It’s more than you might think
Smythson, a luxury stationery and leather-goods store, has been on Bond Street in London since 1887. But it has been at 667 Madison Ave. for just a couple of weeks, having moved from West 57th Street.
Its clients over the years have included royals ranging from Queen Victoria to Princess Di, Indian maharajah HH Prince Dhairyashilrao Gaekwar of Baroda, Katharine Hepburn, Sigmund Freud, and now possibly me.
The store asked whether I’d be interested in having a personal crest created. Which may sound flattering, until you realize they’re assuming I don’t already have a personal crest.
In my case, that happened to be a valid assumption. There are probably many reasons my family never acquired one over the years, among them our heritage. I was under the impression that coats of arms were restricted to those who could trace their lineage back to the Knights of the Round Table, or whatever. And I wasn’t aware of any Jewish ancestors that engaged in jousting.
ENLARGEBut Barry Morentz, a calligrapher who had been invited to assist me, suggested I not jump to conclusions. “The Rothschilds had quite a wonderful crest,” he observed. “I was at their pleasure palace, Waddesdon Manor.”
What Mr. Morentz didn’t say was that the Rothschild coat of arms was granted by Emperor Francis II of Austria. Would mine be legitimate if it came from a stationery store?
“Or you can incorporate a graphic into a monogram that speaks to a personal interest,” he said. For example, if I were an architect I might include drafting tools. But I’m not an architect.
“You might incorporate a golf club into the design,” he added, “depending what the letters are.”
I don’t play golf. Besides, my initials—the letters R and G—might look weird with a putter jutting from one of them. Then again, maybe I was just suffering from lack of imagination.
Mr. Morentz, who told me he has been celebrated for his penmanship since he attended P.S. 226 in Brooklyn, mulled over symbols that might encapsulate my wide-ranging interests.
I enjoy the occasional cocktail, which I suppose could be denoted by a bottle, jigger, flask or swizzle stick. “The ‘G’ can be turned into a wine glass quite easily,” Mr. Morentz said. But if I’m passing down my insignia to future generations, I’m not sure they’d want to be associated with a lush.
ENLARGEI am a writer, however. “I can incorporate a quill, an ink bottle, a book,” Mr. Morentz offered.
Sounded sort of hokey.
Perhaps a pair of binoculars, since I’m an avid bird watcher. The calligrapher suggested a bird sitting on the “G,” in particular on the “beard,” as he explained that little ledge in the uppercase is called. “The line can be extended,” he said. “That can function as a perch. Or the bird can sit atop the ‘R.’ ”
To be honest, I was starting to feel unworthy.
We finally settled on a simple maple tree, in dark green with hand-bordering on “ermine white laid” notecards. And the envelopes would have matching green tissue lining.
“It’s really labor-intensive,” explained Anthony Flynn, Smythson’s assistant manager and bespoke stationery consultant. “Large tables of ladies who sit around England and chat” while they’re lining envelopes. “You can almost imagine the same process being done 100 years ago.”
I was growing excited at the prospect of friends and acquaintances opening a thank-you note from me, and being greeted by a tasteful sugar maple in full leaf. So what if I haven’t written a thank-you note, at least by any means other than electronically, in years. I still have a box of unused stationery dating from the 1980s.
But I might start if I had suitably august paper and envelopes.
Sadly, my budding excitement waned as soon as I discovered the price: starting at around $1,000 for 100 cards.
If I misspell a word, as I frequently do, and have to start over I’m already down 10 bucks. Smythson graciously offered to make me a prototype, no strings attached.
Maybe what I’ll do is take it home and make a thousand copies on my printer. I realize it won’t have the same impact as if the artwork were stamped onto specially milled, watermarked paper.
Then again, I won’t lose sleep every time I have to throw a piece of stationery into the trash.