The Two Jacs

Today was Big Jac’s turn.
She’s larger, broader across the roller, and she carries her years in the weight of her frame. Just lifting her onto the bench took a moment—she’s solid steel and brass, none of that hollow stuff. Where Little Jac glides, Big Jac grounds. She presses down like she means it.
I started the same way: disassembly, a careful sort of unbuilding. Her hardware was stiff, crusted with old ink and time. I soaked the bolts, eased them free, and laid each piece out like a puzzle. It was slow work—Brasso for the brass, vinegar for the buildup, Steelo for the stubborn corners. Some parts needed more elbow grease. Others, just time and a soft cloth.
She didn’t shine at first. Big Jac’s patina was deeper, more stubborn, like she’d soaked up every studio she’d ever been in. But bit by bit, she came back. Under the muck, the metal gleamed. Her handle, worn smooth by years of grip, took on a warm luster once I rubbed in some oil and polish. She looked proud again.
But it wasn’t just about making her pretty. It was about bringing her back to work. Once she was reassembled, I ran her dry across the glass, then through some scrap newsprint. No chatter. No skip. Just a smooth, clean roll—heavy and even. That weight, that compression—it’s like she was made for this.
I kept thinking about Jacqueline while I worked. I don’t know how many prints she pulled with Big Jac, but I can feel the history in the tool. There’s something sacred about using the same roller someone else loved, someone who probably stood at a similar bench, wiping ink from the same kinds of grooves, rolling down onto paper with the same quiet satisfaction.
Now Little Jac and Big Jac sit together in the studio. One light and quick, the other deliberate and strong. Both ready.
Tomorrow, I print.

Billy Nye - Printmaker Australia