“Ivory can be softened and made almost plastic by soaking in phosphoric acid. When washed with water, pressed, and dried, it will regain its former consistency.” Ivory-dust thus treated can be really rendered plastic. The process requires care.
In the Magia Naturalis of Hildebrand, a work of the sixteenth century, we are told that ivory can be imitated or repaired with a cement made of powdered egg-shells, gum-arabic in solution, and the white of eggs. Dry it in the sun.
Allied to ivory is Horn. Deer-horn was frequently used as a material whence to make a substance which was moulded into many forms. For this purpose the hardest part of the horns was selected and filed or powdered, and then boiled in strong potash lye. Thus it became a paste, which was promptly pressed into moulds. When dry the figures were carefully polished. Ox-horn can be treated in the same manner. When cracked, carved horns or powder-flasks can be mended with this paste; also with mastic and whiting. Horn in a soft state is easily coloured by mixing with it any dye.[3]
It has been recently complained in a leading review, in an article on sales of ancient works of art, that imitations of antique works of ivory are now carried to such perfection that even the learned in such matters have been deceived. This is perfectly true, and therefore it is the greater pity that such imitation, which is not necessarily very expensive, cannot be extended to our great museums, the wealthiest of which thus far seldom get beyond rough, plain plaster-casts to make duplicates of ivory-work. The artists in imitation seem to be entirely in the employ of the people who deliberately sell counterfeits for genuine relics of antiquity. But, as Martin Luther or some one once remarked in reference to adapting hymns to popular airs, “There was no reason why the devil should keep all the good tunes to himself,” so is there none why duplicates of thousands of exquisite works in ivory, bone, and horn should not be better known to the world. It is possible that, to the world at large, there is little real interest in such works; but interest will come in time with familiarity.
Apropos to ivory, or horn, there is a process of applying an imitation of them to any kind of surface, which is, when executed with skill, remarkably effective. It is chiefly executed in Vienna, where it is applied to leather, plaster of Paris, wood, and wall-paper. With variations, it is essentially as follows:—
Cover the ground with flexible varnish, then paint over this with light Naples yellow, graduated as nicely to some old ivory model as possible. It is best not to have it all too uniformly of one tone, since old work often has its shades. The object here need not be to ape or copy old work, but to catch what is beautiful in it. Then fill in the outlines of the pattern, and the dots and irregularities near it, or anywhere, with brown more or less dark. For this, study old ivory. Then varnish with Soehnée, No. 3. A great deal depends on the quality of this second coat. Finally rub down very thoroughly with chamois and hand, and repeat the process more than once if you want it very much like ivory. Very extraordinary and perfect imitations of ivory, bone, worn and glossy parchment and brown leather, wood, marble—in short, of any kind of work of art which has been rubbed and worn smooth by hand during centuries, can be made by this process of ivorying with alternate layers of varnish, colour, varnish, and so on.
When there is no relief the paint itself can be worked with wheel and tracer, and then repainted and varnished. This is a very beautiful art, specially applicable to book-covers, and often useful in repairing old work. I would here repeat what I said, that the object of imitating effects in old works of art, or in other kinds of art—which is so staunchly repudiated by mere artisans who themselves are generally only imitators of the designs of others—is not to make counterfeits, but to take from age or art beautiful effects, however produced, and apply them to work. Those who are too conscientious to execute stencilling on a wall, or to use moulds for leather-work, would do well to first consider whether they know enough to design a really good or admirable stencil, or an excellent mould, for it is in the genius which originates and executes, not in the mere means, tools, and materials employed, that art consists. Art does not depend in the least on either making skill difficult or in rendering its methods easy; it displays skill, but scorns the Chinese standard of mere industry. An artist like Albert Dürer would never have prided himself on only using certain tools as being “artistic;” he would, however, have made designs which would have forced originality and art into a photograph. There are marvellous effects of corrugation in ancient walls, plays of light and shade and colour and polish in rock and strand and heaps of ashes, which Leonardo da Vinci knew how to catch and transfer to different subjects, and at which perhaps the artisans of his time sneered as “not artistic.”
Age, which gives a certain exquisite charm to wine and words of wisdom, has done the same to all material things, of which, indeed, it may be strangely said that wherever it does not destroy a charm it confers one, like moonlight, which renders nightly shadows more terrible or else more beautiful.
It is to be regretted that this principle, which is a very important one, is but little understood. The manufacturers of all decorative art work at present endeavour without exception to make everything staringly, cruelly brand new, or else a mere copy of old work. What they need is to draw, as Rembrandt did, from age so much of its peculiar charm as is adaptable to modern work.
I have introduced these remarks because the mender and restorer of old ivories and bookbindings and pictures, if he regards his occupation as an art—which it really is—is peculiarly adapted to fully appreciate them. Restoring, like copying, leads to creating new work. I think that any person of ordinary intelligence can, with zeal and application, learn to mend anything as described in this work, and from such mending it is much easier to learn to make works of minor art. “Short the step from senator to podestá—shorter the step from podestá to king.”