fountainpenkid
March 7th, 2017, 12:24 PM
30851
A Tangential Introduction
During recent forum-browsing it’s struck me how much the attitudes and interests I possessed when I entered into the online fountain pen community six years ago share with others who catch the bug while still young teenagers: the predictably intense focus on the social consequences of fountain pen use, a blind obsession with perceived reliability and practicality and along with it a thoroughly competitive lens of comparing this pens, inks, and all the rest of it…it felt at times like a sort of game (maybe subconsciously it remains this way?). Even as I became an adult by law, vestiges of this mentality still would reenter my decision-making process. I think the majority of us enjoy a more generally quantitative (or in the case of my 13-year-old self, quasi-quantitative) sort of discussion quite often on the forums—it’s in the nature of a public resource.
Yet more recently, in a series of often-costly forays into unexplored pen territory, I finally came to realize why it was that, for nearly four years, I could not bring myself to sell a pen I so infrequently—and impractically--used: a Waterman’s 14S, with a medium stub full-flex nib that more often than not was a fire hydrant when put to paper. Outside of the rational sphere of my thoughts, in that liminal space between the subconscious and conscious, it emoted to me (all theatric connotations intended). Traditionally I had explained my interest in fountain pens in somewhat rational terms, saying that I liked the absence of pressure needed to write, the variety, the history and a pen’s context in it, and of course the design; I rarely ever thought in terms of the pure idea.
Nevertheless, last summer’s spending frenzy has shown me, my choices were driven at heart by deeply subjective forces, indescribable aesthetic modes of thought. Often, my focus on informed and rational choice--on the ‘research’ of a decision--was really leading me away from my truer desires and hobby-happiness. Having found this new mode of pen exploration, I finally allowed myself to act on a longing I’ve had for vintage Italian pens—especially OMAS—that previously was suppressed, cast off as overly-romantic and financially and functionally unjustifiable, except for a few well-worn Aurora 88s. For years I’ve salivated over Paolo Mijno’s site, Zona 900, and, with a new batch of pens just listed, I jumped on the most extravagant pen I could afford: a late forties Extra model in a subdued orange-tortoise celluloid, with a thin-lined and characteristically flexible nib.
30852
Arrival
The 10 days it took to get to me were fraught with the greatest anticipation I’ve ever had for a pen purchase, and popping open the cheap replacement case I found a surprise—the pen was a vest pocket model, rarer and more interesting to me than the junior/555 size I thought I had bought; an infrequent case of positive ambiguity in a listing’s description (which simply read “OMAS Extra”). As products of a dressier era where pens were common symbols of status perched inside garments, vest pocket models seem to draw little interest from most current hobbyists because of their “unusable” size and perceived delicacy. Their pocketability means little to people who carry their pens in cases or slips. I, like many of the new generation of pen enthusiasts, had never spent any time with one before, and while the first adjective that sprung to mind was “pill-like,” the glimmering cap-top and curvaceous iridescence bejeweled my thoughts as I twirled it around in my fingers for the first time. The grip section which I begrudgingly had accepted as being solid black from the photos turned out to be made out of matching tortoise celluloid—a coveted feature whose appeal I’ve yet to see explained. This is a design that grows on you: not from unattractive to attractive, but in layering modulations from one aesthetic interpretation to another. To some extent, this is due to the amount of visual interest the pen provides—the subtleties of the material, the intricately angled art-deco clip, the vase-shaped grip section, the gentle voluptuousness of its variety of curves—each element mixing with the others, novelly recombining upon successive viewings. Mainly though, it is the proportions which challenge one’s perceptions; the ‘instability’ lent by the near-equal cap-barrel ratio means the aesthetic of the pen uncapped feels different each time it returns to the hand. I doubt the designer or designers philosophized about its aesthetic in this way, but in the context of the mythos I tend to imagine for OMAS, a brand whose acronymic name hails proprietary creation, how I wish it were true.
30854
Point to Paper: A Featherlight Intensity
No tactile nor visual appreciation can compare, try as they might, to the fullness of confluent sensations upon writing with it. Rave reviews—and indeed, a certain amount of mythos—of the writing capabilities of vintage OMAS pens had played no small part in my decision to take this plunge, so my expectations, as one might imagine, were sky-high. But it exceeded them. It’s not the outright line variation that stuns me, nor the outright softness, for this nib is no “wet noodle.” Yet it balances desirable and practical traits (soft flexibility and moderate flex resistance) in a way that very few other flex nibs I’ve used do, making the tactile side of notetaking often nearly as joyful as the boundless visual expression afforded by letter-writing.
30853
It is of unmarked width, as I believe OMAS pens of this era were, but its grade is unquestionably an extra-fine/needlepoint under normal writing. From the small sample of these pens I’ve seen, it seems they were only sold with these sort of nibs, which makes sense, because while a .8 mL ink capacity is quite impressive for a pen with a 2’’ barrel, it still runs dry after just a few days of sparse, non-flex notetaking (my medium-nibbed Parker “51” and Pelikan 400 usually last at least a full week). I’ve long dismissed the “low ink capacity means more ink changing means more fun” line of thinking, but with this pen I’ve come to embrace it.
30855
The sharp, contrasted, and heavily contoured lines it produces give new-found intensity to even the most subdued inks I own, encouraging me change inks with each cycle. Intensity may be the best general descriptor for the experience of writing with this pen. Twisting off in 1.3 turns, the cap easily cedes to the writer’s purpose but just slowly enough to let them appreciate it. Then with audacious flair, the nib glides across the page, its section surprisingly comfortable and giving excellent control. The gold cap-crown glints in concert with little striations of celluloid, the nib provides precise expression…if you’re not careful, the spectacular appearance of this pen while writing can be distracting. But reciprocate its visual intensity in your writing—and enjoy watching the air bubbles readily form through the ink window—and the pen, at least in my larger hand, fades away, its section surprisingly comfortable. While I admit I can and do use it unposted, it is best with the cap securely pressed on the back (insert warning against pushing too hard and splitting the cap here), and like this it is long enough to hold above the threads and gain some girth--but lose the ergonomic pleasures of the perfectly-scalloped section. At 15 grams capped/posted (the barrel is 8g by itself), it is in the category of “featherlight” like most pens of its day, which allows for an excellent balance when posted and, in the opinion of many, makes longer writing sessions more comfortable (I’m not convinced low weight is a necessity).
30856
30859
Bits and Pieces
*These are uncommon pens, made only between 1946 and 1948 before the numerical size and shape designations, 555/556/557 & S/F, were introduced—expect to wait at least a few months before you find one. Note that very similar pens were produced before the war, but with black grip sections and stantuffo tuffante fillers--these were "Lucens" models.
Here's an FPN member's late '30s example:
http://www.fountainpennetwork.com/forum/uploads/post-3026-018185200%201284967294.jpg
*The piston filler functions well but does not inspire confidence with its significant and uneven resistance—apparently they’ve been like this since the beginning, folks!
30858
A Brief Conclusion
This pen has taught me a great deal about what it means to enjoy the act of writing; it hones one's senses in the most pleasurable way. I'll spare you a drawn-out consideration of its current position in the pen market, but in short, there is nothing wrong with it—nothing that I would change if I were to have a replica made; the piston smoothness notwithstanding. That is not something I can say of many pens I’ve owned. It balances stylish visuals and expressive performance in a way only Italians pens seem to do. If you’re in the market for a high end “mini” pen and you like flex, you should check this one out. A Pelikan M300 will pale in comparison.
30864
A Pelikan 400 dwarfs the Extra in length, but not so much in girth.
30857
Notes:
My relatively ahistorical treatment of this pen is intentional. For one thing, I'm no expert on OMAS history, and the information about this period online is sparse. Secondly, OMAS' style and philosophy was remarkably retained during their existence, so for many, this pen--its styling, features, etc.,--is not as mysterious and foreign an object as it could be.
I almost forgot to disclose that my pen is modified, only half-regretfully. I bought it as NOS, but, when the pen dropped from a table and cracked at the ink window seam, that part was revealed to be a later replacement (the visible machining lines on it were always suspicious to me considering I have yet to find another OMAS from this period with them). Luckily, a penmaker lives in my town, so I had a new, high-quality ink window manufactured out of clear acryllic (less stain-prone than the original celluloid), along with new, black acryllic threads (the threads were originally one piece with the ink window). It's a subtle difference, but I think the lesson in aftermarket improvement is worth noting.
A Tangential Introduction
During recent forum-browsing it’s struck me how much the attitudes and interests I possessed when I entered into the online fountain pen community six years ago share with others who catch the bug while still young teenagers: the predictably intense focus on the social consequences of fountain pen use, a blind obsession with perceived reliability and practicality and along with it a thoroughly competitive lens of comparing this pens, inks, and all the rest of it…it felt at times like a sort of game (maybe subconsciously it remains this way?). Even as I became an adult by law, vestiges of this mentality still would reenter my decision-making process. I think the majority of us enjoy a more generally quantitative (or in the case of my 13-year-old self, quasi-quantitative) sort of discussion quite often on the forums—it’s in the nature of a public resource.
Yet more recently, in a series of often-costly forays into unexplored pen territory, I finally came to realize why it was that, for nearly four years, I could not bring myself to sell a pen I so infrequently—and impractically--used: a Waterman’s 14S, with a medium stub full-flex nib that more often than not was a fire hydrant when put to paper. Outside of the rational sphere of my thoughts, in that liminal space between the subconscious and conscious, it emoted to me (all theatric connotations intended). Traditionally I had explained my interest in fountain pens in somewhat rational terms, saying that I liked the absence of pressure needed to write, the variety, the history and a pen’s context in it, and of course the design; I rarely ever thought in terms of the pure idea.
Nevertheless, last summer’s spending frenzy has shown me, my choices were driven at heart by deeply subjective forces, indescribable aesthetic modes of thought. Often, my focus on informed and rational choice--on the ‘research’ of a decision--was really leading me away from my truer desires and hobby-happiness. Having found this new mode of pen exploration, I finally allowed myself to act on a longing I’ve had for vintage Italian pens—especially OMAS—that previously was suppressed, cast off as overly-romantic and financially and functionally unjustifiable, except for a few well-worn Aurora 88s. For years I’ve salivated over Paolo Mijno’s site, Zona 900, and, with a new batch of pens just listed, I jumped on the most extravagant pen I could afford: a late forties Extra model in a subdued orange-tortoise celluloid, with a thin-lined and characteristically flexible nib.
30852
Arrival
The 10 days it took to get to me were fraught with the greatest anticipation I’ve ever had for a pen purchase, and popping open the cheap replacement case I found a surprise—the pen was a vest pocket model, rarer and more interesting to me than the junior/555 size I thought I had bought; an infrequent case of positive ambiguity in a listing’s description (which simply read “OMAS Extra”). As products of a dressier era where pens were common symbols of status perched inside garments, vest pocket models seem to draw little interest from most current hobbyists because of their “unusable” size and perceived delicacy. Their pocketability means little to people who carry their pens in cases or slips. I, like many of the new generation of pen enthusiasts, had never spent any time with one before, and while the first adjective that sprung to mind was “pill-like,” the glimmering cap-top and curvaceous iridescence bejeweled my thoughts as I twirled it around in my fingers for the first time. The grip section which I begrudgingly had accepted as being solid black from the photos turned out to be made out of matching tortoise celluloid—a coveted feature whose appeal I’ve yet to see explained. This is a design that grows on you: not from unattractive to attractive, but in layering modulations from one aesthetic interpretation to another. To some extent, this is due to the amount of visual interest the pen provides—the subtleties of the material, the intricately angled art-deco clip, the vase-shaped grip section, the gentle voluptuousness of its variety of curves—each element mixing with the others, novelly recombining upon successive viewings. Mainly though, it is the proportions which challenge one’s perceptions; the ‘instability’ lent by the near-equal cap-barrel ratio means the aesthetic of the pen uncapped feels different each time it returns to the hand. I doubt the designer or designers philosophized about its aesthetic in this way, but in the context of the mythos I tend to imagine for OMAS, a brand whose acronymic name hails proprietary creation, how I wish it were true.
30854
Point to Paper: A Featherlight Intensity
No tactile nor visual appreciation can compare, try as they might, to the fullness of confluent sensations upon writing with it. Rave reviews—and indeed, a certain amount of mythos—of the writing capabilities of vintage OMAS pens had played no small part in my decision to take this plunge, so my expectations, as one might imagine, were sky-high. But it exceeded them. It’s not the outright line variation that stuns me, nor the outright softness, for this nib is no “wet noodle.” Yet it balances desirable and practical traits (soft flexibility and moderate flex resistance) in a way that very few other flex nibs I’ve used do, making the tactile side of notetaking often nearly as joyful as the boundless visual expression afforded by letter-writing.
30853
It is of unmarked width, as I believe OMAS pens of this era were, but its grade is unquestionably an extra-fine/needlepoint under normal writing. From the small sample of these pens I’ve seen, it seems they were only sold with these sort of nibs, which makes sense, because while a .8 mL ink capacity is quite impressive for a pen with a 2’’ barrel, it still runs dry after just a few days of sparse, non-flex notetaking (my medium-nibbed Parker “51” and Pelikan 400 usually last at least a full week). I’ve long dismissed the “low ink capacity means more ink changing means more fun” line of thinking, but with this pen I’ve come to embrace it.
30855
The sharp, contrasted, and heavily contoured lines it produces give new-found intensity to even the most subdued inks I own, encouraging me change inks with each cycle. Intensity may be the best general descriptor for the experience of writing with this pen. Twisting off in 1.3 turns, the cap easily cedes to the writer’s purpose but just slowly enough to let them appreciate it. Then with audacious flair, the nib glides across the page, its section surprisingly comfortable and giving excellent control. The gold cap-crown glints in concert with little striations of celluloid, the nib provides precise expression…if you’re not careful, the spectacular appearance of this pen while writing can be distracting. But reciprocate its visual intensity in your writing—and enjoy watching the air bubbles readily form through the ink window—and the pen, at least in my larger hand, fades away, its section surprisingly comfortable. While I admit I can and do use it unposted, it is best with the cap securely pressed on the back (insert warning against pushing too hard and splitting the cap here), and like this it is long enough to hold above the threads and gain some girth--but lose the ergonomic pleasures of the perfectly-scalloped section. At 15 grams capped/posted (the barrel is 8g by itself), it is in the category of “featherlight” like most pens of its day, which allows for an excellent balance when posted and, in the opinion of many, makes longer writing sessions more comfortable (I’m not convinced low weight is a necessity).
30856
30859
Bits and Pieces
*These are uncommon pens, made only between 1946 and 1948 before the numerical size and shape designations, 555/556/557 & S/F, were introduced—expect to wait at least a few months before you find one. Note that very similar pens were produced before the war, but with black grip sections and stantuffo tuffante fillers--these were "Lucens" models.
Here's an FPN member's late '30s example:
http://www.fountainpennetwork.com/forum/uploads/post-3026-018185200%201284967294.jpg
*The piston filler functions well but does not inspire confidence with its significant and uneven resistance—apparently they’ve been like this since the beginning, folks!
30858
A Brief Conclusion
This pen has taught me a great deal about what it means to enjoy the act of writing; it hones one's senses in the most pleasurable way. I'll spare you a drawn-out consideration of its current position in the pen market, but in short, there is nothing wrong with it—nothing that I would change if I were to have a replica made; the piston smoothness notwithstanding. That is not something I can say of many pens I’ve owned. It balances stylish visuals and expressive performance in a way only Italians pens seem to do. If you’re in the market for a high end “mini” pen and you like flex, you should check this one out. A Pelikan M300 will pale in comparison.
30864
A Pelikan 400 dwarfs the Extra in length, but not so much in girth.
30857
Notes:
My relatively ahistorical treatment of this pen is intentional. For one thing, I'm no expert on OMAS history, and the information about this period online is sparse. Secondly, OMAS' style and philosophy was remarkably retained during their existence, so for many, this pen--its styling, features, etc.,--is not as mysterious and foreign an object as it could be.
I almost forgot to disclose that my pen is modified, only half-regretfully. I bought it as NOS, but, when the pen dropped from a table and cracked at the ink window seam, that part was revealed to be a later replacement (the visible machining lines on it were always suspicious to me considering I have yet to find another OMAS from this period with them). Luckily, a penmaker lives in my town, so I had a new, high-quality ink window manufactured out of clear acryllic (less stain-prone than the original celluloid), along with new, black acryllic threads (the threads were originally one piece with the ink window). It's a subtle difference, but I think the lesson in aftermarket improvement is worth noting.