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In the spring of 2001 I received a letter from
the Dean of the University of Michigan Art School
informing me of Emil Weddige’s passing. My
friend, Steve McMath, who had been my studio partner
in grad school shared a phone call with me about
our recollections of Emil. Steve and I had not only
been Emil’s students, we had been his studio
assistants.
Emil was an institution at art school. As a pioneer
in color hand lithography he had a considerable
impact upon the revitalization of the medium of
lithography, and printmaking in general. The number
of students he had passed his knowledge on to in
Ann Arbor was countless. Many went on to teach or
otherwise work with the medium. He had spent time
in Paris working with the last of the breed of stone
lithographers. Unfortunately, as accommodating as
his French host might have been, they fiercely guarded
the secrets of their craft. Supposedly the only
tidbit they divulged was that during dry weather
they would pour some stale white wine into the sponge
water to slow drying of the limestone.
At this point it would only be fair to tell you
a concise history of lithography and its basic principle.
In the late eighteenth century, Aloys Sennefelder
was trying to find an inexpensive means to print
music. Copper etching plates cost a fair amount
of money and while many images could be pulled from
a single plate, the plate could not be used for
a different image. Quite by accident he wrote a
list upon the only material at hand, a flat slab
of limestone. His crayon happened to be greasy.
He already knew that the greasy crayon would not
be harmed by acid, since the material in the crayon
was similar to the etching resists used on copper
plates to protect them from the action of the acid.
It occurred to him that he might apply some acid
to this stone. He actually managed to etch the stone
and to make a print. It took him two more years
to perfect the technique, discovering along the
way that water was an important component. The entire
process is based upon this simple concept: the antipathy
of grease and water. What is greasy repels water.
During printing, the stone is kept moistened, isolating
the islands of ink receptive grease. Moisture is
maintained by frequent wiping the limestone with
a damp sponge (perhaps with stale wine in it), greasy
ink is rolled over the image area of the stone.
The ink does not stick to the water bearing regions
and does cling to those image portions that had
been drawn with grease. These greasy image areas
can be created in near limitless ways.
Toulouse Lautrec worked directly on stone with
a litho crayon; formulated with lamp black, bees
wax, carnuba wax, and castile soap. The two waxes,
carnuba is hard and bees wax is soft, are mixed
in proportion to allow for a range of hardness or
softness to the crayon. Lamp black is inert and
allows the artist to see what has been drawn on
the stone. The key ingredient is the grease rich
castile soap, which is a fatty substance that aids
in the adhesion of the crayon to the stone, deposits
grease, and also acts to lubricant and make fluid
the act of drawing on the stone.. Lautrec also used
a paint brush to apply a liquid mixture of a near
identical formula, called tusche, which is German
for ink. Lautrec achieved most of his halftones
by loading a toothbrush with a thick tusche, then
pulling a blade across the bristles which would
cause the individual bristles to act like ink catapults;
sending their loads of greasy ink onto the litho
stone.
The beauty of Sennefelder’s invention is
that a litho stone, unlike an etching plate or wood
cut block can be reused near infinite number of
times, with completely different images. Emil Weddige’s
contribution to the medium was in bringing an emphasis
on color and an alchemist's sensitive touch to lithographic
image making. Note that I use the word alchemist.
Emil might have fancied himself a scientist, but
all his mixing and mumbo jumbo with acids, gums,
rosins, and chalks fell into a different category.
Emil was more alchemist or magician. When he needed
carbon he’d make his own by rubbing Dragon’s
Blood onto a sheet of tracing paper. He worked on
Bavarian limestone and not the modern aluminum plates.
He concocted his own crayons. His etching mixes
were from scratch. He soaked his own gum acacia
crystals until they were properly swollen, then
hand mixed them to the proper viscosity. Using his
fingers he added, into a crockery bowl, vaguely
poured amounts of gum arabic and chemical grade
nitric acid. A box of baking soda was nearby but
never needed. His methods were intuitive. When he
would dab an etching mix on the margin of the stone
he would count; “One thousand one, one thousand
two, one thousand three”. He would judge the
intensity of the effervescence, the release of gasses
produced by the reaction of the stone to the nitric
acid, then adjust his mixture, if necessary, by
adding more acid or gum and etching the image onto
the stone. For the faint of heart this procedure
was too arbitrary. Most of the outside world prefers
the relative safety of specific etch formulas, such
as the Kistler Etch Table. The Kistler and other
calculated systems lack the magical outcome that
followed Emil’s etch approach, as well as
seem to produce a less sensitive halftone quality.
As students we were lucky enough to have fresh
off the press copies of Emil’s “Lithography”,
text book. The text augmented Emil’s seemingly
endless lectures. His lectures were designed to
prepare students before making physical contact
with the tools and materials of the medium. During
the sixties his oft repeated word during these long
lectures, which he uttered as frequently as others
might interject an “um” or “you
know”, was “consequently”. Meanwhile,
as he lectured on and on we students were chomping
at the bit to get to the hands-on part, “consequently”,
we lost no time with questions once the opportunity
was presented to select our stones and get down
to the business of subduing this magical, mysterious
technique.
It didn’t take much research for Emil to
discover which students were committed to the task.
There were but three presses and in order to get
press time one had to sign up for a specific time.
Etiquette ruled the press schedule, one signed up
for a specific time and was cleaned up and off the
press in time for the next student printmaker to
begin. As long as the building was open there was
a relay of students using the presses. All Emil
had to do to find a dedicated, experienced lithographer,
to act as either the class or his personal assistant
was to look at who had been logging press time.
Steve McMath and I had both been Emil’s studio
assistants. We were part of a long line of students
who worked at his home. Pat Powers and Stuart Kline
are two others who come to mind who shared the role
of Emil’s assistants.
A day at Emil’s own studio, out in the country,
was usually spent in some litho related activity.
That was the case for me, at least. I recall tearing
sheets of paper and dampening them in preparation
for printing. Emil had an enormous circus poster
press which was capable of printing gigantic images.
Although I was curious about what it might be like
to print something that scale, I was fortunate to
never have to find out. Just looking at the size
of the press was tiring. It would most certainly
have been major labor to wipe such a big stone for
hours on end. Instead, I wiped while Emil rolled
the ink on a smaller press. After a few hours of
printing we’d move on to some other project.
Emil was engaged with the Michigan Art Train project,
an art outreach to those parts of the state where
going to an art museum would have been like traveling
to another planet. Emil knew I also worked at the
University Art Museum, so assigned some of the design
work to me. Interestingly, it seems the Art Train
is still running around the state. I believe I saw
that it was visiting Port Huron, my hometown, this
past summer.
I didn’t realize how lucky I had been to
actually print with Emil. I was tense the first
time, assuming he’d be critical of any flaw
in my technique. My apprehension was unnecessary.
He was helpful and supportive, but my duration as
his assistant was brief. I had to move on and Steve
McMath took over at Weddige’s I recall Steve
relating how Emil became intrigued by genealogy.
Emil had been excited to find that his family name
had been shortened to Weddige from the titled: von
Weddige. He was on the verge of changing his name
to Emil von Weddige when he discovered a famous
relative, a General von Weddige. This General was
from the Bismarck era and had been convicted of
war crimes. Emil dropped his planned name change
abruptly. Steve was put kept busy doing non-printing
activities. Steve really wanted to print with Emil
and would have enjoyed using the monster press.
Unfortunately he was given odd jobs, like “a
“Yard Boy”.
Whether I or any other assistant was in or out
of the studio, Emil’s wife, Juanita, would
prepare a noonday meal for us. At a predictable
time she’s come fetch us to come to the kitchen.
Just as Emil was master of the studio, Juanita was
master of cuisine. Juanita was very quiet, but not
subservient. I always had the feeling that if Emil
crossed her, he’d better remember that the
rollers are kept in the studio but the big knifes
are in the kitchen.
Each meal was handmade and delectable. One particular
lunch break was memorable. I had looked up from
my task to see Juanita bobbing up and down just
outside the studio window. I didn’t know what
she was up to at that point. Juanita had spent the
morning making a remarkable gazpacho, the perfect
foil to the hot day. As Emil and I entered the kitchen
she handed us each a tall glass of iced tea and
steered us to the table, where cobalt bowls awaited.
In the bowls, minute beads of olive oil reflected
the daylight passing in the window, giving a golden
glow to the surface of the deep mellow, scarlet
soup. Croutons probably toasted from the same loaf
of bread we had on the table floated around a snowy
dollop of sour cream. Juanita had balanced the lemon
and vinegar bringing a tang against the less assertive
oil and thick red juice of who knows how many ripe
tomatoes. She played with the texture and color,
adding vegetables picked in the coolness of the
morning from her own garden, alongside the studio.
My taste buds were in heaven.
Emil seemed to appreciate it too. I was about to
compliment her when Emil nearly burst into song,
giving her such great praise that he shouldn't have
asked the following question: “Did you remember
to write down the recipe this time?”
Some empty moments passed before Juanita let out
the loudest sign I have ever heard in my life. I
did notice that Emil had pulled himself away from
the table. Later I recognized that he had pulled
the chair back up against the drawer where the knifes
were kept. Probably a coincidence.
Both Emil and Juanita were entirely intuitive in
their work Despite Emil’s affectation of a
scientific approach to craft, he like Juanita drew
upon magic to create. Perhaps Juanita did write
her gazpacho recipe down, perhaps she never did.
I offer my interpretation of her magical soup here.
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Juanita’s Gazpacho
Quart Homemade tomato juice
6 large vine ripened tomatoes
6 tablespoons of virgin olive oil
½ teaspoon salt
dash pepper
½ cup scallions
dash of Tabasco sauce
1 clove garlic
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup beef broth
1 tablespoon Balsamic vinegar or some stale white
wine, unless you are printing and need to add it
to your water.
Finely chop vegetables, but leave a range of more
coarse pieces to delight the eye. Chill the mixture
for an hour. Serve in blue or green ceramic bowls
that have been in the freezer. Put a dollop of sour
cream in the center of each bowl before pouring
in the gazpacho. Scatter freshly toasted croutons
on top. The sour cream will float to the surface,
but be mostly submerged and consequently visually
subtle. As you eat repeat the chant; “One
thousand one, one thousand two.......”.
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