Unicorn
Adrian Wiszniewski b. 1958
1986
Etching & Letterpress
610 X 810
1986
£250
2013.012
In 1986 I was (reaching for calculator) 18! I had a Saturday
job working as an assistant for the Simon King press in Beetham. The press
specialised in block printing, wood engraving and letterpress.
Simon was approached by Charles Booth-Clibborn to print the written content of the inaugural
Paragon Press publication The Scottish Bestiary.
Booth-Clibborn, while still a
student, had personally approached the Glasgow boys (the mid-eighties generation
that is - the ones being bought by Goma in the 90’s doh!) to illustrate a suite
of poems ‘The Scottish Bestiary’ by the poet George Mackay Brown (1921 – 1996).
Wiszniewski’s subject was the Unicorn.
I helped Simon set, kern and prepare a makeready for the lead
type to what I still consider to be a near fascistic state of perfection, still
not good enough for him mind.
We used a beautifully restored, by him, Albion press made in
the 1820’s which he and I hand pulled in turns. No offence was intended to the Scottish in this choice of press by the way!
I think now that I could have
gone on from this to be a powerful rower! We then printed the papers we had
received from the Peacock Press where the illustrations were being done. It was
tense because the edition was very small and we couldn't afford too many spoils,
of which, this is one.
Simon gave a couple of spoils to me I think recognising that he wasn't paying me very much. Looking at it now I really can’t see what was wrong with
it. I had it framed when I moved to a new house. The bedroom has always seemed the right place to put it.
The poem is lovely and so is the type in which it is set
‘Bodoni’ if memory serves.
UNICORN
You will not meet the unicorn
Outside the queen’s garden.
He goes among the roses and the
fountains
Very delicately treading.
His silver horn and shines in the
sun.
The queen’s ladies
Offer him roseleaves and honey.
Too coarse!
He devours the scent of the flowers.
As he leans his white neck
On the white necks of the ladies.
Peacocks fold their fans and droop
When the unicorn walks in the garden.
The swans
Drift dingily to the far side of the
lake.
Blackbirds stop singing.
The unicorn comes to the garden at
night
Under the full moon.
He feeds on dew, delicately.
He will not go near the sundial.
In winter he moves through the snow
Invisible
But when he breaks the script of the
bare branches.
When King and council come
With their talk of war and trade and
taxes
The unicorn gallops to the bower
Where ladies sit at the looms.
‘Sweet ladies, give me sanctuary now
In your tapestry’….
Gravely, there, for centuries,
heraldic,
He sports with the lion.
One by one the royal ladies have withered
and died.
I can see what’s wrong with it now that I have stood in front of it and pushed the
poem through voice recognition software… It’s not justified quite straight to
the page. Now whose fault was that?
Links
Museum of Modern Art
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