Story about a sign painter

[Roderick Treece]

I received this story via e-mail from a guy who saw me putting up a sign the other day.We got to talking and he told me his dad was a sign painter.I asked him if if he had any of his tools,that I'd like to buy them or he could donate them to the mueseum ,but wasn't ready to let loose of anything yet.
He wrote this story and sent it to me.It's strange how apon reading it I had alot of the same memories about my dad.Hope you enjoy it ,I did.
Roderick

Joseph La Rosa's Sign Shop
 
   In addition to individual talent, the artist needs mastery of craft, training, education, and an expertise that become in time and practice the foundation of his or her work. I use the word work because all art and craft is hard work, and if it isn't, it certainly is not serious in the sense of the most important element in one's life.  Without mastery of craft, the work and what it says has no road to follow, much in the same way that meditation or prayer benefits from sacred and time honored ritual. Without the mastery of the way to do it, the individual artist's ability gets lost in a meandering that loses focus. Perhaps this is why nowadays a dedicated few are reviving and pursuing so called "lost arts."
   My father Joseph La Rosa was a master of the art and craft of sign painting and lettering. His mastery was his guide, a roadway, a set of techniques that always grounded what he had to say. He believed that there is a moral rightness to finely shaped letters. This must be for them to carry their message.
   What would insight, _expression, spontaneity and individual talent be without a mastery of those traditional purveyors of meaning? By means of the container of craft, all above core qualities become manifested through the intent and focus of the artist.
   Even now, his picture or image burns brightly in my consciousness: People standing and watching in awe as my father sat before his sign table, or, as he sat on a stool lettering the door of a truck. I remember the sunny July afternoon in Pittsburgh when he was gold leafing a fire truck under the trees in our backyard as the radio (which was always on as he worked) announced the dropping of an atom bomb on Bikini Island--he worked unflinchingly through it.  At seven years old I thought the world was going to split open into halves knocking it off its balanced vortex, but his art and focus held us both steady. I felt secure in the silence of his work. For him to talk would be to break the sacred, meditative will of his working, which is one of the closest things to prayer that I have ever experienced. It was as good as being in church. And, he could smoke a Camel.
   Joe was a master of many different techniques but two in particular remain indelible in my memory.
   He cared for his brushes with discipline. After he lettered a showcard (they used to have these to advertise movies and drugstore products), he washed his beautiful Russian sable brushes. This was a thorough process, an alchemical rite of soaps, cleaners, and long rinses. When the brushes were clean to his liking, he shaped the hairs of each brush into a sharp pointed, opulent teardrop by twirling it in his mouth; loading the brush with saliva and then twisting it to a spiral point between his pursed lips. I wonder where he learned this? From school or books, or from some respected mentor? Maybe he himself invented it?
   He was a devotee of gold leafing. First the letters were painted in varnish (on windows in reverse!), and the varnish was allowed to dry partially. The stickiness of the varnish had to be exactly the right consistency, and he judged this by touching the letters with his finger tips. Taking a wide gold leaf brush in hand, he would whisk it briskly back and forth against the side hairs of his head to generate static electricity. The brush would bristle and even crackle. My father delighted in electrical energy for some mysterious reason somewhat unknown to me. He then touched the charged brush tip to a sheet of gold leaf, picked up the shimmering leaf and placed it on the varnish painted letters. That suspended, trembling leaf of gold reminds me now of John Donne’s metaphor for the unity of lovers' souls, "to airy thinness beat." The varnish grabbed the gold with greediness and fixed it firmly and permanently. The varnish and gold became one. The gold that did not stick to letters was simply brushed away, showering down in a dusting of particles, bits and pieces onto the floor creating a terrestrial halo around his feet. I liked to pick up the pieces and specks of this spent gold and roll them into little nuggets.
   Because of his mastery of craft, Joe's letters were his own, immediately recognizable as Joe La Rosa's work, just as the work of other masters carried the signatures of Sid or Jack or Norm. It is appropriate to cite the proverb, "He knows what he is doing, and he does it with his blood." To all of these sign writers craft was not an impediment. Instead, it was their ground and roadbed. Like a well built Roman Road, their mastery of classic Roman letters had a firm foundation.  And, the individuality of their hand painted letters signed their work.
   Like the artist mason of medieval cathedrals who set the stone and carved the pediments and statues, there was no need for Joe to sign his work, though he often did. Why? Because, he lived in an age that challenged the artist to attribution (almost from rebellion) in contrast to the mindless repetition of mass produced objects.
   In reality, as I look back upon his signs, the quality of his talent and craft was his lasting signature
 
.
An atomic bomb was detonated above Bikini Island on July 1, 1946.
 
    
          
   

[Danny Baronian]

Thanks for the post Roderick.

The man's fondness and respect of the craft seems equal to that of his father.

Nice.

[Roderick Treece]

Thanks Danny,
I am trying to get a photo from him so I can include him in the "Ghost town web site".The story brought back alot of memories for me.

Roderick