A quote in Darron Kloster鈥檚 story in Thursday鈥檚 sa国际传媒 about the closing of a downtown Victoria print shop caught my eye.
鈥淚鈥檝e got a little offset press back here I can鈥檛 even give away,鈥� 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鈥檚 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 sa国际传媒 had ever seen.
鈥淪o,鈥� said my friend thoughtfully, 鈥渃an you wait a couple of weeks for payment? We鈥檒l pay cash.鈥� The salesman didn鈥檛 bite.
And we didn鈥檛 put his claim to the test 鈥� we paid by cheque 鈥� 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鈥檚 so quick, so easy. No messing about with solvents and solutions to clean the rollers when I鈥檓 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鈥檛 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鈥檛 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鈥檛 a little nervous about what change will bring isn鈥檛 paying attention. But change is necessary for progress.
It鈥檚 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 鈥� 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鈥檚 not turn back the clock. I miss the quiet magic of the darkroom, but I鈥檓 not about to toss away my digital cameras. I fondly remember the solid indestructibility of my old Remington typewriter, but I鈥檇 rather have a computer.
I still intend to spend time hiking with my grandkids, but when I can鈥檛, I鈥檓 glad to talk to them on Skype.
