What I Learned From Iron Gall Ink About Work That Lasts
|
The ink that wrote history is erasing itself. What iron gall teaches us about making work that lasts without destroying its foundation. Welcome to What I Learned From… “Nothing is permanent in this wicked world—not even our troubles.” — Charlie Chaplin What I Learned From …For the past two millennia (give or take a few centuries), if you wanted your words to last for centuries, you would have reached for iron gall ink. It is there in the Magna Carta, in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, in Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks. For over a thousand years it was the default choice in Europe for anyone who needed their words to endure. Kings, clerks, artists, and revolutionaries all trusted it. Fresh from the pen it looked like a soft gray shadow on the page. As it dried, the color deepened to a velvety black, like the letters had been etched into the fibers. The recipe was deceptively simple: tannic acid pulled from oak gall, mixed with iron salts, and bound together with gum arabic. Oak galls are not nuts, but small, round growths caused when a wasp lays its eggs in a tree branch. The tree builds a protective sphere around the intruder, a kind of botanical fortification, which is then harvested, crushed, and steeped in liquid. Scribes often used wine or beer for the steeping, believing it enriched the final color. When this gall solution met iron salts, the reaction created a pigment that soaked in and clung to the page. Gum arabic kept it flowing evenly from the nib and gave the letters their subtle sheen. The result was waterproof, fade-resistant, and almost impossible to erase. Governments even passed laws specifying the exact formula for legal documents and royal decrees. If you were writing with a quill, you would have chosen your feather based on your dominant hand. Right-handed writers used feathers from the left wing so the curve would sweep away from the page (and your face!), and left-handed writers used right-wing feathers. Not that there were many left-handed scribes, they were usually “retrained” with the same enthusiasm as a cat being bathed. I understand their loyalty to a writing tool. Mine is not a quill dipped in iron gall, but the Pilot G2 Black Gel Ink Pen. Smooth glide, rubbery grip, and I recently realized…refillable (handy if you also have a Nibling the Younger in your life who likes to snap the clip off all your pens.) Apparently, the marketing copy calls it “the ultimate pen for the everyday overachiever”, which leaves me feeling both seen and called out. I still get a fresh pack from Santa every year, and sometimes I’ll even splurge on the 27-color assortment. For me, it must be the 07 Fine 0.7mm nib size; anyone who writes with the Ultra-Fine .38mm nib is clearly a psychopath who enjoys tearing up their paper or a medieval scribe trying to fit the Book of Kells into a margin. These days we think very little about ink and nibs. It’s all about docs and programs on a device, a disconnect from the physical act of handwriting. Our fingers slip across keyboards, barely pausing to consider whether they are the best words for the story. For centuries iron gall ink carried the West’s most important words, yet the chemistry that made it permanent eventually destroyed the pages it touched. The same chemical reaction that darkened the ink, iron oxidizing as it bonded with the fibers, also created sulfuric acid. Over decades, that acid gnawed at the cellulose of paper and parchment, weakening it and turning it brittle. In some manuscripts, the page looks like a wool sweater, hanging in a closet full of moths. Strokes are haloed in brown and entire loops of letters have vanished, leaving only ghostly outlines. In the worst cases, the paper crumbles like a cracker along the ink lines, as conservators race to stabilize the documents. (The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, drafted in iron gall in 1789, now lives in a climate-controlled vault, its edges dissolving faster than the ideals it proclaimed.) It is an uncomfortable truth: the most “permanent” ink in history is slowly erasing itself. I think about that when I see writers pouring ourselves into a single piece of work. The book that costs us sleep and health. The project that burns bright in the moment, but leaves nothing but ash by dusk. We can chase permanence in our words, but if we ignore the conditions that will have to hold them — our creative well-being, our relationships with readers, the trust we have built in our own process — we risk corroding the very structures that allow the work to endure. Enduring creative work is not just about making a deep mark. A manuscript may be strong enough to carry your words, but not if the ink eats away at it year after year. A writing career can hold big, lasting work, but not if the pace, pressure, or approach leaves you unable to keep going. Craft matters. Care matters. And neither one can be substituted for the other. Iron gall ink still exists today, used mostly by calligraphers and artists who love its rich tone and history. They know to clean their nibs carefully after each use to keep the acid from wearing down the metal. They know how to prepare the page to reduce damage. They also know not to drink it or hand it to children, because too much iron will poison anyone. The ink that outlives us should do more than leave a ghost of itself on the page. It should be intact enough for someone to trace a line with the tender tip-of-their-finger someday, and feel the pulse of what we meant. Worth Reading …The pieces that made me pause last week.
Notes from the Masters …Craft advice that holds up, straight from the ones who lived it. “Once, we built structures entirely from the most durable substances we knew: granite block, for instance. The results are still around today to admire, but we don’t often emulate them, because quarrying, cutting, transporting, and fitting stone require a patience we no longer possess.” ― Alan Weisman, The World Without Us Prompted: Your Move …A spark from this week’s essay. Use it to write your own. What’s your modern-day equivalent of the Pilot G2 or iron gall ink? A tool or medium you’re fiercely loyal to? Write a love letter (or breakup letter) to it, and consider how it shapes—or limits—your work. Glossary of The Forgotten …Because life’s too chaotic for bland words. Atrament [AT-ruh-ment] (n.) — From Latin atrāmentum (“ink, black coloring matter”), rooted in āter (“black, dark, gloomy”) + -mentum (a suffix of means or result.) In Ancient Rome, the word covered a spectrum of inky substances: the soot-black used by scribes, the tarry polish for leather, even the shadowy cosmetics rimmed around the eyes. Now? Mostly the dark panic-blast of an octopus’s escape plan. Sorta synonyms: ink, black dye, writer’s blood Use it for: Rain-slicked streets at midnight, squid ink pasta that clings to your teeth, stories that stain the page (or soul) Want to read more in-depth Glossary entries? Catch up on the archives and find this week’s newest one. Try This Thing …No promises. Just a potentially brilliant shortcut or two. Ye Olde Blogroll — Add your blog or newsletter to this cozy corner of the Fediverse. A hand-curated collection of indie voices, powered by Micro.blog. No algorithms, no ads, just good old-fashioned link-sharing among humans. The Final Chuckle …Serious writing deserves unserious endings. And don’t get me started on HR… ‘Til next time ~ Elisa PS - Big things brewing this month (including a way to support this newsletter directly.) Stay tuned…or just bribe me for details with Pilot G2 presents. |