A Degree of Mastery - Softcover

Wilcox, Annie Tremmel

3.87

151 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0140291938 ISBN 13: 9780140291933

Publisher: Penguin Group USA, 2000

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In this extraordinary memoir, certain to captivate anyone who's ever appreciated the feel of a good book, Annie Tremmel Wilcox deftly explores the artistry, traditions, and precise techniques of book making and restoration. Using excerpts from her diaries, newspaper articles, exhibit notices, and correspondence, Wilcox passionately recounts her experiences learning the art of making and preserving books as the first female apprentice to the renowned book binder and conservator William Anthony. At once rendering a gorgeous, moving scrapbook of her tutelage under this consummate craftsman, and expertly demystifing the fascinating technical processes of this centuries-old art form, A Degree of Mastery is a singular achievement certain to enchant book lovers and crafts- people alike.

"Wilcox describes the restoration processes . . . with such detail that one is left with the impression that he or she is actually learning the craft rather than merely reading about another's experience."--Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"True bibliophiles will find it hard to suppress a frisson of excitement as Wilcox recounts the techniques she and her colleagues used to bring crumbling manuscripts . . . back to life."--Publishers Weekly

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About the Author:

Annie Tremmel Wilcox earned her Ph.D. in English at the University of Iowa in 1994. She has taught writing for more than fifteen years and also works privately as a rare- book and paper conservator and teacher of book arts.

from "Tools": Bookbinders are a scavenger breed. They pore through art, jewelry, and woodworking supply catalogues, looking for tools they might adopt and adapt to bookbinding. Bookbinding catalogues are filled with tools borrowed from other professions and crafts. Jewelers's clamps and saws, doctors's hemostats and scalpels, woodworkers's spokeshaves and block planes-often altered by the purchaser in ways that marry them forever after to bookbinding.

One morning, early in my apprenticeship, Bill came down to my workbench at the other end of the Conservation Department and laid down a fine-toothed hacksaw blade. I could not remember ever seeing Bill use a hacksaw while binding a book, and I looked up at him. He smiled at my confusion. "It's so you can make your own set of lifting knives," he said. "Let me know when you're ready to begin."

I had been in Bill's night class for more than two years before beginning my apprenticeship, and I was becoming more perceptive about his techniques of instruction. I knew that by giving me the blade in this manner, he wanted me to think about what to do next with this thin, flexible piece of metal. I went over to Bill's bench and took out his set of lifting knives-used to lift leather on the spines and covers of books during conservation treatments-and returned to my bench to study them.

Bill kept his tools in two sets of cast-off library card catalogue drawers that sat on the back right-hand corner of his bench. Each drawer displayed a rectangular brass holder bearing a slip of paper that in one or two words categorized the tools inside: "knives," folders," "sewing." It was understood that his apprentices were allowed access to these tools. It was also understood that we were to use them carefully and return them to their proper drawer as soon as we were finished. Once we acquired a particular hand tool of our own, we stopped using Bill's.

Often the handles of Bill's tools-as the knives and scalpels-had been wrapped with dark strips of pared book leather to make them more comfortable to hold. The leather was darkened by years of being used and held, years of oil from his hands. They had a certain feel to them. A smooth professionalism.

In the early stages of using my own newly apprenticed tools, I would go to the drawers and get Bill's paper knife or bone folder-especially if I was having difficulties with my own. His tools were smarter than mine. They knew the correct way to cut paper or pare leather. By using them I could feel in my hands how the tools were supposed to work. Then I would go back to my own paper knife or bone folder, feel the imperfections in the way it worked, and try to correct them. Someday I wanted my tools to be as smart as Bill's.

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