People often ask why I still print by hand. A good inkjet printer can produce beautiful results, and I use one for some editions. But there is something about a silver gelatin print — the depth of the blacks, the way the image seems to sit inside the paper rather than on top of it — that I've never been able to replicate any other way.

This journal entry, for subscribers, walks through how a single print from Concrete Poems was made, step by step. It is not a complete technical manual, but it should give you a sense of why one good print can take an entire afternoon.

The room

My darkroom is a converted storeroom at the back of the studio, about the size of a large wardrobe. It has no windows. One wall holds the enlarger, a machine that projects light through a negative onto photographic paper. The opposite wall holds a long shallow sink with four trays: developer, stop bath, fixer and a holding bath of water.

The only light while printing comes from a safelight — a dim red or amber lamp that black-and-white paper is largely insensitive to. Working under it for a few hours is a strange, quiet experience. The world shrinks to the size of the trays.