Heavy Metal Madness: The Lost Art of Monograms

Gene Gable

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I’ve always been a sucker for monograms. From the front page of personal stationery to the cuff of a well-pressed Brooks Brothers dress shirt, there’s something distinctive yet understated about a monogram. Showing one’s initials implies a pride in your name and a formality that is appropriate for the occasion. Even though you may go by Bob, a monogram always says Robert. Buzz becomes Richard, Chip turns to Raymond, and in most cases, that little-used middle initial finally gets a workout.

And though monograms were once more of an art form, they’ve been reduced in many cases today to a $5 option when you place your order with Land’s End or L.L. Bean. But since monograms play an important role in metal type history, I’ve rediscovered the art and have a few examples to show you and some rules to guide you. Though of course in this era of anything goes, you are free to ignore the rules and create monograms that make political statements, pay homage to reality-based television programming, have not-so-subtle references to bathroom humor, or exist simply to confuse the reader.

First, though, there is another form of moniker I need to get out of the way, and that’s the less formal one of the embroidered name patch, which is more appropriate for shop work than for stationery. You don’t see many auto mechanics, plumbers or printers with their initials elegantly placed on the sleeve of their coveralls.

Sometimes Labels Need to Be Informal
One of the first priorities when setting up my vintage print shop was to begin the quest for the right work coveralls — the uniform of printers. I’ve never had a need for coveralls, and though I did come across a terrific typesetters apron (see Figure 1), I still needed your basic blue one-piece number that can take grease stains, ink stains, molten lead beads or whatever may come up in a busy shop. Add a green see-through printer’s visor and the picture is complete (except for the oft-missing finger, which I hope never to display).

Figure 1: During countless budget meetings or executive retreats, I fantasized about having a job with a uniform other than dress shirt and tie (or trendy Tony Bahama wear).

So I went to the big work-clothing store here in Petaluma where the selection was great and the size range even greater (there are a lot of XXXL mechanics, it seems). But I felt like a fraud buying new, and there was something very incompatible about a stiff pair of spotless coveralls and my otherwise scruffy setting.

Luckily, I got up the nerve to stop by M. Maselli & Sons hardware (see Figure 2). Maselli’s is where all the hard-core construction guys in town go to at buy their stuff, and if you are an amateur like me, you feel pretty intimidated by the setting. Mr. Maselli rules the roost from an office perched above the display floor, and when one of the sons can’t determine the correct price, he descends to solve the problem and chat with the long-time patrons (since 1960). Most customers have an account, and this is where carpet layers buy those knee-hammers they use, where masons can find every sort of industrial trowel, and if you have to ask what the appropriate tool is for the job, you don’t belong there.

Figure 2: Going into M. Maselli and Sons Hardware is a little like dropping into the neighborhood biker bar for the first time and sitting on someone else’s regular stool.

Part of the Mr. Maselli’s complex is a recycled-goods area, called The Petaluma Junk Company (see Figure 3) where on over six acres you can find all sorts of rusting pipe, old heating grates, all forms of girders and beams, and just about anything that can be salvaged from a construction site. And there among the rust I discovered a rack of used coveralls — complete with pre-existing grease stains and the well-worn look I was after. Luckily I found a pair in my size and took it home, hoping that the previous owner did not die in some hideous industrial accident. Now the only problem was, where was I going to find a name patch that said “Gene” to replace the “Tony” still sewn on the pocket?

Figure 3: There’s no mean dog, but you can find almost anything you want at the Petaluma Junk Company, including used work clothing, abandoned traffic lights, and valves bigger than a car.

Petaluma may be a former poultry town famous for having the world’s only Chicken Pharmacy (see Figure 4), but we’ve gotten a bit more hip these days and we have a novelty shop that sells embroidered patches, apparently some sort of fashion statement among the young in-crowd (the kind that wear bowling shirts even though they don’t bowl, and have purses made out of old license plates).

Figure 4: Petaluma was once crowned “The Egg Basket of America,” and home to the world’s largest chicken population. We still celebrate Butter and Egg Days each April, but you can no longer fill your chicken’s script for Xanax at the downtown Chicken Pharmacy.

But there were none that said “Gene” of course. There never are any Gene’s in those kind of pre-personalized goods — one of the down sides of a not-too-common name. So I had to settle for something else (see Figure 5). I thought it was an appropriate moniker until I earned the right to a custom-made patch.

Figure 5: I “wanabe” sedated, or at least escape from today’s reality by donning a magic outfit and transporting to a parallel universe where you can survive by puttering around your garage playing with your toys and cats.

A name patch is perfect for the casual work setting, or even for a sporting event, but at some point we all have to dress ourselves up a bit and go for the formal monogram.

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