Work Text:
The heavy wooden door opens with a soft click as Joe lets himself into the print studio. It is just past 6 a.m. and there is no one else around, just as promised. He walks into the silent room and smiles to himself as he sets down his bags.
It is a nicely furnished space with a big press, lots of room to work, and a huge UV exposure unit so new it almost sparkles. When he asked about it, the print master Mrs Khan told him that the community college had just finished renovating the place and thought it best to update all the equipment as well. It had been high time, she said. The previous UV exposure unit had apparently included a massive glass surface that needed to be lifted against the wall and required two people to operate, making its operation a health hazard in more ways than one. Joe had the privilege to try out the newfangled machine when he had prepared his screens yesterday. It had indeed been very nice, easy to use and non-hazardous.
He spends the first half-hour or so preparing the space and the equipment. He takes a while slicing his paper with a heavy-duty paper cutter, listening to it yawn and groan every time he moves the handle. Making sure every sheet is going to be approximately the same size, he presses the blade down on the stack. The soft crunch is intensely satisfying. Joe rolls his shoulders and already feels lighter than he has in ages.
After the paper is cut, he spends a considerable amount of time preparing his first colour, trying to get it to a hue and consistency he likes. He is increasingly happy he stayed late last night to get all of the screens done in advance. The longer he spends on the prep, the more impatient he grows to finally get to the printing. The other parts of the process are pleasant too, yes, but they’re not why he’s here. Just the thought of having to wait for the screens to dry now makes his palms itch.
The last thing he does is lay out his working space. He makes sure the drying rack is empty and that his papers are clean and within arm’s reach. He gets out the first screen and fastens it to the metal frame of the table, making sure the wooden sides are pressed against the metal and won’t move even when the contraption does. Then he gets out the paint, as well as a big squeegee with a wide wooden handle. He double-checks that the squeegee is the right width for the screen before he lowers the metal frame so the screen is close to the table but not on it, hovering a few inches above the surface. He then spreads some of the paint on the upper edge of the mesh with a palette knife and carefully drags the squeegee down the length of the screen, flooding the silk mesh with paint. The screen fills nicely and Joe hums at the sight, unable to fight a smile.
He presses on the switch at the edge of the table, and the machine turns on with a hum. There is an almost inaudible sigh as air starts to flow. Joe runs his fingers lightly on the table surface, fascinated by the way he can feel the air being drawn into the tiny grid of holes that cover the printing area.
He carefully lifts one of the papers from the stack and places it on the table experimentally. The tiny inward suction created by the airflow gently fastens it against the surface, just like he was told it would. Joe takes a moment to be delighted at this new marvel of print engineering. Much easier and cleaner than masking tape, let alone everything that came before masking tape. The kids these days have it so easy and he could not be more glad.
Finally, he prints a quick test to see if the colour is coming through right and so he can mark the placement of the paper and be able to centre all of the prints correctly. Then, with a deep breath, he gets to work.
He picks up the first piece of paper and places it carefully so it’s in the right position on the table. It holds to the surface easily. Joe lowers the metal frame so that the mesh screen is laid on top of the paper and takes the squeegee, dips it in the paint before pressing it to the mesh. Then he pulls it towards himself in one steady stroke, letting up the pressure only when he reaches the very end. He lifts the metal frame a couple of inches off the table, runs the squeegee up the screen to flood it with paint again before he lifts the entire frame off the table so he can see the print result.
A clean first layer of paint. He beams.
Joe lifts the paper off of the table, making sure his fingers are paint-free. Then he lays it gently on the bottom row of the large wire rack to dry. He can already picture the entire drying station full of papers. He has missed the sight.
After that, he falls into the flow easily. Placing a paper, pressing the paint through, flooding the screen and then moving the print to dry over and over again at a leisurely pace. It helps that there is a 20-year-old dusty radio on one of the windowsills keeping him company as he works. He had turned it on to a random channel when he came in, and the room is filled with the soft sounds of what seems to be an endless supply of bossa nova. Joe hums and sways gently as the patchy signal rattles and the sun outside the windows slowly rises.
Tension bleeds out from him as he gently lifts paper after paper onto the drying rack. Something in his sternum gradually loosens as he is lulled by the meditative quality of the repetition, the gentle hum of the machinery and music. The realization that he doesn’t remember the last time he could do something like this, had time alone like this, spikes uncomfortably in his chest, but he breathes through it and it eases off fast. After all, he is here now, creating something in total peace as he moves in the studio alone. Just him and the slowly filling drying rack of papers.
Right now, the prints are simply red rectangles with white shapes in the middle. That’s okay, though. After the rest of the layers are added, the image should start to become clear – he hopes.
He’s not too fussed, honestly. In a way, the image itself doesn't matter. He really just wants to print.
Yesterday when he found out he would have the chance to do this, he grabbed a couple of nice images that he’d had lying around in the hopes he would figure something out at the studio when he got there. The images he’d chosen were a particularly nice study of his own left hand that he drew on a shaky bus leaving Lyon, an old postcard with illustrated orchids that he once bought from a used book store in Yugoslavia, and a sheet of Cyrillic script from when he spent an afternoon trying to perfect his hand-lettering technique. He had sat by the studio lightbox for a while last night, trying to come up with a composition that looked nice. He is pretty sure he has succeeded, but it will be interesting to hear what other people will have to say.
He’s added some red lines onto the drawing of the hand to make it look like an anatomical study of veins. He also wanted it to have a visual resemblance with the orchids that the hand would be placed in the middle of. On the bottom of the print reads “осень”, autumn. He thinks it creates a fun interplay of meaning if one starts to think about it. The piece isn’t deep exactly, nor is it trying to be, but he likes how it looks, and he thinks that the different parts come together quite nicely.
Once all of the papers have been printed with the first layer of paint there is more cleaning and preparation. As he waits for the prints to dry enough for the second layer, he busies himself around the studio, cleaning the screen, mixing the paint for the next round. The shade he’s aiming for is baby blue, on the cusp of lavender. It takes a while to get right and Joe delights in his success when he does. When the papers are sufficiently dry, he starts the process again. Place, print, flood, move, in a repeating pattern.
At one point during the day, he has visitors. Nile and Nicky appear between one layer of paint and the next, right as the prints are drying again. The two of them had been attending the Sunday sermon near here and had decided to swing by after it finished. The first thing Nicky does is hand him a sandwich and a coffee, which is exactly the moment Joe realizes he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in hours. Nicky smiles like he knows.
Joe shows them around the studio as he eats. He doesn’t have to explain much, as both Nile and Nicky are familiar with most of the equipment and techniques, though Nile mostly from reading theory and Nicky from watching him. It is clear that Nile would love to stay and see him work. Normally he’d love that, but the thought makes him bristle today in a way he cannot explain. He is about to say something but Nicky manages to resolve the situation first, reminding Nile of the shop they had seen on the way here that she’d wanted to check out. Joe smiles his thank you to Nicky, who gives him a ghost of a smile back and kisses his cheek as the pair leave the studio.
The rest of the day flies by, and sooner than he’d like all of the prints are drying on the rack once again, every layer finished. He reluctantly busies himself tidying the studio as they dry, cleaning the remaining screens, wiping tables, putting away palette knives. He moves all of his leftover paint into little plastic cups that he covers with cling film and labels “free to use”, storing them for anyone who might need them later.
After he is done the print room is arguably cleaner than he found it. He cannot keep pushing off the inevitable so he sighs and starts numbering and signing the prints. If this was a normal occasion, he would leave and return to sign and number the prints later, but they’re leaving the city tomorrow and he only had the use of the print studio today anyway. There are respectable 150 prints, and he signs them all with J.J. in careful cursive, adding the print number as he goes. Bossa nova is still playing on the radio as he watches the sun slowly start tilting towards the west, evening encroaching on his peace steadily.
This, getting to make art like this, is an indulgence he does not get to experience very often, certainly not as often as he would like. His life is a busy one, always has been, even before his first death. Sure, there have been occasions where he has stayed in one place for a longer amount of time. Years, decades even, spent mostly stationary in small farmhouses or little crooked flats, though it’s been a long time now. Despite that, the fact remains that no matter how, when, or where he is, there will come a day when he must leave again, always sooner than he’d like. And that is fine, it really is. Every one of those long stays, as much as he loves them, also eats at him a little. Moving on is in his bones at this point, he couldn’t stop if he tried.
He thinks back on himself, all those years ago, when he first started travelling in his twenties. That boy who expected eventually to retire with a family, with enough time to indulge in art and a courtyard with lemon trees. He doesn’t mourn it, not really. He has been given so much more than almost anyone else he knows. So much love, so much time, so many experiences. So much more than he could have ever begun to imagine. He loves his life, his family, what he does. Most of the time he is content with spending endless hours with the people around him, drawing as he watches TV or waits for a train.
And yet, sometimes he needs this, too. The space to think, or to not think if he wants. To create in a slow meticulous way. To be by himself, in himself, without distractions or timers or duties or responsibilities. This, in a way, is the closest he can get to the man he started as, whoever he was. To the boy who is still in him somewhere, who would read and draw by himself for hours on time, who got told off for being in his own head more often than not. In his life, he has to be aware of his surroundings so often, so careful about who he is and what he does and how he does it. In that context, making art like this is almost like a window in time. It's how he is able to remember how he felt during those long hours spent in his own head, almost a thousand years ago.
He needs it sometimes. He is so grateful to have it right now.
Just as he finishes signing the prints, Nicky texts him to tell him that they’re going out to eat in an hour or so, asks if he is interested in joining. He checks the time. Then he checks the prints. The one he wants is dry enough for transport. He texts Nicky to save him a seat.
He carefully takes one of the prints, (3/150, Nicky always wants him to save number 3 and he is happy to oblige) and wraps it in a clean sheet of newsprint paper. He packs his bags and then puts the roll into his backpack, making sure not to bend or squish it.
Finally, he takes a loose piece of paper and writes a note for Mrs Khan. Joe knows that while the restoration has made the studio look fancy, the community college is struggling with its funding right now. Having some extra prints to sell at the next event won’t hurt. He wouldn’t be able to take them anyway.
In the end, he makes one last sweep through the room, making sure everything is turned off, that nothing is dirty or paint-stained (because of him, at least), that the doors are closed. Once he makes sure everything is as he should be, he leaves the note where Mrs Khan will see it. He turns off the radio last.
He walks out into the street smiling as he thinks about the upcoming dinner, the evening after that, and the travel the next day. He thinks about the mission they have planned and about the people they’re going to help. He is excited for Nile to see the print. He knows she will have something interesting to say; she usually does.
Joe closes his eyes in the sun, feeling fresh and light for all that he is nearly a thousand years old. The print studio is behind him now but the peace lingers. He checks the text again and then he checks the map. The restaurant is some kilometres away but it’s looking to be a beautiful evening so that's all right.
He starts walking, head held high, humming a tune he heard on the radio just a few hours ago. The evening sun is warm against his skin and for once he has the time to enjoy it. He is determined to make the most of it. He always is.