Of Stradivari and Blackwing Pencils

The idea for this post came from three separate, but connected places. First, I recently finished a book written by Kameshar Wali called Cremona Violins: A Physicist’s Quest for the Secrets of Stradivari (you can read the first chapter for free, here). Second, a friend of mine once said that a Blackwing 602 pencil was like a Stradivarius in the hands of Chuck Jones. And third, every once in a while I come across an eBay auction where Blackwing pencils are referred to by a version number. Having not seen any other collections with version numbers, I’m presuming that information came from this site (one of the unintended consequences of writing something down). Jokingly, I’ve wondered if I shouldn’t have come up with a more colorful sobriquet for each of them, like those associated with Stradivarius violins and ‘cellos, etc.

So instead of just using “version 2″ it could be called the “Brooklyn”, or “version 8″ could be called the “Ex-Patriot” (the “U.S.A.” is missing from the imprint), etc. Actually, over a year ago I once referred to an early 602 with the yellow-painted band as the “Loch Ness” Blackwing (i.e. like the Loch Ness Monster, it’s something that you hear about but never get to see in person), so maybe that will stick. Of course I’m not trying to elevate or equate Blackwing pencils with Strad violins. They are however in some interesting ways, analogs of one another.

Unlocking A Secret
High-quality violins aren’t uncommon, but those built by Antonio Stradivari are often regarded as being “the best ever made.” Everyone from luthiers to scientists have tried to discover the secret to their sound. Many have focused on the proprietary varnish Stradivari used, and attempts have been made to reverse-engineer its formula. Other more recent theories suggest that, while unknown to Stradivari, the wood he chose came from trees that grew very slowly (during a period referred to as the Little Ice Age), which resulted in their having an uncommonly dense cellular structure. This density then uniquely contributes to the instruments’ resonance. This explanation is particularly satisfying to me, if only because its requirements involve titanic forces of nature and large expanses of time—two things for which there are no shortcuts.

The Blackwing, in its own way, has a secret too: its lead. No, it wasn’t hewn from glaciers or forged in the hearts of volcanos (though, carbon is one of the heavier elements produced by supernovae…), but still it stands out amidst oceans of other pencils. The formula for its graphite core might be considered as proprietary to its maker as Stradivari’s varnish was to him, and both were the result of many years spent in apprenticeship.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery
A Stradivarius is made of finite components but whose configurations are infinite, depending on how closely you are inclined to measure. Seemingly minute and subtle differences in design and process amplify over the course of building an instrument—musical or otherwise. In that sense, instrument makers won’t ever be able to account for all variables when attempting to copy Stradivari’s work, whether they are aided by his original forms or even by the 3D renderings of modern CT scans. But even if a copy were made, perfect in both sight and sound, a copy ever remains a copy.

Copying the Blackwing presents far fewer challenges: the color of the lacquer can be computer-matched, logos emulated, ferrules reforged, and even the lead can be chemically analyzed. But doing so can only be awarded a distant second-place: the Blackwing experience can’t be duplicated or replicated, because it’s something much more meaningful than matched colors, copied ferrules, and emulated logos.

The Name Game
Antonio Stradivari could scarcely have imagined that after Latinizing his surname, it would one day become a metonym for “quality”, or even “the best.” Flattering, to be sure, but not so much when it is applied to items outside its own milieu. How unseemly it is then, for a cigar and a chain of clothing stores to bear the name “Stradivarius”, in the hope that it might imbue a sense of tradition or quality. Regardless of intent, in the end it’s just one thing standing on the name and reputation of another.

Wir müssen wissen. Wir werden wissen.
The relentless pursuit to discover the ‘secret’ behind Antonio Stradivari’s work can be a double-edged sword. In one sense, our need to know—about anything—helps render the world around us more understandable. Doing so can provide a sense of comfort and stability, making the universe seem a little less random in return. All discoveries, however, require a loss—once we peek behind the veil, it disappears. But with the exception of those who have tried to discover and reproduce it, the ‘secret’ of the Stradivarius violins has meant far less to people than the music made with them.

The secret, it seems, may lie in not trying to copy it to begin with.

Fine-Tuned Tastes
Being able to identify a Strad by its sound alone seems to require a level of aural acuity tantamount to an enophile’s palate. But there are people who will tell you that there is no sound on this Earth comparable to that of the Stradivarius. Yet there is no shortage of blind listening tests where highly-trained musicians were unable to discern between a Stradivarius and other high-quality modern violins. Is the tone of a Stradivarius then some elitist’s concoction, akin to the patrons of a fine-arts museum fawning over a work that, unknown to them, was a child’s finger-painting? Is this a case of the Emperor’s New Violin? Hardly.

But if there are people dismissive of experts who claim that a gulf exists between the quality and tone of such highly-crafted musical instruments, imagine what they might have to say about pencils. However, anyone who has ever had a favorite anything knows it’s not about what others think or what others are able to notice. What matters is the particular joy they find in experiencing that one thing—whether its a priceless musical instrument or measly pencil—it’s that one thing which for them, makes all the difference.

Music must lie first in the heart, not in the hands.

Avec la Gomme

Igor Stravinsky famously quipped that music is to be written “avec la gomme.” At first glance it seems the sentiment being expressed is one of “less is more”, or perhaps it emphasizes the importance of self-editing and restraint. Either way it seems like sage advice, coming from a wise and masterful composer.

But as it turns out Stravinsky issued this phrase as a criticism about some other composers’ work—as if to say “perhaps they should have used the eraser more often”—rather than as an aphorism concerning his own music or editing process. Suffice it to say Stravinsky’s sense of self-esteem was never in peril, and he has certainly uttered other, less gracious observations.

He was unlikely to retreat when asked to comment on his own status as a composer, too. However Stravinsky can be forgiven these indiscretions—which were more often witty than vicious—given his body of work. Or, like the late, great Jaco Pastorius liked to say: “It ain’t braggin’ if you can back it up.”

When asked about a portrait of himself recently broadcast on television, Stravinsky responded: “It made me seem like a musical Rolls-Royce, the best and most expensive composer running.” But he wasn’t without a sense of self-deprecation too, adding: “But it is morally embarrassing to see oneself in a film (and chastening to read one’s talk, in spite of which I seem to be in a perpetual state of interview).”

In the same interview he was asked about the inevitable changes in aesthetics that occur, and how that might eventually affect his rapport with the ‘younger majority’:

“The mere repudiation of the past in favor of the newest and the latest (cupidus rerum novarum) is not a new disease in the body politic, and neither is the rejection by young people of an unacceptable reality. [My road] will soon become a detour, I realize, as newer pavements, newly surfaced and custom built for new vehicles, are laid down, but I hardly mind that. Detours are often pleasant to travel, far more so than those super-turnpikes on which the traffic has yet to discover that the race is not always to the swift.”

Quotations are from Arnold Newman’s Bravo Stravinsky. World Pub. Co. 1967.

© Marvin Koner/CORBIS

Simply going on this picture alone I would have been unwilling to even suggest he’s holding a Blackwing. But given other photographs that prove he used them, I think it can be induced that he’s likely holding one here, too.

“No Ordinary Pencil” Posted

I have written a summary and posted it under the title “No Ordinary Pencil“. It will have a separate page and permanent link at the top of the menu. I still think of it as a work in progress and it will be updated from time to time, especially if I stumble upon something new. I’ve left out some details in order to keep the length manageable, but you can find further information in the related posts—I will be linking them soon. But for those interested in having everything in one place, that’s the place to start.

Historical information about the Blackwing is elusive though the extent of my searching hasn’t reached into things like corporate archives. As an ardent pencil user, I became very interested in the rise and decline of wood-cased pencils: a story so rich, complex, and colorful that I may only ever know a small portion of it. And as much as this blog is specifically about one pencil, to me the Blackwing in a sense stands for all pencils that have come and gone. But my concern in having a blog so narrowly focused has been for it to be mistaken as fanatical and single-minded. To be honest, I thought just focusing on one pencil would make things a little easier (I was wrong about that). And in fact, the Blackwing isn’t my favorite pencil (though it’s certainly in the top 5). Instead, everything about the Blackwing just seemed very compelling, and given the pencil’s reputation I thought it would be worth trying to discover more about it. Combine that with the fact there were no other blogs—as far as I could tell—that focused solely on the Blackwing, and, here we are.

It seemed to me that while the Blackwing is more than 64 years old its discontinuation happened not so long ago. So rather than let it fade into history like so many others, why not try to gather what artifacts can be found while they still remain, as well as talk with the people who used them. Shining a light on the history of the Blackwing has also helped to illuminate more than six decades of writing culture for me, which has only heightened my curiosity and deepened my appreciation.

I owe a debt of gratitude to: Stephen, Gunther, Matthias, Michael, Adair, and Lisa for their help and support; the readers who have submitted sightings; and everyone who has commented or offered suggestions.

And, thanks to you—the readers.

All 40 to 50 of you.  :)

Flak.

I noticed that a well-known art supply store “appropriated” some original content from this site, both graphics and text (see screen grab below, click to enlarge), to help sell their CalCedar products. While the Copland photograph is from the A.P., the one they used was taken from this site. The picture of the vintage Blackwings is certainly mine (original here), and so is the underlined text (original here). The remaining text borrows from some other sites too, yet there isn’t a single attribution—and on a commercial site no less. I think it’s fair to say that this isn’t due just to some careless online image search; it’s overt theft.

You can see this sort of thing happening between blogs here and there, but it’s disappointing when such an established company—one presumably devoted to art and the work of artists—cares so little about copyright.

The problem with stealing from a site like this one—whose content is so particular (and is so infrequently visited)—is that it’s easier to get caught.

[Here is the original link. Page removed.]

Update 2/29/12

I couldn’t help noticing that while the page for Blackwing pencils was completely re-written, the same author chose to plagiarize again!

That passage comes directly from Doug Martin’s account of the Blackwing at pencilpages.com. And not only was it copied word-for-word, but likely copied and pasted since the source material also has a comma missing from “1100″:

Doug Martin's Original

Even if once is a “mistake”, twice is a pattern.

Furthermore, this is not what Chuck Jones said:

Leslie Flax has embellished something that to my knowledge, was first referenced on this blog:

from Blackwingpages.com

“It Writes Before You Do”

I’m not sure what it was, but today I was reminded of the reaction a good friend of mine had when she first tried a Blackwing 602, and in particular, what she said. Writing on Clairefontaine music paper (which is the same stock as their Triomphe line), she immediately paused after the first letter, incredulously examining the tip of the pencil—as if what she was feeling didn’t correspond with what she was seeing. She resumed writing and as she did, said: “It’s like it’s writing before I do.”

I’ve wondered since then if the expression “It Writes Before You Do” couldn’t have been a nice slogan for a smooth-writing pencil, in a mid-20th century kind of way.

(Is it just me, or does this photo have a slight optical illusion, as if it has rotated slightly clockwise? It seems more pronounced if you tilt your head to the left.)