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New Indian Express, India
January 8, 2012 Sunday
The Gutenberg of Venice
India, Jan. 8 -- Gianni Basso is a man after my own heart. In an age
where technology threatens the future of the book as a physical
object, he surrounds himself with antiquated printing presses and
resolutely eschews any form of communication that favours speed over
style. "See," he says, pointing to a black rotary phone from the 50s,
(the newest machine in his studio), "You cannot press one or two on
these phones even though nowadays you are always being asked to press
a button." Gianni Basso has no e-mail ID or website, no machine that
accepts credit cards. He jokes that the carrier pigeon is his fax
machine. If you want to visit him you must telephone, write, or visit
in person.
I found him by chance on a wintry December day, at the end of the
Calle del Fumo in Venice. I had been to the St Michele cemetery nearby
to visit the graves of old heroes - Brodsky, Stravinsky, Diaghilev,
and on the way back, stumbled upon a beguiling shop window filled with
visiting cards and ex libris - some bearing names of the people I'd
visited in the cemetery. Entering Basso's printshop was a bit like
stepping back in time-the wonderful smell of varnish, lead and wood
pervading the air, and the reassuring presence of those hulking,
beautiful machines - direct descendants of a time when Venice was the
printing capital of the world.
Basso is known to friends as the Gutenberg of Venice. He was part of
the last generation to be trained in the art of letterpress printing
by the Armenian Mekhitarists on the island of San Lazzaro - an art
that is no longer taught because the monks have returned to their
native Armenia. Thirty years ago Basso started his own printshop
determined to compete in the 20th century with 18th century machinery,
because he believed there was a niche market for quality and
handcrafted products. It has been a tenuous journey, but he has
established a diverse and international clientele. The list includes
musical composers, ballet dancers, fashion designers, writers and
actors. "It's not elegant to say," he replies coyly, when I ask who
his most famous client is, but he finally divulges that Angelina Jolie
is a customer, except her card isn't in the window as it has her
telephone number on it.
There are all kinds of treasures in Basso's shop. A cursory glance of
the cards on display reveals that Joseph Brodsky favoured a cat poring
over a book for his ex libris, while Danielle Steel preferred a
seashell. Basso shows me the original cliches of Collodio's Pinocchio
from 1888. (I didn't know that cliche and stereotype as used in
language, derive their meaning from these wood-zinc incisions that are
used repetitively as printing plates). The most gratifying thing about
his work, Basso tells me, is that his customers always return. "What
worries me is that they come back to check if I'm still alive!"
Will he ever be tempted to get a computer? I ask. In response, Basso
walks up to his desk and opens the top drawer with flourish. "This is
my memory, these are my floppy disks," he says, indicating the rows of
cliches and woodcuts. I didn't have the heart to tell him that floppy
disks became defunct a long time ago.
January 8, 2012 Sunday
The Gutenberg of Venice
India, Jan. 8 -- Gianni Basso is a man after my own heart. In an age
where technology threatens the future of the book as a physical
object, he surrounds himself with antiquated printing presses and
resolutely eschews any form of communication that favours speed over
style. "See," he says, pointing to a black rotary phone from the 50s,
(the newest machine in his studio), "You cannot press one or two on
these phones even though nowadays you are always being asked to press
a button." Gianni Basso has no e-mail ID or website, no machine that
accepts credit cards. He jokes that the carrier pigeon is his fax
machine. If you want to visit him you must telephone, write, or visit
in person.
I found him by chance on a wintry December day, at the end of the
Calle del Fumo in Venice. I had been to the St Michele cemetery nearby
to visit the graves of old heroes - Brodsky, Stravinsky, Diaghilev,
and on the way back, stumbled upon a beguiling shop window filled with
visiting cards and ex libris - some bearing names of the people I'd
visited in the cemetery. Entering Basso's printshop was a bit like
stepping back in time-the wonderful smell of varnish, lead and wood
pervading the air, and the reassuring presence of those hulking,
beautiful machines - direct descendants of a time when Venice was the
printing capital of the world.
Basso is known to friends as the Gutenberg of Venice. He was part of
the last generation to be trained in the art of letterpress printing
by the Armenian Mekhitarists on the island of San Lazzaro - an art
that is no longer taught because the monks have returned to their
native Armenia. Thirty years ago Basso started his own printshop
determined to compete in the 20th century with 18th century machinery,
because he believed there was a niche market for quality and
handcrafted products. It has been a tenuous journey, but he has
established a diverse and international clientele. The list includes
musical composers, ballet dancers, fashion designers, writers and
actors. "It's not elegant to say," he replies coyly, when I ask who
his most famous client is, but he finally divulges that Angelina Jolie
is a customer, except her card isn't in the window as it has her
telephone number on it.
There are all kinds of treasures in Basso's shop. A cursory glance of
the cards on display reveals that Joseph Brodsky favoured a cat poring
over a book for his ex libris, while Danielle Steel preferred a
seashell. Basso shows me the original cliches of Collodio's Pinocchio
from 1888. (I didn't know that cliche and stereotype as used in
language, derive their meaning from these wood-zinc incisions that are
used repetitively as printing plates). The most gratifying thing about
his work, Basso tells me, is that his customers always return. "What
worries me is that they come back to check if I'm still alive!"
Will he ever be tempted to get a computer? I ask. In response, Basso
walks up to his desk and opens the top drawer with flourish. "This is
my memory, these are my floppy disks," he says, indicating the rows of
cliches and woodcuts. I didn't have the heart to tell him that floppy
disks became defunct a long time ago.