During high school, Dard Hunter's own research, documented in his excellent volumes, satisfied my early curiosity about hand papermaking, and because of its breadth and depth it still remains a rich resource. With Hunter as my main reference point, I tried papermaking myself for the first time while a student at Antioch College in the late 60s. That early paper was dreadful, soft stuff made from reconstituted cotton linter sheet pulp whipped up with a paint mixer on the end of an electric drill. But I had actually made paper! After college I worked with Kathy and Howie Clark, and Kathryn Kiddie at Twinrocker Handmade Paper in the early 70s and took part in what turned out to be a rewarding and satisfying effort to learn more about the craft from printed texts, experimentation, and hard, persistent work. But not long thereafter, I began to feel that my various sources of information and inspiration were lacking. I wanted to know more about how the craft is practiced by people who have grown up in the tradition. Moreover, I had become interested in Japanese papermaking. Hunter's publications and numerous articles and films gave a tantalizing glimpse into the technique, but none explained it in enough detail to satisfy me. How is it actually done? How would you make Japanese-style paper starting from scratch? I became intrigued with the idea of going to Japan to learn the craft, more or less oblivious to the fact that I had no background in Japanese crafts, art, history, or language. I had no contacts in Japan, and no idea of where I would get funding to make such a trip. Some of my peers in papermaking thought it was a crazy idea. "The people who still make paper are really old now and they only speak Japanese. And the work places are freezing cold," they said. I was beginning to doubt the practicality of the whole idea. And then I talked with a Research as a Path in Papermaking timothy barrett The author forming sheets on a divided deckle mould during research in Japan in 1976. Photo: Richard Flavin. left: The author in 1977 in Japan monitoring the drying of sheets made with Abe Eishiro apprentice Katsu Tadahiko. Photo: Katsu Tadahiko. All photos courtesy of the author. winter 2007 - 19 Japanese friend, a metalsmith artist named Hiroko Pijanowski. "Sure you can go!" she said, "You just need to start writing some letters. I can help you translate them." Hiroko also gave me my first tutorial lessons in Japanese and in trade I made her some custom, watermarked business card stock. I then began what turned out to be a yearlong research project in itself to give substance and reality to the idea of spending a year or more in Japan. I wrote over a hundred letters to anyone I thought might be of help. I sought information on who was still making paper in Japan and where, who might recommend me to others, who could help in America or Japan, where Japanese was taught and how much tuition would be, who had published anything about Japanese papermaking, who might fund the trip, and on and on. After about a year I found people recommending the same individuals, or the same resources, and I knew I had come full circle and had the necessary background information in hand. I applied for and received a Fulbright–Hayes Fellowship, and later a renewal. I should emphasize that I was 25 at the time, and virtually unknown in the field of papermaking. But I had a strong proposal for the right country at the right time. I have since encouraged many young people to try for Fulbrights or other fellowships, all, like me at the time, at the beginning of their careers. Five of them have been awarded fellowships: one to study glassblowing in Sweden; another to investigate vegetable dying of handmade paper in Japan; the third to do bookbinding in Spain, the fourth traveled to Bangladesh to pursue creative writing, and the fifth won a Japanese government fellowship to study papermaking in Japan. Like the research that allowed me to prepare an eventually successful proposal, I approached the research in Japan in the same way. I asked myself what questions I wanted to resolve, and then set about trying to find the answers. This was not a straightforward procedure from day one, but my research targets evolved as my questions and the resources available to me changed on the ground in Japan. Initially I was fascinated with just learning the basic mechanics of how Japanese paper is made. But after I had been in the country a while and met a range of craftspeople, I developed a strong sense that some Japanese papers had an exceptional quality and character; a warm natural color, a luster, an elusive softness combined with crispness. I became obsessed with these qualities and wanted to know why they existed and how Japanese artisans achieved them. When I returned from Japan, I was faced with a similar beguiling set of circumstances. I became captivated by certain early European handmade papers, most of which were produced in Germany and Italy in the fifteenth century. They were still exceptionally white, supple, strong, and possessed of an integrity, authenticity, and character I found lacking in modern handmades. But unlike the situation in Japan, where older craftspeople could still recount methods no longer or rarely practiced, many of the techniques used to make the old European sheets had gone out of use centuries earlier. What to do? How do I get this set of questions answered? I was stumped, and demoralized. And then I discovered the work of William Barrow, a document restorer turned researcher. Like many of his librarian colleagues, Barrow had a burning question: why were so many recently made papers browned and falling apart, when papers made 500 years earlier were still in exceptional condition? How could that be? Barrow set out to find the answers. In 1974 the William Barrow Laboratory published the results of a pioneering analysis of 1,500 book papers made between 1507 and 1950.1 The data effectively rewrote our understanding of paper stability and paper history at the same time. Two of Barrow Lab's graphs appear here. Figure 1 shows the change in pH over the centuries. Nowadays we take the wisdom of working with "acid-free" paper Figure 1. William Barrow Laboratory graph showing the decline in pH of paper across the centuries. Figure 2. William Barrow Laboratory graph showing the increasing incidence of alum addition and the decreasing incidence of carbonate found in paper during the same period shown in the first graph. Because alum is acidic and carbonate is alkaline, this graph helps to explain the decline in pH shown in the first graph. 20 - hand papermaking almost for granted, but this graph confirmed early suspicions that an alkaline pH was key to long-term stability. But why the big change in pH? Figure 2 gives a likely explanation. By monitoring the incidence of alum and carbonate, the Barrow Lab found that alum was added more and more often over the centuries, contributing to the decline in pH. At the same time, the later papers showed carbonate appearing less often over time. Carbonates leave a paper more alkaline and may have been added intentionally by the papermaker (for whitening) or were introduced unintentionally via the water supply. I was thoroughly impressed with these graphs. The Barrow team showed that when eyewitness accounts are not available, when early craftspeople did not write down any details about their materials or techniques, when all seems lost, the paper itself can reveal tremendous detail about how it was made. I was stunned. It was like a magic doorway, a portal into the past. Soon afterwards, in the early 1980s while working at Western Michigan University's School of Paper Science and Engineering, I was able to undertake related research funded by the NEA Museums Program and the Kress Foundation. I attempted to look back further in time, by analyzing historical papers including some from the fifteenth century.2 Although I was able to work with only 160 specimens, my work confirmed much of the Barrow Lab's findings about pH and added some new tantalizing bits. I found that fiber length dropped off over the centuries and was generally shorter in papers that are in better present-day condition compared with poorer papers. The latter observation I attributed to the mill masters' use of more tender rags and/or increased stamper or beater times in order to achieve higherquality sheets with better formation. On the other hand, sheets of poorer quality were made from tougher rags of mixed quality which received shorter beating times to lower the paper production costs. But the work came up short for me. Questions persisted about the exceptional quality and character of the very early sheets. For more than two decades I have wanted to do what the Barrow Lab did, but go further back in time, well into the fifteenth century when some of the best papers were made. Readers may wonder why the Barrow Lab did not test many early papers. The primary reason in my view was that all of their testing methods were destructive, and paper from the earlier periods is too valuable for destructive testing beyond micro sampling from a very limited number of loose leaves. When I joined the University of Iowa Center for the Book in 1985, I found that my association with a major research university greatly enhanced the time and resources I could bring to bear on my various areas of interest. In particular it allowed me to pursue one of my long-standing goals: development of a range of non-destructive methods for testing historical papers. With such methods in hand, I was convinced that the secrets locked within papers from all periods would suddenly become accessible. I am happy to report that after many years of work and the generous support of colleagues, together with funding from the Kress Foundation, the University of Iowa, and a recent major grant from the Institute for Museum and Library Services, I am about to embark on just such a study. Like the Barrow Lab, I plan to analyze about 1,500 specimens but the emphasis will be on early papers. I have chosen the 1300 to 1900 period because 1300 marks the introduction of gelatin size in Europe, and 1800 is the date when rosin and alum internal sizing began to replace gelatin. By including 200 specimens from the nineteenth century, I hope to get an indication of how soon and in what paper types gelatin was replaced by rosin and alum. The non-destructive instrumentation will include visible/ near infrared (VIS-NIR) for gelatin content and color, x-ray fluorescence (XRF) for elemental analysis (e.g., potassium, Author with research assistant Deepak Bargava at Western Michigan University's Department of Paper Science and Engineering in 1982. The rack holds handmade papers sealed inside glass tubes prior to an accelerated aging experiment. Near-infrared light probe in use during the non-destructive analysis of a fifteenth-century paper for gelatin content. 2006. winter 2007 - 21 aluminum, and sulfur are indicative of alum; iron and copper are typical paper contaminants; calcium and magnesium tend to appear in carbonate compounds that contribute to stability), and ultrasonic methods (US) for paper strength. My hope is that this augmentation of the Barrow research will result in a new understanding of papermaking history that can directly influence conservators' assessments of item stability, and inform their decisions on storage, display, treatment, and preservation policy. It will also, I hope, be revealing and useful for hand papermakers and paper artists working today who, like me, have been curious about the qualities of early papers. My goal is to share the research results in the form of an interactive website. Hand Papermaking readers will be among the first to receive the particulars. I do not think that good research in papermaking is about science, or big grants, or even papermaking history and technique. It is first and foremost about having questions that no one else seems able to answer; it is about having questions that you yearn to find answers to; questions that will not go away. Some of the best research in the field of hand papermaking certainly includes documentation of papermaking abroad and advances in traditional papermaking technique. The Koretsky family's extensive travels are an excellent example of the former, and I would offer that Lynn Amlie's development of an ergonomically friendly mould suspension device for Western sheet forming is a great example of the latter.3 But groundbreaking research has also been accomplished by artists working in hand papermaking. Neal Bonham's watermarks viewed with reflected rather than transmitted light are a major innovation in the history of watermarking.4 Rick Hungerford's trompe l'oeil pulppainting techniques and intense coloring palette were major developments in 2-D image making with paper pulp.5 And Winifred Lutz's stretched-and-tied-down cloth moulds for making translucent, three-dimensional forms using bast fiber and formation aid are entirely unprecedented in the history of sculpture or papermaking. All of these developments came about only after each individual wondered, "What if…?" Or, "Why couldn't I…?" and persisted until the answer was at hand. In summary, I urge the reader to attend to those lingering, hovering questions that will not go away. Nourish them. Think them through and refine them. If pursued, they can allow you to endure periods of challenge, frustration, and self-doubt, and lead you to surprising discoveries. Research is defined by the deep and quiet honor that comes when you realize that you are learning something for the first time, and its rewards are more than doubled later when you share those discoveries with others. Regardless of field or specialty, time committed to research is a wise investment, and if you are lucky, you may end up making a significant contribution to human creativity and knowledge. ___________ notes 1. Physical and Chemical Properties of Book Papers 1507–1949. Vol. 7 of Permanence/Durability of the Book (Richmond: W. J. Barrow Research Laboratory Inc., 1974). 2. Timothy Barrett, "Early European Papers, Contemporary Conservation Papers: A Report on Research Undertaken from Fall 1984 through Fall 1987," The Paper Conservator 13 (1989): 1–108. 3. Lynn Amlie, "Paper Ergonomics: Easing the Strain," Hand Papermaking vol. 19, no. 1 (Summer 2004): 39–44. 4. Elspeth Pope, "An Interview with Neal Bonham," Hand Papermaking vol. 9, no. 1 (Summer 1994): 11–17. 5. Timothy Barrett, "Interview with Rick Hungerford," Hand Papermaking vol. 8, no. 1 (Summer 1993): 4–10. 6. Timothy Barrett, "Japanese-Style Papermaking in the West," Hand Papermaking vol. 22, no. 1 (Summer 2007): 38–41. Detail of Neal Bonham's "reflected light" watermark on the cover of Even Money, a 1988 Sea Pen Press and Paper publication of poems by Thomas Brush. Area shown is approximately 7 x 12 inches. Rick Hungerford, Gun, 1995, 24 x 18 inches, paper pulp painting and relief print.