An Old Friend

This past week in Asheville was more than just a creative reunion with an old friend — it felt like coming home to a part of myself I hadn’t visited in years. I was invited to spend a couple of weeks helping a fellow artist bring an old Griffin printing press back to life and creating a handful of prints to take with me to Quillan.

No Ordinary Press

This particular Griffen press had recently come down from the Rocky Mountains in Aspen, Colorado, to the Blue Ridge Mountains in Asheville  — It was heavy, and not just in sheer weight, but in history. The same press was said to have been used by artists like Rauschenberg, Oldenburg, and Stella back in the ’60s and ’70s. The kind of machine you don’t just operate… You need to get to know it and feel it. So we delicately took it a part and replaces a hand full of screws and ground down a few others on the bed until we felt it was ready to rock. I was there to get my hands stained, to sketch, to carve, and to tap into that the printing process I had long forgotten.

Hooked Again

It had been years since I last did any printmaking — since my first year at college at Western Michigan, actually, but something about that tactile rhythm was still inside me. The sharp, oddly shaped carving tools. The smell of ink. The feel of thick, toothy paper between your fingers. Keeping everything medically clean as you prepare the run. There’s something meditative about it, an art form that demands patience, precision, and surrender. It’s slow. Intentional. Unforgiving, but deeply rewarding as well. I was hooked… again.

Something Takes Shape

 You start with an idea — a sketch of what it could be. Then you flip it. Reverse it. Transfer it to the block. Examine it from all angles. You begin to carve, knowing every mark matters. There’s no undo with this 1000-year-old technique. You must fully commit and just keep going. Adjusting each run. Following the flow. The print is finally revealed by pealing it from the block, but it’s the process-the testing, the failures, the revisions-that is what shapes the image, that’s what shapes you.

Like a Sketch

And somewhere mid-carving, it hit me: this process mirrors something else I’ve been experiencing — my move to France.

But like printmaking, it couldn’t happen all at once. I had to reverse the vision and look for flaws. Look at what it means — financially, emotionally, logistically. What would need to change? What do I have to let go of in order to make space for something new? How would people react to my decision, supportive, excited, hurt, or even angry? I went over for a few months to test the waters, much like pulling an artist proof, not a final, but enough to show the direction. And it was… messy. Beautiful. Revealing.

Creating a New Process.

Back in Asheville, I found a new confidence in my sketches. Maybe I was subconsciously channeling all the displaced creative energy after the storm that devastated the River Arts District. Maybe I was being inspired by my friend’s new studio or the need to step up to this historic press and deliver. I wasn’t just drawing what I saw; I was translating what I felt. I started to understand the limitations of the block, the quirks of the ink, and the rhythm of the press. I wasn’t fighting the creative process anymore — I was creating it. Even the old machine, a bit stubborn and creaky. It felt like a partner in creation. We had to find each other’s pace to make it work.

Pull The Print

 And here’s the part that’s stayed with me:

Creativity and, in this instance, printmaking — much like any creative process — demands loss. You have to simplify. Strip things down. Let go of any details that once felt essential but now only carry weight. You only bring with you what makes sense. A print only holds what the ink, plate, and pressure allow, and life is starting to feel strangely similar to this printmaking process. If something no longer serves the final vision, you lose it. Not with regret, but with clarity.

This is my life, it is my print. It is my creative process.

The plate is carved. The ink is wet. The press is primed and waiting. France is the vision — one beautiful, imperfect, uncertain shot. And I’m pulling the print.