The Perfectly Laid Plan

I was working on a two-colour geometric print. Sharp lines, bold blocks of colour. I had it all mapped out in my head: a vibrant fluorescent pink laid over a deep, rich navy blue. The goal was precision. Each layer had to be perfectly aligned – or 'in register', as we call it – so the edges would be crisp and the design would pop exactly as I'd planned on the computer. I’d spent ages getting the artwork just right, exposing the screens, and mixing the ink to the perfect consistency. It was all set up for a smooth, predictable run.

When It All Goes a Bit Sideways

I pulled the first layer, the navy, and it looked spot on. A lovely, solid base. I left the stack to dry, cleaned my screen, and set up for the pink. This is the moment of truth. You line it all up, take a deep breath, and pull the squeegee across, pushing that new colour through the mesh.

I lifted the screen on the first one and my heart sank a bit. The registration was off. Only by a millimetre or two, but it was enough. Instead of the pink sitting perfectly on the navy, it was shifted slightly to the left, leaving a sliver of the navy exposed on one side and creating a weird, unintended overlap on the other. My first thought was, "Right, that one's for the bin." In mass production, that's a reject. A failure.

Finding the Magic in the 'Flaw'

But I didn't bin it. I put it to one side and kept going, adjusting my setup for the next one. At the end of the day, I had my pile of 'perfect' prints and the one lone 'mistake'. But the funny thing was, I couldn't stop looking at the dud. That tiny, accidental offset had created a third colour, a sort of deep magenta, where the pink and navy overlapped. It had a vibration to it, an energy that the 'perfect' ones just didn't have. It felt alive. It had a story.

And that’s the crux of it. An inkjet printer would never make that mistake. It would produce a hundred identical, sterile copies. It has no soul. When you buy a hand-pulled screen print, you're not buying a flawless digital file. You're buying the artist's steady hand, the pressure of the squeegee, the texture of the ink sitting on the surface of the paper. You're buying the happy accidents. You're buying a unique piece of a real, physical process. That "flaw" is the ghost in the machine, the human touch that proves it wasn't just made by pressing 'Print'.

That's the real difference. It’s not about being anti-technology, but about celebrating something with a bit of heart. Each print from Oli Fowler Art isn't just an image; it's a physical object with its own subtle character, its own little story of how it came to be.

Next time you look at a screen print, look closely. You might just spot the magic in the tiny imperfections.

Fancy seeing some of these perfectly imperfect pieces for yourself? Have a browse through the store at olifowler.com and see what catches your eye.