A quote in Darron Kloster’s story in Thursday’s Times Colonist about the closing of a downtown Victoria print shop caught my eye.
“I’ve got a little offset press back here I can’t even give away,” owner Jim Head said.
Technology had marched past, kicking a useful, functioning machine to the curb in favour of something easier, faster and cheaper. It’s more than a little sad.
I had a little offset press once. A friend and I shared in its purchase because we both had planned a number of printing projects, and since we were both familiar with the processes and technology involved, it seemed the thing to do.
The printing-supplies salesman assured us the press would pay for itself. In the next breath, he told us this was the model of press that had printed the best counterfeit money Canada had ever seen.
“So,” said my friend thoughtfully, “can you wait a couple of weeks for payment? We’ll pay cash.” The salesman didn’t bite.
And we didn’t put his claim to the test — we paid by cheque — but the press served us well otherwise.
It had about a million moving parts, all of them in plain sight. It needed constant adjusting, and the paper would occasionally jam, but it was thrilling to get it cranked up to full speed, watching those many parts do their jobs.
Setting the press up for printing was a chore, and cleaning it after was a pain, but there was a feeling of achievement when a job was done, a sense of having met a challenge.
Now, I tap a few keys, a printer hums and a piece of paper quietly slides onto a tray. It’s so quick, so easy. No messing about with solvents and solutions to clean the rollers when I’m done. Few moving parts to worry about. If the printer quits, recycle it and get a new one.
As a dabbler in photography, I always had a darkroom. My early darkrooms were makeshift arrangements, with the artistic process often interrupted by a greater need, signalled by a kid pounding on the bathroom door.
When we bought a house with a hot tub in a room in the corner of the basement, I quickly removed the hot tub, and with some modest renovations, I had a dedicated darkroom, with all the plumbing, wiring, ventilation and counters I needed. It was perfect. I was happy.
Then I bought a digital camera. I didn’t abandon the darkroom immediately, but within a year, I was no longer using it. Digital photography was just too easy, and it kept getting better.
The process in which new technology kills the old is called creative destruction. It leaves in its wake many victims, especially those who don’t adapt. Whole industries have collapsed, trades have disappeared and skills have been displaced by newer ways of doing things. Once-useful tools have become museum pieces.
Few occupations have been untouched by technological change, mine included. Anyone who isn’t a little nervous about what change will bring isn’t paying attention. But change is necessary for progress.
It’s when technology begins to change who we are and why we do things that we should be careful. We are so used to things happening instantly, we become impatient and demanding if we are required to wait. We demand to be entertained at every turn.
The dichotomy of the digital world is that it can connect us to everyone everywhere, and yet it leads so many to turn inward to a world where there is little real human contact. We can communicate our thoughts instantly around the world, but we do it without thinking. We can share a great idea with thousands — if we can compress it into 140 characters.
Never has so much information been so easily available; never has so much misinformation been so widely circulated.
Nevertheless, let’s not turn back the clock. I miss the quiet magic of the darkroom, but I’m not about to toss away my digital cameras. I fondly remember the solid indestructibility of my old Remington typewriter, but I’d rather have a computer.
I still intend to spend time hiking with my grandkids, but when I can’t, I’m glad to talk to them on Skype.
