like the rays that show us white. Red and green, the two most pronounced and vigorous colors, are complementary. When mixed in the proper proportions they produce white, but this does not mean that they weaken each other when otherwise used; when placed side by side they enhance each other's power and brilliancy by reflection. Their very intimate relation is further shown by the fact that red, by itself, is bordered by a faint halo of green, and green by a tinge of red. Yellow and indigo also make white by mixing, and easily reveal traces of each other when properly manipulated. This interchange between complementary colors is carried still further: The shadow of a color does not show the color itself, but the complementary color to which it is most nearly related.

There is a curious law of optical mixture to deal with--that tendency of the eye to unify the color scheme which changes colors when used in combination upon a piece of printing or upon a canvas. This sometimes so changes the expected effect of a color scheme that has been carefully studied as to render it inadvisable to use it. It is generally found that optical mixture verifies the taste and judgment of the colorist who has been faithful to the complementary color laws, and helps him to a harmony, rather than condemns his work. Optical mixture is too nearly a mere name for a manifestation of the relation of complementary colors to trouble the printer, though a consciousness of it and its effect may at times aid him in producing some delicate effects.

The reasons for desiring reliable knowledge of these qualities of colors are clear. Brilliancy is obtained by using complementary colors side by side, because each gives to the other its favorable halo of color; and dulness of coloring follows the use of uncomplementary colors side by side because each partially kills the other with its unfavorable halo of color.

Careful observance of this law of colors will not give perfect harmony to the color scheme, but it will give one of the more important elements of harmony. But there is an important exception to be noted. The law of contrast claims attention, though it cannot produce harmony. Strong effects may be obtained by ignoring these rules relative to harmony, or by boldly employing pronounced discords and seeking to so mitigate the discord as to tempt the attention to divide itself between the contrasting colors. Red and blue in the national flag are so tempered with pure white as to subdue their fierce antagonism. And so it may be with other examples--there must be either some overpowering sentiment or some skilful expedient, like breaking the main colors into lower tints, to ease the transit from one to the other. A good piece of color work need not be composed of different colors. It may be composed of different shades of the same color, or of tints very nearly related. This requires a good workable knowledge of perspective and of that rather elusive and indefinite quality known in painting as "values"; which chiefly means that each tint employed in a piece of work shall be placed as it would appear in nature and shall properly harmonize with every shade or color in the piece. Such a composition as this is difficult for a letter-press printer, less so for a lithographer, with exactly the kind of delicate manœuvering that delights some painters. It involves such fine discriminations as are necessary to show the difference between a white handkerchief and white snow, between a gray house and a gray sky, between a green tree and a green mountain, between a carnation pink and a pink muslin gown.

It is well to appreciate the difference between color and colors, and to recognize the fact that good color does not necessarily alone mean the degree of brightness or contrast, but is oftener found in accordance, mellowness and richness. Color does not always mean bright color. There is beginning to be seen some low keyed color work, simple in color composition. It is a good sign. It is only the masters who are able to successfully cope with the high keyed compositions, and the masters are, as they ever were, scarce.

The wise choose, when there is a choice, such harmonies as may be indicated by mahogany wood and Cordova leather; Indian red instead of brick red, peacock blue instead of sky blue, olive green instead of grass green; golden browns, garnet reds, Egyptian yellows, deep tones of brown, green, and orange. These colors are not gay, flippant nor flimsy; they are dignified and good style; they have a quality of beauty inherent in them--a depth; and they may be in keeping with a motive in the printed piece that means something other and better than a shock to the color sense.

Tone

No quality of printing is of more general importance than tone. It has great weight as a purely artistic attribute, and it has a great physiological value. If the tone of a page of print is not right--if it does not conform very closely to the standard set up by the rules of art--it will not be "easy" reading, and will severely try eyes that are not absolutely normal and perfectly strong. Here as elsewhere, and as is the unvarying rule, the art standard is the standard required by hygiene and common sense.

It is of the greatest importance that a printed page shall be toned, with respect to the proportion of visible white paper and black type, in strict accord with the requirements of art, which are identical with the rules that guard healthy eyesight.

Tone in painting has a radically different meaning in America from the meaning attached to the term in England and in France, and it appears to be less important. The American meaning of the word tone as an element in painting is that it refers to the dominant color of a picture; that is, as one would note that the prevailing color of a certain picture is red, of another yellow, of another blue. This makes of tone a mere descriptive adjective of small value as an aid to a critical estimate or as a guide in creation. To the printer, this meaning of the term would bar it out of his curriculum. The English understanding of tone is quite different, and it appears more worthy of acceptance. It is, at all events, the meaning that must be accepted by printers if they are to derive any benefit from a study of tone as a possible aid in their craft. The English consider tone to be "the proper diffusion of light as it affects the intensities of the different objects in the picture; and the right relation of objects or colors in shadow to the parts of them not in shadow and to the principal light."

It is easier, and may be clearer, to think of tone in a piece of type composition, or in a black-and-white engraving prepared for printing, somewhat as we think of tone in music. And we find upon getting further into the subject that it is expedient to take advantage of the extreme comity at present existing between England and America and let the two meanings of tone merge into a more general one for the benefit and use of the printer in practice. The painter's estimate of the tone of a painting may be understood by applying a test cited by a writer upon art: "If the canvas were placed upon a revolving pin and whirled rapidly around, the coloring would blend into a uniform tint." The color tone of a painting must then be the dominant color, modified by the subordinate colors. If the color tone be yellow for example, as it is in some of the good work of Dutch artists, there must be enough yellow so that it will be a yellow blur if the piece is spun rapidly around.

In black-and-white printing tone must mean depth of color, and diffusion of color, and the tone can scarcely be otherwise than some shade of gray. If it is advantageous to strive for a certain harmony between literary motive and type motive an appreciation of the technical meaning of tone and the utilization of the unique test suggested may be of great assistance to the printer of black-and-white work.

The printer has to consider the tone of his piece in a different light than the painter. The latter has only his canvas to take account of, and he works his canvas to its edge. The printer has his page of type and his margins. This blends the question of tone in a very practical way with questions bearing upon the format--with the question of proportion for example, and with the important question of the balance of the margins; and while the determination of the tone of the type page itself, irrespective of the margins, involves one weighty question in optics, the placing of the type page upon the leaf involves another, quite different in nature but none the less important from an artistic point of view.

It is easily perceived that the element of tone is of considerable importance in what is erroneously called "plain" composition, the black-and-white book page. In color printing it is apparent that the knowledge of tone is of more practical importance, as colored printed pieces should show a decided preponderance of that tone which best illustrates or translates the idea that the piece is conceived for the purpose of expressing. It may be important that a certain piece emphatically presents to the eye a certain shade of red. It must be just enough given over to the red to produce the effect required--no more, no less. There must be red everywhere, but not too much. The simple test will show the printer whether he is overloading his piece with the dominant color or whether he has not yet used enough. The color scheme must be keyed to the required pitch of color, as a piece of music written in a certain key must be kept free from notes belonging to another key. But not absolutely free, of necessity; short notes of another key, and very few of them, may be introduced. So a touch of a radically different color may be thrust into a composition without ruining it, as a bit of brick red or small patch of blue in a monotone, or a little green or yellow in a red composition, but not enough to show plainly when we apply the whirling test.

This more obvious meaning of the term tone seems to be applicable to printing, at least to the extent of informing and modifying the mind of the printer. The more important significance of the term in painting means but little to the printer, as it deals in modifications and gradations in color not practicable in typography, and applying, so far as printing in general is concerned, to engravings.

Light and Shade

Light and shade means nearly the same as the English idea of tone, to the printer, as it has to do with the distribution of light and shadow in such a manner as will best illustrate the motive of the painter. This important element in graphic art has its value for the printer. It is only necessary to note the part played by light and shade--"light-tone"--in any work of art to conceive how important is its office in good printing, particularly in the printing of the modern process engravings. Some of the older Japanese and Chinese paintings are nearly devoid of light and shade, and are therefore given that appearance of flatness and false perspective which is their distinctive characteristic. Egyptian and Assyrian wall painting, and many Italian paintings of the medieval period, lack this quality, and they sharply emphasize its importance in graphic art. In nature it is more important than in art. We can recognize no form except by the aid of light and shade, neither a grain of sand nor a mountain, nor any other physical thing. It is probable that every piece of good printing owes some of its excellence to this element of light and shade; and as directly to tone. Light and shade has reference to the proper proportion of light to shadow, and of shadow to light; not to the proper proportion of light to shade in a composition. That is tone. Is there light enough to supplement the shadow, and thus bring the object illustrated into such reasonable harmony with nature as to warrant us in accepting it as a faithful picture of nature? Does the composition, in other words, appear natural to an untrained vision?

It is the persistent study of this question of light and shade which has rescued the halftone engraving from the pit of oblivion into which it seemed destined to fall during its early days, and placed it in the forefront of illustrative processes. Probably the halftone of today, which in competent hands is a superb and exact recorder of nature, is not strikingly better in any other detail than it was in its early days except the one quality of light and shade. This variety of illustration was as flat and as expressionless as a Chinese painting until artist, engraver, and printer conspired to give it expression and verisimilitude by working up its capacity to bring light and shade fully and broadly to its task. There can be no rule that will apply to this employment of light and shade. Rules there are, but they apply with truth only to one experience--that which prompted their formulation. The eye of the printer is the guide. This is the reason why he should study this question, and others of similar artistic value, from the point of view of the artist, not from the viewpoint of the printer.

Values

The quality in a painting which is known as "values" may quite easily be regarded by the printer as signifying to him the same as tone. Careful study will show him that there is a difference, and also that value is a vital element in his work which has for him a real significance. Value may not unfairly be considered to be an element of tone. It relates to the intensity of light; not the brilliancy of color, but the capacity that resides in color to reflect light. In color printing the value of the most common colors ranks with yellow first, then orange, green, red, blue, and violet. That is, yellow is capable of reflecting more light from the same quantity of sunlight than any other color, and violet less than any other color. Scientists have reckoned that chrome yellow reflects 80 per cent of light, green 40 per cent, etc. These figures serve no very practical purpose, because the reflecting power of any tint is dependent upon the other colors employed. Colors are dependent upon each other for their value as well as for their intensity and their harmony. It is not difficult to treat this matter of value in a mathematical way, as is suggested by Prof. J. C. Van Dyke: "Let the chrome yellow with its 80 per cent of light represent a sunset sky in the background; let the green with its 40 per cent represent the grass in the immediate foreground; and let the orange-red with its 60 per cent represent the sail of a Venetian fishing vessel upon the water of the middle distance. Now we have the three leading pitches of light in the three planes of the picture," and the problem would stand thus: 40:60::60:80 and the result will indicate the relative power of the value in the picture.

Interesting, but not especially useful, the "practical" printer says. No, not unless there is recognizable in this, as in all that has been said about art in printing, the subtle relation between the vital elements of graphic art and those refinements of knowledge and practice which tend to bring printing nearer to the arts. The connection is there, and is evident to the seeing eye. In nature and in life the sense of values is of such importance that without it objects would not have relative positions; all would be a jumble of shades and tones, objects and colors; we would stumble, as we could not see depressions; we would grasp an arm or the empty air, when we attempted to seize a hand; we could not judge distances. It is upon the extent and the thoroughness of the printer's knowledge of this question of values that the degree of refinement and truth he is able to impart to a certain class of work depends, and hence its money value to him and its intrinsic value to his patrons.

Paper

Paper is as important an artistic or esthetic element in the well-made book as it is as a technical element; and it is likewise to be regarded from the point of view of the optician and the physiologist.

It is possible to select a paper for any book that will lend itself to the artistic scheme of the book. It has not long been possible to do this. The product of the skilled paper maker has more than quadrupled, in artistic variety, during the few years last past, until it is now the fault of its designer if a book intended to be harmoniously artistic is not as true to its motive in paper as in typography or binding. But it is evident that paper for a book cannot be selected without reference to the typography, the plates, and other mechanical features. A grade of paper that would be appropriate for the printing of a rugged-faced type (like Caslon) upon, would not do at all for a conventional type, such as the Scotch face, it might be discovered, even though the paper, in texture and finish, seemed to be peculiarly appropriate for the literary motive. There are certain type faces which may be printed upon paper that is milk white, and certain other faces that lend themselves more readily to the production of harmonious tonal effects when the paper has a "natural" tint, or is thrown strongly toward a brown color. Either of these combinations, or any similar combination, may harmonize unfavorably with the literary motive, or with the scheme for proportion and balance, or with the tone and values element, and though admirable in itself have to be finally rejected.

The weight and texture of the paper have to be considered as minutely and as carefully, and with the same principles in full view. A delicate and shy literary motive must not be given the massive dignity of heavy handmade paper and large and strong type. Such a scheme is harrowing to a sensitive reader's nerves and rudely subversive of the more obvious and elemental artistic principles.

It is a complex and an involved process to select the proper paper for a given piece of printing, and the rightful decision of either of the component elements involves the rightful decision with reference to each of the others. It is impossible to consider the question of paper apart from a consideration of the typography, the illustrations, the format, and the binding; and it is not possible to consider either of these elements apart from the literary motive, which must always be the foundation of the structure.

Paper is one of the group of coördinately important elements in a piece of artistic printing, and only one, and never otherwise than strictly coördinate. It may not be considered by itself, unless possible disaster be consciously and deliberately invited.

Therefore before the specifications for a book or other piece of printing are otherwise fixed, it is necessary to decide upon the paper to be used. It is one of the elements of printing over which the printer exercises no control except the liberty of choice. He can choose the paper he wishes to use, but he cannot adapt it. He can adapt his typographic plan and his color scheme, and adjust them to the paper in such fashion as will result in harmony for the completed work, but his paper he is obliged to take as the paper-maker furnishes it. For this reason, and because the paper is actually a foundation element in printing, it is necessary that printers know about paper, and that those who essay to execute work of a high standard be familiar with its history, composition, and methods of manufacture.

Too much importance will not be likely to be attached to the history of paper, for it runs parallel with the record of the advance of civilization and learning, and it has been an indispensable factor in that advance. When we note the important part played by paper in the complicated scheme of our twentieth century lives, we may gain some faint appreciation of its place and relative importance as a factor of life. As a factor in printing it has been customary to place paper first in the list. It is a safe practice, though the versatility of the paper makers is yearly making it less essential to do so. Yet, when all the progress in paper making has been considered, it paradoxically remains that the selection of paper by the printer is not the simple matter it was only a few years ago.

With the progress of the art of printing during the last quarter of the nineteenth century there has come complexity in all its branches. Type has been wondrously multiplied, inks are in greater profusion, and varieties of paper have rapidly multiplied. The good printer of today needs to know the history of the evolution of type, ink, and paper, if he hopes to be able to cope successfully with the problems facing him.

One reason for this particularity of knowledge is the tendency of the laity to study the technical phases of printing. Type founders have courted the attention of large consumers of printed matter and of large advertisers, and the lay knowledge of type has led to a like result regarding paper. So that it at present happens that the printer's patron is able to dictate the style of typography he desires, and the quality and tint of paper he prefers. This predicates knowledge on the part of the printer; and in the case of paper it necessitates expert knowledge. Type is type, speaking somewhat loosely, and, whatever the crotchet a consumer of printing may get into his head it is not likely to cost more than about so much a pound. It is otherwise with paper, and generally it is more the color, texture, and appearance the patron wishes than the intrinsic value, and the printer must make a choice that shall satisfy the artistic exigencies of the case, as well as consider its financial aspects. One paper may be unsuited for a particular piece of work, and another of the same tint, weight, and price may be exactly suitable; and the reason may lie in so obscure a cause as the peculiar process of manufacture, or the chemical nature of material used by certain paper mills, or a slight variation in finish that may affect ink in a different manner.

A bright and observing printer inevitably becomes more or less versed in paper. He handles it continually, and cannot avoid recognizing certain more evident differences. What is learned in this way is good knowledge, but it takes a long time to get a comprehensive acquaintance with paper, and there has not in the meantime been built up that flawless reputation for good work which all printers regard as the very best capital.

The printer who knows about paper knows about its history, its composition, and the methods of manufacture. To him wood-pulp paper is not all the same, and he knows what he means when he speaks of "all rag" or "handmade." He knows that paper made wholly of wood varies in goodness according as it is made by this or that process--mechanical wood, soda, or sulphite; and knows that "all rags" may be all cotton, or all linen, or a combination of rags, or a combination of wood and rags, or indeed all wood, or some vegetable fiber not specified. It is not the mere exhibition of this sort of knowledge that particularly signifies; it is that it adds greatly to the printer's power to execute good work, as it places him in a position to select the most suitable paper, and insures his reputation. It enables him to execute a piece of work intended to endure a long time in a manner that will preserve its beauty, so that it will not fade or turn a dirty brown or yellow color, as well as to make his paper play its legitimate rôle as the most important inflexible art element he will usually find it necessary to deal with. A knowledge of paper in this thorough sense is even more desirable if a printer presumes to arrogate to himself the title and qualities of an artist. It is scarcely too radical to assert that the esthetics of printing depend for exemplification more upon paper than upon typography. It has been said that type, ink, and paper go to the making of good printing. This formula may be reversed and made to read paper, ink, and type, since so much of the effect of decorative printing depends upon the paper and the ink. If these two harmonize properly it remains that the type must not interfere but must play the negative rôle of conformity. It is the paper that is selected first, then the ink, and lastly the typography is brought into the scheme. Typography, as an ornate art, has dwindled, and the skilled constructor of wonderful effects with types and rule is no longer esteemed in the job room. The arbiter of style sits in the counting-room, and turns the leaves of the paper and type specimen books before the critical eyes of the patron. The job is built upon a paper sample, and the designer sees it completed in his mind before he sends it to the compositor.

Style

Style is that subtle atmosphere pervading literary, artistic and handicraft work that suggests the cultivated personality of the author. It is not a usual nor a clear conception of style to consider the term as applicable to inferior work. The word, as used to designate quality, has come to mean positive and recognizable merit, and generally also that indefinite but powerfully distinctive merit indicating individuality.

The word is used somewhat in this sense, though more broadly, in descriptive art nomenclature, as when the style of a Rubens or of a Titian is spoken of; and in art it often appears that the word is used more commonly to designate a school or a genre of painting, than to point to the work of any particular person of the present or the recent past. Yet it is noted that whenever an artist is able to attract favorable attention through the exercise of talents markedly his own, he is at once credited with a style that is distinctively and peculiarly his. It is quite fair and just therefore to consider that style in printing means that quality of beauty or distinction which is to be directly referred to the printer, rather than those meritorious qualities that owe their existence to careful following of established rules and principles, concerning which all printers have, or may have, a working knowledge. There are some printers whose work is so redolent of a peculiar style as to be recognizable to observing persons; and such work has a quality that may almost be said to be narrow. The possessor of a style pronounced enough to have attracted attention is also usually limited in his range; is, in fact, an exponent of his own peculiar style and is but little else.

Style does not absolutely involve excellence; only a distinctive individuality. That individuality may produce printed work that may be wholly bad, or it may be the hall mark of a supreme excellence. This is the technical meaning of the word. In usage the word style is generally understood to imply excellence, and a high grade and peculiarly distinctive excellence. The derivation of the word is suggestive of the accepted appreciation of its scope. It is the Latin name for an iron pen, but it has come to signify not only the art that wields the pen but it is applied to the whole range of the productive activities of man; to music, painting, architecture, sculpture, dancing, acting, tennis and baseball playing; to burglary and picking of pockets, and to printing.

In printing, style is an element of value, and may be accorded as careful attention as is given to the type outfit, to the presses, or to the employes. We can perhaps think of half a dozen printers who have made great reputations and considerable fortunes through having a style that appealed singularly to purchasers of printed matter. What is there in the work of Mr. De Vinne's press that gives the name a distinct value? Why do publishers announce in their advertisements that certain books are printed by De Vinne? Mr. De Vinne's style is valuable to him and to the publishers who employ him to make books for them.

Probably there is not an intelligent printer who may read this who does not recognize the value of style in printing, and who does not, more or less seriously, struggle to acquire for himself a distinctive style, and chiefly because he knows that the possession of a style that appeals to the buyers of printed matter is almost the only sure means of gaining new clients and holding old ones, and obtaining profit-making prices. While there are many printers who will be inclined to scout the idea that the possession of a style of their own would be of financial advantage to them, it is a fundamental element in success. There needs must be some diggers of ditches, hewers of wood and drawers of water, and it is probably true that the great bulk of printing will continue to be done by workmen, a small proportion of it by artisans, and an almost infinitesimal portion by artists. Nevertheless, there is a gravitation toward the artisan class, and from it to the sparse company of the artist printers.

"The only way," says an acute literary critic, "to get a good style is to think clearly." That is in literature.

In printing, the only way to get a good style is to know thoroughly. Yet it is not all to know. The knowledge must be expressed, and it must be expressed in a manner agreeable to those to whom printed matter is to appeal. They do not always know the point of view of the printer, even if he has a style that is admirable. So his style must, after all, be subordinate to clearness and comprehensibility.

In a piece of printing it is necessary to bring out "the extreme characteristic expression" of the central motive. That is, if the piece of printing is intended to promote the sale of a certain substance or article it is desirable that all the suggestive power residing in the types be brought into play to drive the motive home. This is however a secondary quality of style. The primary quality is that which attracts the eye, and style for the printer may be limited to those qualities that do most attract the eye quickly and agreeably.

The secondary literary constituent of style, which is harmony, takes first rank in printing. The three essentials of printing style may be generalized as knowledge, harmony, and expressiveness. In literature they are thought, expressiveness, and harmony, or melody, as some have it. The greatest of these is, of course, knowledge--knowledge of the fundamentals which go to the making of the best printing.

It is not possible to teach style. It is almost as impossible to acquire style. This seems like a paradox, but a paradox is not always a symbol of hopelessness. Style must be born in a man--style in any art or profession. "Style," a writer has recently said, "is gesture--the gesture of the mind and of the soul." We can eliminate the last clause, and call style in printing the gesture of the mind, the evidence of the amount and degree of knowledge possessed by the mind, tempered, arranged, given distinction, by the born talent, aptitude, or whatever it may be termed, which is the seed germ of style. We do not hesitate to accept the obvious theory that artists are born, not made. Some claim for printing that it is an art. Why then should we hesitate to admit that a printer capable of cultivating and expressing a genuine style must depend upon something other than mere knowledge; something deeper and more subtle than knowledge, which is able to mould knowledge into style?

Style, in the highest sense, is given to but few, and we cannot hope that printers will be more favored, in proportion, than the practitioners of other graphic arts. But they may be as highly favored, if they avail themselves of the opportunities for culture that are open to them, as they are open to other artists, and not otherwise. While it is not to be expected that the printing art will produce Morrises or Bradleys with great profuseness, it is to be frankly admitted that in the grade next below--the grade of talent, that is, as distinguished from the grade of genius--there is not found the high average of attainment among printers that rules in other graphic arts. The reason is as obvious as the fact: Printers are not students, in the sense that painters, etchers, engravers, illustrators, and even photographers, are students. Printers (the progressive ones) have in recent years become close observers and good imitators, but there are few who have attempted to qualify themselves for original work by thorough study of those principles of graphic art that vitally control printing. The artist, in any other line than printing, comes to the practice of his art only after prolonged study and mastery of the principles and the laws governing it. Not so with the printer.

The time has arrived when eminence in printing means much more than good work along existing lines. It means a radical departure and the full recognition of the power and value of art in printing. We have been rather hesitant in accepting this word, art, as applying legitimately to printing, and we have been hesitating merely because we have seen the term so freely and ignorantly applied to work that merited no better name than archaic; to work that, while it usually possessed the common virtues of good mechanical execution, was wholly deficient in those qualities which fairly entitled it to be called artistic. But we must put away this prejudice against an innocent and needed term, and boldly reclaim it from the philistines. We must reinstate in the public mind, and in our own minds, the thing and the name that fittingly describes the thing. We must make art printing mean art printing.

Style should be the goal of the printer who cherishes hopes of distinction or of wealth. We have said that style is born in a man, not acquired by him. This is true, if we consider the highest development of style. But we are all capable of greatly improving our style by study. We cannot improve upon it in any other way. It is almost useless for us to observe the good work of others, for this purpose. We must go beyond that. The first step is to keenly realize the need. We are on a par with every other person who wishes to truly understand any art. We cannot arrive at that understanding by merely wishing it. There is no understanding of art except through study of art.

We may spend a lifetime looking at the great paintings of the world and then know so little about them as to appreciate but a tithe of the rich store of culture and pleasure they hold in reserve for us. We may cultivate a taste for paintings by putting ourselves frequently under their influence, as we may build up a taste for literature by strenuous reading. But knowledge, as distinguished from acquaintance, gives us a very different conception of a painting, or a piece of sculpture, or an example of any form of art, and reveals to us new beauties. So it is in printing. We cannot do good color printing unless we understand color as an artist understands it; we cannot get the best results from a halftone engraving unless we understand tone, light and shade, and values, as an artist understands them. We are not sure of our ground with regard to a page of plain type matter unless we know something conclusive about the fundamentals of art.

We cannot take one pronounced step toward acquiring style until we realize the need, the vital need, of a good foundation knowledge of art--not in a historical sense, but in a technical sense--for the technique of printing that is better than good.

The Binding

It is a pity that bookbinding and printing have drifted so far apart, since they are so intimately related. A good book cannot be produced without the coöperation of both crafts, and that coöperation ought to be of a much closer nature. The printing and the binding of a book should be done by artists or craftsmen actuated by a unity of purpose and effort similar to the unity that must prevail in the book if it is to express anything worthy. In the production of books of a high excellence it is necessary that the binding shall chord with the general nature as expressed through the printing and as fixed by the literary body. This result can only be assured if the printers and the binders work in close harmony. When it is manifestly present in the book of today it is necessary to assume that the agreeable result follows the effects of some influence outside of printers and binders, brought strongly to bear upon each, rather than the result of a harmonious understanding of the artistic proprieties of the case by either the printer or the binder. Binding has a double significance: It is essentially artistic, and emphatically a mechanical process. In its artistic phase it rivals printing; it is considered to be quite apart from printing, in fact, since there is a pretty decided cult in binding that takes no cognizance of typography or of literary character. With this collector's estimate of bindings we are not here concerned. The desire to cheapen production has led to serious deterioration in the quality of binding, of the ordinary library editions of books, during the past century. Machine methods, unobjectionable when used upon very cheap books but disastrous to the lasting quality of library books, have obtained an undesirable vogue, and they are so capable of cleverly simulating good work that they have been a very active agent in the decay of good binding practice. The results of the more recent binding methods are extremely lamentable, and those results have but partially made themselves manifest. The next generation, and the generations after the next, will suffer for the sins of the binders of the books issued during the last half of the nineteenth century. The twentieth century may achieve no more creditable record, but the sinning will be in the light and will not be due to ignorance. The English Society of Arts charged a special committee with the task of investigating the cause of the decay in bindings, and the report of this committee may be one impulse urging publishers to require better workmanship and better methods. This committee formulated five specifications against prevailing methods, each of which constitutes a defect of a radical nature recognizable and curable only by bookbinders or experts in bookbinding. Books are, this committee found, sewn on too few and too thin cords; the slips are pared down too much and are not always firmly enough laced into the boards; the use of hollow backs is condemned; headbands are not sufficiently strong to hold the leather of the back against the strain of taking the book from the shelf; leather used is often far too thin; leather is wetted and stretched to such a point that little strength is left to resist wear and tear.

It must be noted in extenuation that at least one of the counts in this indictment may be partially condoned, upon the ground that the fault crept into bookbinding practice with the intent to facilitate the reading of the book and not to cheapen its production. The hollow back was adopted for the twofold purpose of allowing the book to be opened easily and flatly and to preserve the tooling and gilding on the back. This form of back need not be always reckoned as bad. It is quite possible to bind a book well and use the hollow back, and it is extremely easy to use the hollow back to cover sins that ought not to be condoned in a binding.

The life of a book depends upon its binding. The leading idea in planning a binding for a good book should therefore be to strive for strength, durability, and convenience. To beautify a book in its binding should be the secondary motive. But the idea of beauty, through harmony and the application of elementary art precepts, may always be considered with the strictly utilitarian processes, and the book may be brought into close accord with the requirements of art without any strain for art efforts being apparent nor any economical or mechanical purpose being strained or perverted. This can be effected by arranging the binding to tone with the literary and typographic motives, and studying to have all details harmonious--such as the lettering on the side and back; the design of the stamp for the cover, if there be a stamp; the material for the cover, its texture and its color, etc.

It is manifestly impossible to put into print specific directions for the binding of a book to bring it within the meaning of the term "artistic" while it does not depart from the ordinary in quality or form. It is quite easy to perceive however that for a book of a certain literary quality a binding consisting of a buckram back and paper sides is exactly appropriate, while a cloth binding with a gilt stamp is obviously not harmonious. If the title-stamp on the back of a book is made of type unlike that used for the title-page there is a jarring note that might easily have been avoided. The motive of a book should extend its influence to, and envelope, every process necessary for its completion; it should be as apparently in control of every detail of the visible binding as of the typography, the format, and the paper. It produces an agreeable impression upon the reader if he discovers this artistic unity in a book he hopes to extract literary profit or enjoyment from--if the typography, the format, the paper, and the binding all tone to the same key, and that key in harmony with the literary motive.

This much of art is possible for all bindings. When they rise above this mere expression of harmony, of unity, there is a widely different question involved. Then there must be art for art's sake, rather than art for the book's sake; and of bindings that are in and of themselves works of art we have for the present nothing to say.

As to exactly what constitutes a proper binding for a given book there may be differences of opinion, especially if the inquiry be pushed so far as to involve questions of art, or questions concerning the artistic qualities of harmony and unity. There are however certain broad lines which may be indicated within which worthy bindings must be brought, leaving plenty of latitude for individuality in taste and in judgment. What these basic requirements are is perfectly known to practical bookbinders and to publishers; to many printers as well. They should be as familiar to the lay mind, and every book should have printed somewhere in it a clear statement of the specifications of its binding. Its typography is visible; so is its format and its paper. The vital parts of its binding are concealed, from the expert as from the tyro, and every purchaser of an ordinary book stands to lose heavily if the foundations of its binding are not honestly laid.

The specifications for the binding of a fine book should show, then, that the cover material is all leather of some one of the approved sorts and properly manufactured, sheets carefully folded, single leaves guarded round the sections next to them, all plates guarded, guards sewn through, and no pasting or overcasting; end papers sewn on and made of good paper, board papers of good quality of paper or vellum; edges to be trimmed and gilt before sewing, or left uncut; sewing to be with ligature silk around five bands of best sewing cord; back to be as nearly flat as possible without forcing it and without danger of its becoming concave in use; boards to be of the best black millboard, and the five bands laced in through two holes; headbands to be worked with silk on strips of vellum or catgut or cord, with frequent tiedowns, and "set" by pieces of good paper or leather glued at head and tail; lettering to be legible, in harmony with the typography of the book or with the decorations; decorations such as may be wished.

These skeletonized specifications may be modified in some particulars if they are to be applied to grades of books below the best, but great care and good judgment must be exercised to guard against an extent of deterioration which will bring the book below its standard of utility and beauty. For library books, for example, the covers may be half leather or any of the several serviceable cloths; the end papers may dispense with the board papers; the edges may be cut guillotine and colored instead of gilt, or the top only may be gilt; the sewing may be done with unbleached thread and the tapes may be reduced to four of unbleached linen; the boards may be of split gray stock or of strawboard with black board liner, and the tapes may be attached to portion of waste sheet inserted between the boards; the headbands may be omitted and cord substituted, or they may be worked with thread or vellum.

Specifications

The paper in this book is French handmade, 16 × 20--29, imported by the Japan Paper Company of New York, and catalogued as No. 333.

The type is a liberal modification of the Caslon, 12 point. It was designed and cast by the Boston branch of the American Type Founders Company, and had never been used until set for this book.

The binding is according to the specifications of the Society of Arts, of London. The sheets are folded with special care, end papers are made with zigzag and sewn on, edges are uncut, signatures are sewn with unbleached thread over three unbleached linen tapes, back left nearly square, boards of the best black millboard, covers of imported marbled paper, and the backs of art vellum, with paper label. The binding was executed by the regular force of workmen and in the regular routine of commercial work.

The composition of the type was by a journeyman and an apprentice, and the presswork was done on a half super royal Colt's Armory press. No attempt has been made to execute the work in other than the ordinary manner, with ordinary appliances and ordinary workmen. All the material is such as is regularly carried in stock by dealers.

THIS EDITION CONSISTS OF 935 NUMBERED COPIES PRINTED AT THE
IMPERIAL PRESS CLEVELAND, OHIO, IN NOVEMBER, 1903, OF WHICH THIS
IS NUMBER 506

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Transcriber's Note:

Duplicate chapter title pages removed by Transcriber

Page 35, "cristicism" changed to "criticism" (subject to the criticism suggested)

The edition number "506" is handwritten (OF WHICH THIS IS NUMBER 506)