A Perfect Plan vs. A Pot of Black Ink

You see, screen printing isn't a digital process. It’s not about clicking 'Print' and waiting for a machine to whir out a perfect, sterile copy. It's a physical, sometimes bloody-minded, collaboration between me, a mesh screen, a squeegee, and a pot of ink. And on this particular night, the ink was in a mood.

I flooded the screen, took a breath, and pulled the squeegee across. I lifted the screen and... disaster. Instead of the crisp, solid black I’d envisioned, I got a slightly textured, almost ghostly layer. The ink had been a fraction too thin, the pressure a tiny bit off. My first thought was a string of words you wouldn't say in front of your mum. Ten sheets, ruined. The whole evening, wasted.

The Glorious, Unplanned Moment

I stood back, ready to chuck the lot in the bin. But then I looked again. The ‘mistake’ wasn't a mistake at all. The slightly transparent black, layered over the bright colours beneath, created a depth I hadn't planned. It gave the print a worn, vintage feel, like a sign that had been weathered by the London rain for years. It had character. It had a story, and its story was about my little battle with a pot of ink at 11 pm on a Tuesday.

This is what you're buying. Not just an image. A Giclée or digital print is a perfect replica, spat out by a machine that feels nothing. It does its job perfectly, every single time. And to me, that's a bit boring. Where's the life in that? The screen prints from Oli Fowler Art have my fingerprints all over them, sometimes literally. They have tiny imperfections that make them perfect. They have the memory of a squeegee slipping, of an ink refusing to cooperate, of a moment of frustration that turns into a happy accident.

The Soul in the Layers

Every single print that leaves my studio has passed through my hands multiple times. I’ve mixed the colours by eye, I’ve stretched the screens, I’ve wrestled the squeegee. You can feel it when you hold one. You can see the texture where the ink sits proudly on the surface of the paper, not soaked in and flattened by a digital head. It’s a real, tangible object with its own little history.

That print, the one that went ‘wrong’? It became one of my best-sellers. People didn’t see a mistake; they saw something unique. They saw the human touch. And that, right there, is why I'll never just press a button.

So when you buy a screen print, you're not just getting a picture for your wall. You're getting a small piece of a story. A moment of quiet concentration, a flash of inspiration, and maybe even the ghost of a glorious cock-up.

If you fancy owning a piece of a story, have a look at the finished articles over at the shop. Browse the store at olifowler.com.