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Friday, 6 March 2020

Fun and Games and Fixing Typewriters (Including Removing the Platen on an Olivetti Lettera 32)

Plenty of letters are still being typewritten at the "Yours Fathfully" Exhibition in Canberra. Most are posted at MoAD's expense. These are a few that weren't. Some, for example, are addressed to "Democracy", existence no longer certain.
Every fortnight or so I go back into the “Yours Faithfully” exhibition at the Museum of Australian Democracy in Canberra to service the 10 portable typewriters being used there. It’s become something of a Magical Mystery Tour. The days before my visits are filled with keen anticipation: What mischief with typewriters will I uncover this time? The visits themselves comprise two key puzzles: 1, How in the name of Latham Sholes did that happen? 2, How do I fix it? In the end I invariably walk out feeling greatly satisfied with a good morning’s work.
The curators usually keep six or seven typewriters on the go, and put those with “problems” back in a side locker room for me to work on. As they wheel out the casualties, there’s a look of apprehension on their faces: is this something so simple and straightforward they could fix it themselves? (Often, yes.) Is there some sort of vandalism going on behind their backs, and they should be more vigilant and doing something to prevent it? (Again, probably yes.) There’s normally a card or piece of paper in the machine, detailing the latest concern: “Mechanism to raise ribbon not working”, “Screw found beside this typewriter”, “Tape has run out”, “Carriage return not working”. With four of the 10 typewriters I serviced last week, someone had fiddled with the ribbon and it wasn’t thread properly in the ribbon vibrator.
That sort of thing is fixed in seconds. Some tasks, however, take much longer, and on a couple of occasions I’ve had to bring the typewriter back to my workshop to get the tangles and mishaps sorted out.
One of the latest headaches was that someone had screwed the ribbon spool nut down so tightly on the Olivetti Studio 45 the top of the spool was actually smashed and the nut was literally buried in the ribbon. How to get it off? The trick I’d taught myself a week or so earlier, when working out how to get an orange Olivetti Valentine spool cap on to a moving spindle (with a spool in between), came in handy. I held the Studio 45’s spindle in place with a screwdriver pushed under the spool, then with pillars managed to finally get the nut off. Problem fixed, the ribbon started moving smoothly again.
At first I’d suspected a recurrence of very common problems with Studio 45 ribbon vibrator mechanisms. Olivetti portable ribbon mechanisms, going all the way back to the Lettera 22, are not the greatest, even at the best of times (and the Studio 45 is the worst of all). The image above is taken from underneath the spool platform on a Studio 45, showing where a rivet holding the ribbon vibrator in place had simply broken off. The vibrator was wobbling all over the place, and it’s a Dickens of a job to secure it again.  
The major problem at MoAD this last visit was with the Olivetti Lettera 32. Someone had dropped a ribbon spool nut inside the workings and it had got very tightly wedged in between the escapement rack and the vibrator. This of course meant the carriage couldn’t move fully to the left. It was hard enough to find the nut, but absolutely impossible to shift it. There was only one thing for it – remove the platen. Once that was done, the nut simply dropped down on to the base. But removing and replacing the platen was no simple undertaking.
Two tools needed when removing the platen from an Olivetti Lettera 32 are a very small Allen key and a special typewriter nut grip/turner.
 Loosen the right knob screw with the Allen key and remove the knobThen unscrew the carriage side covers on both ends. Using the typewriter tool, release the bracket holding the platen rod in place. Pull the rod out by gripping the knob on the left end. Finally, remove the platen. 
 Be careful when removing the left end carriage cover and the platen to not disturb the platen turning mechanism. The hook circled right easily unattaches and the plate surrounding the platen rod hole (circled left) drops off. The mechanism on the right side of this centre plate (below) can also come out unless great care is taken.
 Once the platen is back in place, check that the platen turning mechanism is working properly.
 Holding the right knob with one hand, firmly tighten the left knob until the mechanism is fully engaged. Test the line turns, including the free-wheelin' "0" setting.
 Replace the casing by sliding the right side in under the carriage lock and gently maneuvering the left side down.
One problem at MoAD I’m still trying to fathom is that the vibrator on the Imperial 200 (Nakajima) isn’t lifting properly, so the top of the ascenders on the “t” and “k” etc aren’t printing clearly. I’ve never encountered this on a Nakajima before. A bit of lubrication and toggling of the printing point mechanism seemed to help, but not completely. Any suggestions?
 Not surprisingly, the Hermes Baby has stood up to constant use best of all the 10 portables. 
 My friend Ian James tests out the Hermes Baby. He types some Stephen Stills words, but spells Stephen Steven.
A letter is posted to my daughter-in-law Laura Messenger, but the address is not typewritten.

Thursday, 5 March 2020

Changing the Feed Rollers on a Bijou (Erika) Model 5 Portable Typewriter

This 1927 Bijou (Erika) Model 5 has been my "go-to" machine for about 12 years now, ever since it was given to me by Ruth Harriet Landau. By "go-to" I mean it's the typewriter I most enjoy using. Not only does it still look gorgeous, and usually works beautifully, but it also has a story. Ruth and her family were "stateless" Polish refugees who brought the Bijou out to Australia with them when they escaped Europe just after the outbreak of World War II. Little did they know that their Bijou's predecessor, the folding Model 3, had during World War I been declared an "alien item" by the then Australian Prime Minister Billy Hughes. But the Landaus themselves were classified as aliens when they docked at Fremantle on April 6, 1940, after a voyage from London on the migrant ship the SS Orgades. The Landaus obviously treasured the Bijou, as I do now. For close to 70 years they kept it in excellent condition - there's not a blemish, a trace of a scratch on it. No worn patches, no paint chips, no corrosion. The only mistake they made while carefully and lovingly storing it all those years was to keep the carriage release lever on, so the feed rollers remained pressed up against the platen - and a solid platen it is too. When I started to have difficulty feeding paper on to the platen, I discovered the feed rollers had been seriously flatted out by the platen.
Some years ago I was asked to attempt to bring back to life an Erika 6 portable. I took one look at it and realised the poor thing was way, way beyond resuscitation. It was deader than a Norwegian Blue parrot. It had been treated dreadfully over the years. By the time it reached me, nothing on it moved, not even the key levers or typebars, let alone the carriage. Still, I kept it, thinking one day I could take it apart and use it as a spare parts machine. That day arrived when I decided to replace the feed rollers on my Bijou.
Did I say "take it apart"? Has anyone ever tried to take apart an Erika 6? These over-engineered beauties were never designed nor assembled with the thought that some day some idiot might try to take one apart. Even just getting the casing off was an absolute nightmare. There are thick metal bars running across the workings and embedded in each side of the casing. Not screwed in, embedded! Solid! Crowbars, sledgehammers, pneumatic drills, nothing could shift them. I kid, of course, but that's what it felt like.
In the end I won. Covered in dirt and sweat, bloodied, but triumphant, I held up both sets of feed rollers (thank goodness the ones in the Model 6 matched the ones from the 5!):
So, now we get to the really tricky bit. Getting the platen out of the Model 5, so I can get at the flattened feed rollers. First the platen rod screw (circled left) is loosened and the rod pulled out from the right (there is no platen knob on the left).
When the platen comes out, the platen turning lever on the left (there is no arm) and the carriage release lever on the right simply pop off the machine. Be aware. It will happen. Eventually they'll have to go back in exactly as they were:
The metal plate that the platen sits on lifts up, allowing access to the feed rollers' cradle. The carriage release rod, which naturally runs through the feed rollers' cradle, needs to be pulled out from the position circled above:
Then it's a matter of unscrewing and removing the feed rollers' cradle and replacing it with the spare parts cradle:
For some reason (I forget why  now, maybe trouble with the screws) I went the long way around and replaced the line of feed rollers on the original cradle. This made things difficult, because of the two arms on each end holding the lines in place, and the springs allowing them to move back and forward when the carriage release lever is applied. But it's simply not possible to replace the lines of feed rollers without removing the cradle from the machine and unattaching the arms. Which of course means the whole thing has to be reassembled.
In case you're not already sufficiently confused, I'm holding the cradle the wrong way around here. The end under my thumb goes on the right.
Here that end slots into the teeth of the carriage release lever
All done! Now comes the really, really hard part - getting the platen back in while holding the carriage release lever and the platen turning mechanism in place. I usually put a platen back in from right to left, but in this case I found it easier to put it in left to right. Anyway, it all worked out well and I can now once again feed paper on to the platen and move it up properly.

Even Littler Typewriter Jobs

At the time I posted on "Little Typewriter Jobs" (on February 19) I was happily putting to one side an undertaking to service a Blue Blue (Torpedo) 18 portable. As I worked on fixing machines from the "Yours Faithfully" exhibition at the Museum of Australian Democracy, and an unduly troublesome Brother portable, I kept looking at the Blue Bird and thinking, "The longer I have that here, the more I like it." The Blue Bird had been brought into my typewriter workshop by a woman from Goulburn. The moment I first saw it I could tell it had been kept in very good condition, and required very little in the way of servicing. To my astonishment, the owner declared that her husband had found it, in its case, in a rubbish bin. Oh, that I should ever be so lucky! Having typed on the Blue Bird for the three weeks it was here, my high opinion of the Torpedo 18 as the best portable I've ever used was only enhanced. Sadly, it has now gone home, sparklingly cleaned up, to its rightful (and very fortunate) owner.
         After that, I had a little bit of luck myself. A year or so ago I was given this Olivetti Lexikon 80, in a dreadful state. I took it apart, cleaned it up, and repainted and reassembled it. But it was missing several keytops, and I used, as a temporary measure, the white keytops off a much later model Olivetti. It looked OK, but I always felt I needed to find, somehow, somewhere, a full set of keytops from a Lexikon 80. And finally I did:

Wednesday, 4 March 2020

The Redemption of Margaret Mead


This photo, showing Margaret Mead at her Hermes Baby portable typewriter, was taken by the Sydney afternoon daily The Sun, on August 25, 1951. It appeared (with the typewriter cropped out, amazingly) with an interview with Mead in the edition of August 27. Mead arrived in Australia with her daughter Mary Catherine Bateson on August 17, for a 10-week lecture tour for the New Education Fellowship Jubilee Education Conference, held in all state capitals. At the time Mead was curator of ethnology at the American Museum of Natural History.
It was good to read Louis Menaud’s New Yorker review of Charles King’s book Gods of the Upper Air, published last August. Good because the review, headed “How Cultural Anthropologists Redefined Humanity”, restored my faith in Margaret Mead. As luck would have it, I managed to track down the book in my local library, though it has been published here under a different title: The Reinvention of Humanity: A Story of Race, Sex, Gender and the Discovery of Culture.


Menaud wrote, “Today, Margaret Mead lives on as an ‘icon’ - meaning that people might recognise the name, and are not surprised to see her face on a postage stamp (as it once was)[face value 32¢, May 1998], but they couldn’t tell you what she wrote or said. If pressed, they would probably guess that Mead was an important figure for the women’s movement. They would be confusing Mead’s significance as a role model (huge as that undoubtedly was) with Mead’s views. Mead was not a modern feminist, and Betty Friedan devoted a full chapter of the Feminine Mystique to an attack on her work. Mead mattered for other reasons. One of the aims of Charles King’s Gods of the Upper Air is to remind us what those were. Mead was a cultural anthropologist, and the rise of cultural anthropology is the subject of King’s book. It’s a group biography of Franz Boas, who established cultural anthropology as an academic discipline in the United States, and four of Boas’s many protégés: Ruth Benedict, Zora Neale Hurston (below), Ella Cara Deloria and Mead. King argues that these people were ‘on the front lines of the greatest moral battle of our time: the struggle to prove that - despite differences of skin colour, gender, ability, or custom - humanity is one undivided thing.’”

Menaud says issues around race, gender, sexuality, and “otherness” are still very much with us, “although in slightly altered form. And when people discuss them they no longer solicit the wisdom of anthropologists. What happened? Soon after Mead’s death, cultural anthropology began losing its voice in public debates. King thinks that the reason for this was the rise of anti-relativism.”
A large number of people have tried unsuccessfully to identify when and where this photo of Mead and her third husband, British anthropologist Gregory Bateson, typing up field notes on their Royal portables, was taken (some dating it to 1961, and placing it in Bali). It was actually shot at their 'home' near the Sepik River, New Guinea, in 1938.
But the greatest impact on Mead’s reputation came from “the direct attack made by the anthropologist Derek Freeman, a [Canberra-based] New Zealander, on [Mead’s] Coming of Age in Samoa. In two books published after Mead’s death, Margaret Mead and Samoa: The Making and Unmaking of an Anthropological Myth (1983) and The Fateful Hoaxing of Margaret Mead (1998), Freeman claimed that Mead had been tricked by her native informants. Freeman’s books kicked off a wave of reconsideration.
Mead on August 5, 1970
“King consigns the entire controversy to an endnote, as he does later challenges to the reliability of Boas’s findings in his 1911 study of the bodily forms of the children of immigrants. He does this because subsequent investigations suggest that the accusers were wrong [my emphasis] and that Mead and Boas were both substantially correct [ditto].” But Menaud argues that “what was under assault was the whole culturalist account of human behavior, and what the disputes symptomised was a swing back toward biology.”
Mead on October 10, 1973
Margaret Mead was born in Philadelphia on December 16, 1901. In the mid-1960s she joined forces with communications theorist Rudolf Modley to establish an organisation called Glyphs Inc, whose goal was to create a universal graphic symbol language to be understood by any members of any culture. She died of pancreatic cancer, in New York on November 15, 1978, aged 76.
Mead on October 10, 1973
In 1983, almost five years after Mead had died, Freeman published Margaret Mead and Samoa, in which he challenged Mead's major findings about sexuality in Samoan society. Freeman's book was controversial in its turn: later in 1983 the American Anthropological Association declared it to be “poorly written, unscientific, irresponsible and misleading”. In 1999, Freeman published another book, The Fateful Hoaxing of Margaret Mead, including previously unavailable material.
John Derek Freeman (above, 1916-2001), born in Brooklyn, Wellington, New Zealand, to an Australian father and New Zealand mother, died in Canberra on July 6, 2001, aged 84. In Freeman's obituary in The New York Times, John Shaw stated that Freeman’s thesis, though upsetting many, had by the time of his death generally gained widespread acceptance. “His challenge was initially greeted with disbelief or anger, but gradually won wide - although not complete – acceptance”, “many anthropologists have agreed to disagree over the findings of one of the science's founding mothers, acknowledging both Mead's pioneering research and the fact that she may have been mistaken on details.” Soon after, The New York Times published a response from Professor Louise Lamphere, president of the American Anthropological Association; “Your obituary of the anthropologist Derek Freeman leaves the impression that the two books he wrote attacking Margaret Mead’s work have permanently damaged her reputation. The Freeman debate has been the subject of a number of books and scholarly articles that support her views on the importance of culture for the adolescent experience, while criticising some details of her research. I have taught about the controversy for the last 18 years and am still impressed by the fact that a 24-year-old woman could produce a study so far ahead of its time. Dr Freeman studied a different island 20 years after Mead's research, and his notion that biology is more determinative than culture is oversimplified. Most serious scholarship casts grave doubt on his data and theory.”
Mead in her office at the American Museum of Natural History.
In a 2009 evaluation of the debate, anthropologist Paul Shankman concluded that: “There is now a large body of criticism of Freeman's work from a number of perspectives in which Mead, Samoa, and anthropology appear in a very different light than they do in Freeman's work. Indeed, the immense significance that Freeman gave his critique looks like ‘much ado about nothing’ to many of his critics.” Shankman supports the contention that Mead's research was essentially correct, and concludes that Freeman cherry-picked his data and misrepresented both Mead and Samoan culture. In her 2015 book Galileo's Middle Finger, Alice Dreger argued that Freeman's accusations were unfounded and misleading.
Mead in 1930
In 2018 Martha Macintyre, honorary principal fellow in the School of Social and Political Sciences at the University of Melbourne, wrote of her personal experiences of working with Freeman in Canberra in a review of Peter Hempenstall’s Truth's Fool: Derek Freeman and the War Over Cultural Anthropology. Macintyre said, “Hempenstall has written an apologia for his difficult subject. It is to his credit that he discusses the behaviour that earned Freeman his reputation for ‘madness’, but his attempts to disprove the facts of his mental state dominate the biography in ways that undermine his claims for Freeman’s scholarly legacy. Freeman never produced a work that set out his Big Idea about the relationship between biology and sociocultural anthropology. His behaviour in academic roles as a postgraduate supervisor and departmental head was often disruptive and counterproductive. Hempenstall appears to consider the lack of acknowledgement in the official Australian National University history a slight. I suspect it was because Derek Freeman had become too much of an embarrassment.”