People often ask me what a lino print actually is.
The short answer is that it’s a form of printmaking where an image is carved into a sheet of lino, inked up, and then pressed onto paper.
The longer answer is a little messier, involves several cups of coffee (sometimes wine, depending), ink on my hands, and occasionally wondering where I’ve put the pencil that was literally in my hand thirty seconds ago.
Most days in the studio don’t begin with printing, but with ideas.
Sometimes it’s something I’ve spotted while walking through the marina. Sometimes it’s a memory from a trip. Sometimes it’s a particularly good meal that deserves commemorating in print form. My sketchbooks are full of half-formed thoughts, rough drawings and notes that probably made perfect sense at the time.
Once an idea feels worth pursuing, it gets refined into a design.
This is where lino printing starts to differ from drawing. Every line has to be considered carefully because whatever is carved away cannot be put back. There is no undo button in printmaking (crumbs).
With the design ready, I transfer it onto a piece of lino with tracing paper, and begin carving.
This is usually my favourite part of the process.
My kitchen is transformed into a studio. The radio is on in the background. Time does that strange thing where an hour feels like ten minutes. Slowly, the image is clearer as sections are cut away using my Pfeil carving tools.
If you’ve ever wondered what a lino print is, this is really the heart of it.
The areas that are carved away won’t print. The raised areas that remain will hold the ink.
Once the carving is complete, it’s time for ink.
Ink is rolled out carefully until it reaches just the right consistency. Too much and the details disappear. Too little and the print can look patchy. After years of doing it, I still find this part can be hit and miss.
There’s something about the sound of the roller moving through the ink. Except when I use my favourite roller (it's like having a favourite hob in the kitchen. I know you have one), which is highly squeaky, and can be heard in space.
The inked lino is pressed onto paper and the first print is revealed.
Then comes the moment of truth. You get an idea of how well it will work. Never, ever has the first print been perfect, oh no dear reader, this is never the case.
I wash the lino to remove the ink, dry, and start carving out again with extra detail or something I have missed to get it just right. This can be repeated over several times.
Until, there. It’s done. I do a happy dance, make more prints, and then set them out to dry.
The beauty of handmade lino prints is that no two impressions are ever completely identical. Tiny variations in pressure, texture and ink coverage mean each print has its own little character. That’s part that drew me to printmaking.
In a world where so much is digital, instant and endlessly reproducible, lino printing remains reassuringly physical.
Every print begins with an idea, passes through a pair of hands, and ends up as something tangible that can be framed, or gifted.
So the next time somebody asks what is a lino print, the technical answer is fairly simple.
It’s an image carved into lino and printed by hand.
But for me, it’s also a process of slowing down, paying attention, and turning an idea into something you can hold.
Possibly my current favourite lino print (it changes all the time, depending on the mood), but for now, I'll go with the Diver lino print.
