joseph engraver
Elite Cafe Member
Threads, threads, gold and silver. Wow! Your reaction to my posts has inspired my confidences. I am flattered, and because in my old age flattery is a glorious thing.
From the book, A Gifted Man.Memoirs of an artist.
“I had the world’s finest teachers. Signor Giovanelli put me under the direct supervision of Maestro Renato Sanzogni, the thin, bearded, redheaded man, who was fifteen years my junior. Renato who cut all the dies for the John Wayne, and many other commemoratives worked directly on my right side, he taught me how to hold the chisel and hammer properly, how to stand correctly in front of the vise, and how to make a handheld graver cut steel with surgical precision. I was doing well with my Italian, and was making progress learning how to use my small, delicate, chasing hammer.
The first thing I had to learn was to be able to make a solid contact with the hammer face against the chisel. Every stroke had to be precise or the delicate point of the engraving chisel would break. Once the point was broken it would no longer cut properly and would have to be re-sharpened, a process done under 6-power magnification and could take a novice up to thirty minutes to complete. Something Renato could do in 30 seconds. It was three months before I learned to make a perfect stroke with the hammerhead against the graver. The beginning was agony, I would swing the hammer twice and the point would break, I would have to re-sharpen. Day after day, I would stand in front of my vise, seven hours a day, five and a half day a week, trying to connect with the end of the chisel without looking at the hammer fall. After three weeks of continuous practice, I could cut a semi-straight line three inches long in my practice block. Line after line, each equal thickness, and width apart, I cut on the practice block. When its surface was covered I would show it to the Maestro, he would examine it, send it to the machine shop where the work was milled off, and the clean block then brought back to me. I would place it in my vise, polish the block to a smooth luster, and then begin filling it again with fine lines. I stood on that stone tile floor of the engraving room, cutting line after line until I could do it with absolute precision, standing in those damned cowboy boots, day after day while the arches of my feet begged for relief from the pain caused by standing in one spot for such long periods.â€.
From my journal “ Jan. 26, 1982, Today I had my vision checked, new glasses are required, must sell all the rest of my tools to survive these difficult times. Money enough for one more week of hotel rent. Eating well, gaining back my weight. Sleeping well, but still lonely and after school cold and bored. Washing my clothes in the bathtub, drawing sketches to pay for meals, boots still hurting my feet, But where there is a will, there is a way. The hotel owner is a nice and kind concerned person; I explained to him that at the rate my money is going I will soon run out of funds. He has moved me out of my second floor room and up into the attic, I can sleep here for no charge. I have gratefully made the move even though the shower is but a drizzle of very cold water.†School was going well, or at least better. I sold the vise that I had dragged halfway around the world to my teacher Renato and bought a new pair of eyeglasses.
I had learned to speak and understand some Italian, enough to survive. For the first two weeks of school, I ate no lunch because I did not understand that the school had its own cafeteria with good lunches for workers and students.
On this momentous day, a very wealthy, important looking man was touring the school; he was Italian but spoke perfect English. Signor Giovanelli brought him over to my workstation to look at the practice plate I was engraving. After a few brief questions, the man explained about the cafeteria, I could eat there for $2 a meal. I told him that I had no money extra for lunch. To that, the man replied that he, meaning Signor Giovanelli, would like me to eat as his guest.
Those lunches not only gave me the nourishment needed but introduced me to the flavors of Northern Italian cooking. Signor Giovanelli’s school provided me with food, the food needed to survive. At lunch each day, I would try to be the last served. Then would delay my departure until all of the students, workers, and staff finished, leaving the cafeteria empty. I would then go around to their plates, stuffing the left over scraps into my jacket pockets for that night’s dinner.
From the book, A Gifted Man.Memoirs of an artist.
“I had the world’s finest teachers. Signor Giovanelli put me under the direct supervision of Maestro Renato Sanzogni, the thin, bearded, redheaded man, who was fifteen years my junior. Renato who cut all the dies for the John Wayne, and many other commemoratives worked directly on my right side, he taught me how to hold the chisel and hammer properly, how to stand correctly in front of the vise, and how to make a handheld graver cut steel with surgical precision. I was doing well with my Italian, and was making progress learning how to use my small, delicate, chasing hammer.
The first thing I had to learn was to be able to make a solid contact with the hammer face against the chisel. Every stroke had to be precise or the delicate point of the engraving chisel would break. Once the point was broken it would no longer cut properly and would have to be re-sharpened, a process done under 6-power magnification and could take a novice up to thirty minutes to complete. Something Renato could do in 30 seconds. It was three months before I learned to make a perfect stroke with the hammerhead against the graver. The beginning was agony, I would swing the hammer twice and the point would break, I would have to re-sharpen. Day after day, I would stand in front of my vise, seven hours a day, five and a half day a week, trying to connect with the end of the chisel without looking at the hammer fall. After three weeks of continuous practice, I could cut a semi-straight line three inches long in my practice block. Line after line, each equal thickness, and width apart, I cut on the practice block. When its surface was covered I would show it to the Maestro, he would examine it, send it to the machine shop where the work was milled off, and the clean block then brought back to me. I would place it in my vise, polish the block to a smooth luster, and then begin filling it again with fine lines. I stood on that stone tile floor of the engraving room, cutting line after line until I could do it with absolute precision, standing in those damned cowboy boots, day after day while the arches of my feet begged for relief from the pain caused by standing in one spot for such long periods.â€.
From my journal “ Jan. 26, 1982, Today I had my vision checked, new glasses are required, must sell all the rest of my tools to survive these difficult times. Money enough for one more week of hotel rent. Eating well, gaining back my weight. Sleeping well, but still lonely and after school cold and bored. Washing my clothes in the bathtub, drawing sketches to pay for meals, boots still hurting my feet, But where there is a will, there is a way. The hotel owner is a nice and kind concerned person; I explained to him that at the rate my money is going I will soon run out of funds. He has moved me out of my second floor room and up into the attic, I can sleep here for no charge. I have gratefully made the move even though the shower is but a drizzle of very cold water.†School was going well, or at least better. I sold the vise that I had dragged halfway around the world to my teacher Renato and bought a new pair of eyeglasses.
I had learned to speak and understand some Italian, enough to survive. For the first two weeks of school, I ate no lunch because I did not understand that the school had its own cafeteria with good lunches for workers and students.
On this momentous day, a very wealthy, important looking man was touring the school; he was Italian but spoke perfect English. Signor Giovanelli brought him over to my workstation to look at the practice plate I was engraving. After a few brief questions, the man explained about the cafeteria, I could eat there for $2 a meal. I told him that I had no money extra for lunch. To that, the man replied that he, meaning Signor Giovanelli, would like me to eat as his guest.
Those lunches not only gave me the nourishment needed but introduced me to the flavors of Northern Italian cooking. Signor Giovanelli’s school provided me with food, the food needed to survive. At lunch each day, I would try to be the last served. Then would delay my departure until all of the students, workers, and staff finished, leaving the cafeteria empty. I would then go around to their plates, stuffing the left over scraps into my jacket pockets for that night’s dinner.
