Keeping the Magic Alive the Old-Fashion Way
By Mikey Burton
It’s hard being a creative. Hell, it’s hard being a human. The longer I go along my creative path, the more disenchanted I become. The further I walk, the more I look back. Why did I work in that specific style? What decisions brought me to it, and was it genuine? OR was I imitating the people before me? Is this wisdom? Age? The wisdom of age? Is this regret? Some form of rumination? Curmudgeonly jadedness? Turning 40? I really don’t know. BUT all this reassessing has made me strip down my ideas to the bare minimum. Just naked, no-frills ideas.
BUT all this reassessing has made me strip down my ideas to the bare minimum. Just naked, no-frills ideas.
So, let’s talk about the one-ton letterpress in the room. Kent State has a press, and as a senior, you can try your hand at this archaic technology in the name of experimentation. While I was there, the proprietor Eric May (RIP), was very patient and kind and let people express themselves even to the detriment of the wood type. Anyway, That’s where my love affair with letterpress began. The tactility, the mottled texture, the physical act of cranking the giant arm of the Vandercook, it all spoke to me. In the press room, I remember having a convo with another student. I mentioned how much I love it and could happily do it forever. He expressed that it wasn’t for him, and my view was a little foolish. He’s right, but I persisted anyway.
Here I am 20 years later. My friend Keith Berger helped me find a letterpress back in 2007, but it pretty much sat dormant until last year. Sure, I would find excuses here and there to use it, but not in a consistent manner. It gathered dust in a storage unit, and time marched on.
I’ve worked as a self-proclaimed “Designy Illustrator” for the past ten years, and I’ve quite enjoyed it. Toward 2015-16 I think I became less and less committed to it. I found my best friend and turned that into a joyful marriage. I started working on a TV show. I came less and less defined by my work mentally. The need to create never went away though.
I came less and less defined by my work mentally. The need to create never went away though.
2020. I spent the beginning of the pandemic in my sketchbook. Trying to connect to my work. Trying to connect to anything, it was the pandemic. I started using my sketchbook less for work and more for me. I found my wit in illustration again, but I also found I love words. Wordplay. It felt fun, fresh, new, more straightforward, and somewhat more challenging.
The words needed a vehicle to become ideas. I started thinking about that old press again, then committed to the hour drive once weekly to go to the shop. I’ve printed pretty consistently for about a year. Making things. Whole ideas. Half-baked ideas. Any idea that makes me giggle. “I mean, we’ve got the paper and ink… why not” It brings me joy to get my hands dirty. It brings me joy not to sit at a computer but to physically do “design” without the shackles of technology. Actual leading, the kind that can poison you. Inky hands. The ASMR quality sound of the brayer. Cleaning up with Crisco (yes, using vegetable oil to clean up, it works). Printing 100 of something then realizing there’s a misspelling. It’s made me love being a creative again. I even have a small press next to my desk, and I can’t leave it alone. I’m always thinking of the next print.
It’s made me love being a creative again.
This isn’t me breaking up with creativity. This is a love letter to it. Recommitting myself for an unforeseen amount of time to press on (pun intended). Thank you for reading my love story to creativity. — Happy Valentine’s to you.
