I replaced the old worn down hardened rubber feet with new soft rubber wine carboy bungs. I sawed them to the right depth and drilled out the centre holes to enlarge them for the holding screws. The bungs were the perfect diameter and the feet work very well now. All old typewriters should be so easy to fix this way!
Category Archives: Typewriters
This is a real lighthouse, but I took some artistic license. There were no seagulls on logs, but the ones flying were in fact present, for a few moments. The actual scene when I photographed it was rather duller, the colours too hazy, so I livened it up with stronger shadows and highlights.
The thrift shops have opened here, but there have been no typewriters, luckily – otherwise I might have bought one! Eventually I hope to have maybe only a dozen typewriters, but it will take a long time to sell what I’ve got, unless I give them away. I could do that, but even so there doesn’t seem to be much demand these days. This is why I am trying not to buy any more typewriters, because I have nowhere to put them. I think there’s an inverse relationship between how much of a given thing one owns, and one’s desire to own more of the same. If I had three typewriters I might get excited about some that are available in my town right now. Varage seems to have lots of them these days. Same goes for old film cameras, of which I seem to have boxes and boxes full. Who needs it. Hence I’m more focused on doing art, which is easier to store. I work on 1/4″ thick panels, so a foot of shelf space can hold 30 or more paintings, compared to say 2 typewriters.
I do keep a typewriter close at hand, however, just so I can always admire it even if I have nothing to write at the moment. If I had to keep just one typewriter, it would probably be this one, 1958 Smith Corona Silent Super, aka Eaton’s Prestige. Or, maybe the Olympia Traveller…. or the H3K… or the Remington All New…
When I first started collecting typewriters, I got spoiled by the low prices, so when I saw a Halda up for auction at $60, I declined to bid on it. That was years ago, and in the interim I developed a craving to have a Halda, for numerous reasons. For one, it looked great. Two, it reputedly was well made, and one of the best portables. Three, the body was designed by a Swedish architect, Carl Malmsten, whose work I admire. Four, Ernest Hemingway used one. Ernest must have known something about typewriters, so I took this as being a quasi recommendation.
Five, I love the green colour of the Halda. Six, I like Swedish things, and admire their design ethic and particular way of thinking. So when I recently discovered a Halda for sale across the water in Vancouver, I decided to buy it. It came by courier a few days later, and I eagerly opened the beat up wooden case. I was not disappointed. The Halda is a thing of beauty, and not merely skin deep. True to my hopes and expectations, it captured me with its subtle, clean, compact shape, and the minimalist but elegant use of chrome trim with a red stripe. Here is as close to perfection in appearance as it gets, certainly rivaling the Lettera 22, which of course was also designed by the great Italian architect and designer, Marcello Nizolli, chief designer at Olivetti.
It gives me a vicarious thrill to see such quality products that are designed by architects. Perhaps it’s simply the confirmation of my opinion that the training ground is fertile for designing many things, not just buildings. There are no doubt a lot of excellent typewriters in the world, typewriters that function brilliantly as machines, but that lack the je ne sais quoi that separates the merely functional from the beautiful. That is why I treasure my Lettera 22’s, of which I can’t seem to let go, and now my Halda. They not only do what they were intended to do, but also are so beautiful to look at that I never grow tired of admiring their beauty.
My Halda, built in 1958, has the more modern larger green key tops, not the original rounder black ones. They have a good feel, so I don’t mind that. Hemingway’s Halda had the original key tops, however, as can be seen in the pictures. Other than that, I’m fairly sure the workings of the Halda remained the same throughout it’s life. There were various cases for it, and mine is not the nice leather one, but a plywood box. The lid had suffered, so I ripped off the thin cloth exterior and the top layer of veneer that had peeled away. I glued down all the loose edges, patched the bare spots with the scrap piece from the lid, and glued on a heavy piece of primed canvas. I masked it all and sprayed the lid with dark green spray paint. Lastly, I wrapped the worn out handle with heavy black leatherette, sewn in place.
The typeface is 11 pitch, which I find pleasant. I have no information on who designed the font, but in my searching I discovered an excellent research paper on Academia, entitled Type Design For Typewriters: Olivetti, by Maria Ramos Silva. A must read for anybody interested in the fascinating history of Olivetti and typeface design.
Carl Malmsten was a Swedish modernist, but not of the Bauhaus sort. He was closer to Alvar Aalto and Frank Lloyd Wright, who eschewed the stark, form follows function ethic of the so called Modern School that more or less made a de facto coup d’etat of much of the world’s architectural schools in the previous century. I wish we had been more influenced by Scandinavians! Not that I’m against the Modernists, but I love Scandinavian design on the whole, especially when it comes to furniture. Malmsten once designed a simple solid pine table that you will now have to pay many thousands for, clearly a predecessor to IKEA, which may have been expensive in its day, but surely not as expensive as it is now. Such is how famous name designer furnishings have appreciated, like some art that once was sold for the price of the canvas and the paint, and is now the purview of millionaires only. Far better to get a Halda for only $75 plus shipping, no? This table is listed at more than five thousand dollars. One look at this and I know I could build a decent replica in my shop, if I really wanted to. But build a replica Halda? Never! Nobody could, or they would – wouldn’t they?
Here is a picture of the Malmsten table, discovered for sale on line in Dronten, Netherlands. I once made a trip to Dronten to see their town centre, called the Dronten Agora, or Meerpal.
In researching my final year thesis project at architecture school (c. 1975), I came across this building in a magazine. It was a recently built multi-use facility in a fairly new part of the Netherlands that had not long before been the ocean. When I was in Holland the next year, I had to go see the place, so we drove a long way across the monotonous flat barren polders to Dronten. This is not where one would expect to find expensive dining sets. But I suppose it was cheaper at one time; much, much cheaper! Seeing it again in the above noted article, the building is still as impressive as ever, both in concept and execution. I was originally inspired by how the building was not a tour de force so much as a place where people could go and do all sorts of things. Its usefulness was much greater than any one activity, style or fleeting fad. Multifunctional – like a typewriter!
It’s been years since I repainted a typewriter. I recently sold the last one I repainted, so when I picked up a drab Smith Corona Clipper I decided to have another go at repainting. I had forgotten just how much work it is, and how fussy. I removed all the panels, sanded out the chips and scratches, then filled in the holes with quick body filler, sanded again, then primed and then got down to spraying. Of course I screwed it up right away by missing spots and then adding too much paint to others. You can’t respray this paint unless you wait 24 hours, another mistake I learned about the hard way when the old paint wrinkled. This machine has CLIPPER printed on the back of the paper feed, but the serial number and features are those of a Sterling, series 5A, not 5C. So it’s a Sterling with a Clipper label. I decided to recreate the Clipper logo with the Boeing Clipper, and print my own water slide decals for that and the Smith Corona name. I copied the clipper logo from a photo I found on line and worked up a reasonable facsimile by hand drawing the plane and importing that into MS Publisher. Combined with text and another imported file of a blue line I drew for the waves, I designed my own Clipper logo, which I then printed on clear water slide decal paper.
Same thing for the Smith-Corona logo.
I clear coated the lid to protect the decals and reassembled the bodywork. It’s a lovely typewriter, but I’m going to sell it because I have several of these already, and don’t need more of the same. I hope someone will enjoy this little gem. I won’t get enough money for it to justify all the work involved, but it was fun all the same. Also, I learned how to make water slide decals, and made some labels for my guitars.
During the process of hunting down the logo for the Smith Corona Clipper, I learned a lot about the Boeing 314 “Clipper”. Air travel should be like this! Beds and staterooms, dining rooms, lounges, and separate bathrooms for men and women. Air travel has really improved since those days, because now we have gender neutral toilets. Plus we have 50 channels of programs. Back then they had to get up to go eat. Now they bring you the “food”, and it is so delicious.
Boeing only ever made 12 of them, all for Pan Am Airways, but the plane is much larger in legend. Every plane was called a Such and Such Clipper. There are none left. Only typewriters remain…and of course our own Victoria to Seattle Clipper – a fast catamaran that goes from here to Seattle daily. Maybe they will buy this typewriter for the passengers to use!
Just for a minute, forget the virus, the beer, the ring around the moon, and everything else but this: *Corona* the typewriter. There are a multitude of pages about the Corona typewriter, which was a sensation in its day. Now I understand why.
The above scans are from the first test pages I typed just as soon as I could get the thing ready. Pretty impressive for 104 years old. I had to hunt around to discover where some of the symbols were, since they were not clear from the keys. The = sign is on the K, but it is indicated with a -. As noted above, the comma is indicated by the “.”, and where they show “,” is actually “-“. I straightened out the off kilter key symbols by pushing the paper discs from the underside of the keys. Several rings just came off, and I pushed them back on. The typebar cushion rest was made of cork and had been damaged, so I removed that and slipped in a piece of heavy wool piano felt. The feet are there, but no longer soft, so I might dig out the hard old rubber and slip in some new grommets that should fit nicely. Aside from that, the front panel of the case needs some repairs to the hinge of leather, and that’s it. Lastly, thanks to Richard Polt again for making all those manuals available. I downloaded the Corona manual, which was extremely useful! I might never have figured out how the ribbon winding system worked without the manual to explain it. I printed a small version to keep in the case where it originally fit, too.
You may have seen this before – but if not, it’s “Superman” (the fictional one, not the real one), typing on his typewriter – A Remington SUPER-RITER. I bet he had a sore back, because of his arm position. He should have had one of my typewriter shelves, but alas they weren’t around in his time. Here is my Super-Riter:
After using this new acquisition, I have to agree that it is SUPER! I’m not keen on big heavy desk models, since they are a pain to move around, and I have nowhere to permanently place one. But I grabbed this big boy from a thrift shop last week, because it called to me. I bent down and typed a few letters on it in the store, and the smooth action was remarkable. I had previously seen one at a church bazaar, and recalled that it was very quiet, smooth and precise. So this time I jumped in and brought it home. It needed a minimal amount of cleaning, but was otherwise in fine shape. There was one niggling problem however: the ribbon selector was erratic. After several sessions on the net, I discovered a very interesting feature of this machine – it folds open! Yes, they called this “fold-a-matic”. Munk, praise be to him, had the instructions for opening the back of the machine up. Polt, too, ever helpful in time of need, provided the service manual. With this combination of precise instructions I proceeded to open the machine. This is analogous to open heart surgery for typewriters, but typewriters feel no pain and cannot be killed, as far as we know, except by Superman.
There are numerous blogs with information on the Super-Riter, but this is the first one to feature an actual open heart operation. Be sure you’re seated and have someone with first aid experience nearby while watching this, unless you’re a doctor. It is shocking! The back opens up with the removal of a few screws. First one removes the platen, however, achieved by flipping two levers and lifting it off. Dead simple. Oops, I didn’t mean to say dead, excuse me.
Once you remove the screws, the back almost opens by itself. I tilted the back open, exposing the ribbon selector-vibrator parts and performed a minimally invasive procedure known as a selector-ectomy, involving a small screwdriver and some simple but precise adjustments. Then it was time to close, which was as simple as opening, except in reverse order. The biggest risk is losing a screw, which I often do, but this time I got lucky and there were no missing or leftover pieces after reassembly was complete.
Super-Riter is back in one piece now and recovering well. It’s a marvelous bit of engineering, and it types with near perfection. The sole downside is the weight, 32 lbs. It’s so heavy that when you get typing, the machine will begin to sway even a solid table due to resonance and its mass. Placed on a heavy table, I imagine it would be heavenly. On a TV tray, extremely risky! Not for card tables this sucker.
In summary – the Remington Super-Riter can best be described as a luxury typewriter, engineered and built to the very best standards, during the glory years of Western Civilization, c. 80-30 BC (Before China). During the early years of that era, men dictated and women typed on these things, that is until Superman came along and lead the way for men to use them without embarrassment. Now, men all over the world covet them and wouldn’t dream of allowing women near their precious machines. Women have moved on, however, so the joke is on men!
P.S. to find plans for my typewriter shelf click this link: