This has happened more times than I’d like.
I finish developing an image.
It looks right.
The composition works. The depth is there. The details are doing what they’re supposed to do.
I send it to the laser.
Then I wait.
And when the finished slate comes off the machine, something is missing.
Maybe an important detail disappeared.
Maybe two areas that looked separate on the screen suddenly compete with each other.
Maybe the depth collapsed.
The frustrating part is that the original artwork can still look perfectly good.
That doesn’t matter.
The slate is the artwork now.
That’s been one of the biggest changes in how I work.
I don’t look at an image only as an image anymore. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m already thinking about what the material and the laser are going to do to it.
But even that doesn’t eliminate surprises.
When something fails, I used to want a rule.
More contrast.
Less detail.
Change this setting.
Strengthen that line.
I’ve learned there isn’t one.
Sometimes the artwork needs to change.
Sometimes the engraving needs to change.
Sometimes one small area is causing the entire problem.
And sometimes I decide the idea isn’t worth chasing any further.
There are other times when I keep fighting with it.
Usually that’s because there’s something in the piece I haven’t been able to get from another design—some visual quality or feeling that makes me believe the idea is still worth saving.
Those are dangerous pieces.
They can consume an evening very quickly.
But they’ve also taught me some of the most useful lessons I’ve learned about working on slate.
The computer can tell me whether I made an interesting image.
It cannot tell me whether I made a good engraving.
For that, eventually, I have to make the thing.
— Rune Master