At the turn of the twentieth century, there were 54 businesses in Britain making parchment - a material made from the split skin of an animal (usually goat, sheep or cow), which has been used as a medium for writing and art for millennia. By 1986, that number had dropped to just one. It is no wonder the recently published Radcliffe Red List, produced by the Heritage Crafts Association with funding from the The Radcliffe Trust to identify at-risk UK crafts, has classified the making of British parchment and vellum (parchment made from calf skin) as 'critically endangered'.
'Sometimes I think, "Shame on you, mankind, for letting it get like this,''' says Paul Wright, the general manager of William Cowley, Britain's last remaining parchment maker. 'I think we're the only company in the world still making proper vellum in the proper way.' By this he means without harsh chemicals, completely by hand and 'pigging hard work'.
The company, based in Newport Pagnell in Buckinghamshire, dates back to 1870 and is still owned by the founder's descendants. Paul was hired by William's great-great-grandson Wim Visscher on his retirement six years ago; now Paul is introducing Wim's daughter Julia Kainth to the ins and outs of the business. 'I feel a strong responsibility to keep this going,' he says. The challenges could not be greater.
In the West, parchment predates paper by about 1,000 years, and the survival of many ancient documents points to one of its greatest qualities: longevity. The Domesday Book, for example, was completed in 1086 and is still legible. When it did need some repairs and rebinding in 1986, the National Archives commissioned William Cowley to do the work.
Record copies of public Acts of Parliament have been printed on vellum since 1849, although the House of Lords, which pays for this, has been trying since 1999 to make the switch to archival paper. 'You may as well write them on a pack of fags,' Paul says with disgust. 'Vellum is virtually indestructible.' Not only can printed vellum survive for 1,000 years, it is also more resistant than paper to water and fire, it does not rot, and it can withstand a considerable degree of handling and damage. Despite a House of Commons motion in April 2016 to continue the tradition, it transpired a few months ago that the Lords will have their way. The House of Commons Commission, however, has agreed to pay for vellum front and back sheets 'out of respect for tradition'.
The British government is not the most high profile of William Cowley's clients. The company supplied the Royal Household with fine manuscript vellum in 2011 for an illuminated Instrument of Consent signed by the Queen to give her approval of the marriage between Prince William and the then Catherine Middleton. The great and the good of the contemporary art world have also been drawn to the medium. It has a gorgeous, luminous quality, but it is also a useful tool in preventing art fraud. Because the skin contains an animal's unique DNA, an artist with a snippet of the original vellum can prove the authenticity of an artwork. William Cowley supplies high-end bookbinders, calligraphers and academic institutions that still issue certificates on genuine parchment.
The material is also having something of a renaissance in its use by furniture and interior designers. Tim Gosling, Rupert Bevan and Julian Chichester are just some of the designers who William Cowley supplies, and between them they have used vellum to clad everything from tables and chairs to entire rooms. In the workshop, Paul is finishing off a vellum-covered ottoman destined for a superyacht.
Over the past several hundred years, almost nothing has changed in the way that parchment is produced. It is gruelling and, at times, gruesome work. The skins of sheep, goats and male calves are by-products of the meat industry and supplied by an industrial abattoir. When they arrive, they are soaked in lime baths to loosen the hair, which is then scraped off. The next stage sees them hung taut on frames, to undergo further depilation on one side and the removal of flesh from the other. The distinctive tool of the trade is a half lunar knife, which requires two hands to wield as the parchmenter scrapes the surface in short, sharp bursts. This remaining fine layer is then rinsed and stretched on the frames to dry.
Including Paul, there are just three fully trained parchmenters left in this country; all were trained at, and remain employed by, William Cowley. 'It takes seven years to learn how to do this properly,' Paul says. Steve Bennett and Lee Mapley have both worked here for over 20 years, and it would be a devastating blow if either were to leave. Paul has taken on a new apprentice, however. When I visit, Andrew Bell is just six weeks into the job. He is 20 years old and, almost unbelievably, is vegetarian. 'Go on, son, put some beef into it,' they tease him as he hauls a calf's skin from a lime-wash vat. Paul shakes his head: 'Honestly, we'll never have any money, but we'll always like coming to work.'
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