Adventures in Penmanship

What started as a simple desire to improve my long-atrophied handwriting became a years-long adventure into the history and artistry of the written word.

As communications technology ironically makes interpersonal relations less personal, what started as an artistic ambition resulted in something of a social renaissance for me, as writing to family and old friends has unlocked a special kind of joy I didn’t realize I was missing. What follows is a brief account of my journey to-date.

Background

After a lengthy hiatus following my entry into the full-time working world, I found myself rediscovering a love of drawing. Inspired by the artfully casual beauty of fictional journals from the likes of Henry Jones, Sr. and Nathan Drake, my preferred method and style for visual expression tended towards a meticulous hatched pen-and-ink series of observations and fantasies. The problem that emerged was that while my rendering skills were improving, often when I would label or annotate my drawings the crudity of my scrawl was a jarring juxtaposition with the finely lined engraving-inspired illustrations. It became clear that to achieve the effect I wanted, I would need to reinvent my handwriting.

The notion seemed deceptively simple at first—I had learned cursive in grade school, so I reckoned all I would need do is print off a few practice sheets and unlock that muscle memory. However, upon looking up examples of what I discovered is the D’Nealean alphabet I had learned as a child, I discovered that it looked nothing like the elegant copperplate scripts I’d imagined from 18th century documents and engravings. Digging deeper, I happened upon the wonderful resource Loops & Tails which offered tuition and downloadable worksheets in a variety of penmanship styles, and it’s here that my journey began.

Evolution

As I spent many a long evening in my home scriptorium carefully working my way through each of the 52 letterforms as proscribed by Loops and Tails, I began to cast my net wider, collecting whatever examples of copperplate alphabets I could find online and beginning to compare and contrast against the worksheets I was toiling over. As I did so I became curious as to how close I was coming to the actual Victorian hands I wished to mimic, and to see first-hand examples of how they actually wrote, not just how the master penman of the day engraved their copybooks. Ebay became a close companion as I began what would become a modestly sizeable collection of 19th century letters, receipts, land deeds, wills, contracts, and anything else where the writer’s penmanship exemplified some interesting shape, form, or quirk I found intriguing.

Over time I would incorporate these findings into my own practice as I struggled over tricky letterforms such as “r” and “s”, pulling in as many first-party examples as I could while working to create my own set of practice sheets as I picked-and-chose my favorites from all these sources to compile what I’ve cheekily dubbed “Chimeric Roundhand”. It was during this time that I happened upon such other wonderful resources as Brian Willson’s Old Fonts where he’s painstakingly created amazingly intricate typefaces out of a myriad of historic hands, as well as Brenna Jordan’s wonderful book “The Lost Art of Handwriting” and Jane Sullivan’s impeccable volume on calligraphy. All of these sources and more I combined as over the course of the next few years, I invented my own hand.

Tools & Etiquette

Of course when it comes to authentically recreating a Victorian style of writing, the shapes and strokes of the letters are only part of the equation. My practice toolset was comprised of a few hundred worksheets on printer paper and a number of the felt tip pens I’d been using for drawing, but as I grew happier with how my skills were shaping up I needed to find the right implements.

I started out by delving into the complex and multifaceted world of fountain pens, as I was discovering that the line weight variance produced by the pressure of a stroke was an integral part of the look of a copperplate hand. After trying out a good number of different styles, nibs, and materials, I decided for the sake of authenticity I should try a dip pen. I instantly fell in love. The elegance and simplicity of a steel nib and a pot of ink I found immediately charming, and the ability to change inks or nibs on the fly, as I’d accumulated a sizeable library of both in my experimentation, meant that all those fountain pens would soon be collecting dust.

The next question was what to write on, and how. The materials, how a missive is composed, and how it's prepared for mailing are all topics of great historical depth and interest, and I owe a great debt to Townsends and Brian Allison for lending me a foundational knowledge on these topics. I’ve since experimented with various papers, formats, folds, and seals in my correspondence, and while they’re each a topic too deep to go into in any meaningful detail here, each is fascinating in its own right, from the lost format of the bifolium sheet to the way an 18th century writer would fold a margin over to add a postscript.

The Joy of Letter Writing

Naturally a skill is only useful if it's used, and having put such effort into redefining this skill, I was eager to find an outlet. My first patient correspondent was my mother, who was kind enough to humor me as my rusty letter writing skills and shaky half-developed calligraphic hand were at their roughest. However once I began writing letters more regularly, I began to appreciate the special kind of thoughtful deliberateness which the format demands, and the unparalleled intimacy it engenders. Having now corresponded regularly for several years, I find myself closer to- and better informed of- my correspondents than ever before, despite the seeming languidness of the process.

In collecting a wide array of first-party handwriting samples in the ongoing course of my exploration, this archaic process of applying pigment to paper has one final quality to share—posterity. A perennial genealogy enthusiast, I’m keenly aware of the voids and gaps in family history, and I would dearly cherish the opportunity to read the words written by a the actual hand of an ancestor, and to hold in my hand the very paper they held. So while the physical artifact of a letter (or even postcard) is a pleasant one to create and to receive, it’s also a gift to the future. After all, when I’m gone, who is going to wistfully leaf through grandpa’s old text messages or facebook posts…?

The Future

At this point I’ve invested several years and a fair amount of coin into what was originally meant to be a quick personal project, but I’m by no means done—I neither expect nor hope to stop learning. I’d love to explore the more “calligraphic” disciplines, centuries-old alphabets I’ve only touched upon, and learn how to cut a quill properly, how to draft on parchment, how to gild. I’d love to explore more deeply the art of penmanship as it existed as a profession, to learn more about printing, copperplate engraving and letterpress, all the technologies and techniques that elevated the simple act of recording speech to a myriad of intricate art forms. I want to meet some of these wonderful people who've inspired me, and discover if out there there are any other obscure enthusiasts such as myself who will nerd out over the use of a long-s or the pros and cons of lifting the pen to close the bowl of a minuscule “a” or “d”.

Perhaps most of all, though, I want to inspire others to write to their loved ones. Not everybody needs to go on such a journey as myself, but everyone enjoys receiving a handwritten letter—to know that they’re thought of and cared about enough for someone to go out of their way to make something a little special for them. Throughout this whole adventure, that is the most meaningful discovery I’ve made.