The Pen, the Ink, and the Solitude.

"As the sailor welcomes the final harbour, so does the scribe the final line."

-Manuscript of Silos Beatus

I came to calligraphy for one particular reason: loneliness.  The irony being that calligraphy is an incredibly lonely business.

Five years ago, I found myself living alone in a 1920s St. Paul apartment.  I should clarify that by "alone" I mean without the companionship of another person, as I, of course, had Jay.  We were not an unhappy twosome.  In fact, one of us was quite happy having an apartment and his mom all to himself.  However, it was during this stretch of my life that I learned the difference between being happy and not being unhappy.  You'd think the difference would be subtle.  It's not.

I pried open my mailbox one day and found the St. Paul Community Education mailing.  I thought--I need to meet some people.  I need to get out.  I need to TAKE ACTION against my loneliness, formulate a plan!  I scanned the adult classes.  Languages, no thanks.  Yoga, ballroom dancing (no partner, wail,) how to change your own oil/air filter/crap like that.  Kind of a crash course in auto care for airhead girls.  (Should have taken that in hindsight.)  Then I spotted it, at the bottom of the page.  There was a class taught by Judith Michalski, a professional calligrapher and librarian at St. Thomas University.  Her portfolio includes several pieces for the governors, and she will give a delicate eye roll when discussing her work for one former governor in particular.  She's a kind woman, and patient.  Turns out patience comes in mighty handy when you are holding a quill.

Needless to say, when I read Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love a few years later, I laughed audibly at the part where she talks about first learning Italian.  "So I signed up for classes at one of those continuing education places (otherwise known as Night School for Divorced Ladies.)"  Oh, the pain.  The pain of it all being true.

We were a ragtag bunch.  Judith was our leader.  She encouraged us to practice for an hour a day, she gave homework, and we had to hang it up each week for everyone to critique.  She was particularly fond of one guy in the class as he was an artist.  You know--a real one--not like the rest of us wannabe right brainers.  But she helped us all.  And somewhere along the way, I began to lose myself in the letters.  The quiet scratching of the pen.  I grew to love the feel of paper, the scent of it, the subtle color differences in black inks.  I got my descenders and swashes going in legible directions.  My mind was still, and I embraced loneliness as an essential element to my pursuits.

Calligraphy can be a seriously miserable business.  Your back hurts, your eyes hurt, your wrist really hurts.  I won't lie, I do welcome the final line of text.  Yet, I am oddly suited to the demands, and the confines, of the craft.