The West Philly Tool Library is anything but a “typical” library. With stacks of scrap wood, animal traps, sewing machines, and carpentry tools in an open–door garage, it looks more like a hoarder’s warehouse. When I walk inside through the unlatched garage door, it feels like I am invading someone’s personal workspace.
I chose a printmaking workshop from a list of options to fulfill an assignment for my digital humanities class, expecting a polished space with high–tech screen printing materials, based on my past experience. Upon my arrival at the tools library, I encounter a garage filled with trinkets and tools; it is disheveled and intricate in a way that is beautiful and interesting. I scan the room throughout the class for glimpses of different objects, an almost “Where’s Waldo?” experience. This homey clutter of supplies and literal open–door atmosphere would come to define my time spent in the workshop.
My first exposure to printmaking had taken place in a summer pre–college art course three years ago. There, we screwed our screens into metal clamps, specially designed to keep them in place, and dragged size–exact squeegees over high thread count screens—the pores so small, they seemed nearly invisible to the naked eye. A life–sized light box was used to trigger the emulsion, though I didn’t engage in this step firsthand. I drew a sketch of some goldfish and showed up the next day to find that, like magic, my design had been burned into two screens split into layers corresponding to my color scheme. The process was elusive and mysterious—it happened behind closed doors.
Unlike this first impression of printmaking, my time at the tools library is a more spontaneous, intimate experience. Rather than a teacher–student dynamic, the class feels like an assortment of like–minded creative peers. Our instructor begins with an overarching intention to show our small group of six that screen printing can be done anywhere, with anything.
“I’ve made prints using a f**king spatula,” he tells us.
He launches into a run–down of the necessary supplies and where to purchase them: a $10 9–by–12 Amazon screen, an emulsion, a fluorescent lamp (to speed up the light exposure process—the sun is a free substitute), a hose, and three colors of ink—red, blue, yellow. A heat gun and food dehydrator are optional additions to speed up the operation under the restrictions of a three–hour workshop. A squeegee could be improvised with a cooking spatula, but he has upgraded to using the real tool at this point.
Our first opportunity to engage with the materials is in preparing the screens for light exposure, which is surprisingly the most difficult step. Tilting the emulsion scoop vertically so the edges pressed against the screen, I watch as the blue gooey substance steadily inches toward the translucent web of mesh. I pull upwards with one hand, struggling against the friction of the sticky substance. At the top, I tilt the scoop backward too quickly. The emulsion spills over the top of the frame, dripping down the sides and onto the tablecloth. This is yet another part of the process I had been blind to the first time around—for good reason, it seems.
Next, using Sharpies on transparent paper, we each design a simple image for printing. I launch into my drawing, intimidated by the permanence of the marker. This step is an exercise in battling perfectionism; my hand slips as I make my first marks without the crutch of an underlying sketch. Layering on top of my lines and adding in dark, shaded areas, my marks evolve into an image of a little cappuccino with heart–shaped foam. It isn’t the exact image I had in my head, but I actually like it better.
The intimate class size and homeyness of the tools library facilitate a communal art–making experience. I treasure this part of the workshop more than anything. The six of us take turns holding down screens for other people as they pull ink across, holding tightly to keep the design from shifting on our white shirts. Unlike the individuality of my art–camp experience, this process feels collaborative. As the youngest person in the class, I revel in the chance to learn about the backgrounds and insights of the adults around me, who are all creatives in their own right.
The most exciting part of the process is the ultimate reveal. After completing our ink pulls, we wait in anticipated silence as we work together to lift up the screen. One person holds down the t–shirt with the edges of their untainted inky fingers, cautious not to dab the crisp white areas. One or two others carefully lift the screen off the fabric, which stubbornly clings to the sticky remnants of ink on the mesh, but eventually gives way. Upon results, the repeatedly collective praise is wholesome—“that’s beautiful,” uttered with pure sincerity.
At my summer art camp three years prior, the printing process felt more manufactured, more precise. The hinges on the clamps allowed the screens to swing up and down like a door, and we made careful, particular prints placed specifically in the upper middle. Precautions were taken to prevent ink splotches, and several test runs preceded the ultimate ink pull. I was afraid to mess up the seemingly robotic process.
Though ink often finds itself in unwanted areas at the tools library, we found this messy aesthetic to be appealing in a new way. Our instructor encourages us to add to our T–shirts after the initial print; some of my peers repeat their designs on the front and back or make a pattern of sorts. The results are beautiful.
This encouraging community atmosphere is my favorite part of the experience. As we wait our turn to use the singular T–shirt mounting board, heat gun, and red ink, we all play a pivotal role in each other’s processes. Someone would hold down the screen, someone would pull the ink, and multiple people would pull off the screen and transfer the shirt to the heating station. This experience transforms my perception of printmaking from something robotic and precise to a collaborative process with creative flexibility. I feel a newfound confidence in my ability to recreate the process from home with a screen, a spatula, a little sun, and the support of a friend.
