Red herrings en route to the Mercuridome.
I am on a mission!
Back in the days of yore, before we discovered the full extent of the Termite Inheritance, I fell in love with these doors and wanted them for the dressing room.
It was in that faraway time when when we were bathed by a sort of pre-lapsarian innocence, believing that the budget would provide for everything. It was before we realised just how bad the house was and how much of our money would go on re-building walls and floors and joists. You know, those things they tell you are necessary. Though me, I’m not so sure. Floors, I say? Surely all we need are wings, willpower and the merest dab of mousselline.
Since that heady time, my various houseyhousey passions have wandered their usual fickle paths, but to the mirror doors they have remained true. So unusual is this, I must tell you, that I have been considering a proposal of marriage, or at the very least a long term arrangement. But even back then when the world was golden, an investigation into the cost of antiqued mirror revealed a price that would have sagged the sails of even the most intrepid retail voyageur. It was quite bezonkers. However, being of a ‘can do’ mentality (at least sometimes), I began, undeterred, to collect the hows and the whyfores to do it myself.
And it has taken me –ooo— the best part of a year to gather together all the gubbins needed for the alchemical transformation of new mirror into ‘old’. I tell you, it’s tough out there in the non-digital world! Mental, physical and temporal co-ordination don’t come easily. Nothing like the instant gratification to be had at the end of a cursor!
But anyway, eventually I got my arse into (low) gear when we were at the farm and I was ill but not prostrate, and in need of a project. So what follows is not a tutorial exactly, but a scruffy and ramshackle account of how to (and how not to) Do It.
Firstly, gather thy apparatus. To wit, one pair of red and white polka dotted rubber gloves (colour and dots optional), one spray bottle, one bottle of hydrochloric acid, one tin of paint remover, sundry mirror tiles, and the requisite dollops of time and mental space. Oh, and a mask suitable for inhibiting fumes. I hang my head hung in shame and admit that I omitted this item. Or rather, that I tried using a face mask suitable for dust because it was to hand, found it (quelle surprise!) of no use and thereafter held my breath while doing fumey things. This is why this is not a tutorial.
Secondly, don thy rubber gloves, take thy mirror tile, and consider its reverse side which will probably be coated with a grey plastic layer. Smear said plastic liberally with paint stripper. And I do mean liberally. At this juncture it’s advisable to go away and have a cup of tea, read a book, chase some cows or get on with another project. Because along the same lines as watched kettles, mirror tiles are shy when undressing. As for how long to drink your tea or read your book – this is a delicate equation that I didn’t manage entirely to crack. Overnight was too long for my tiles – they came with a copper layer under the plastic layer which I found it best not to dislodge, bearing in mind I wanted a more subtle end result. On the other hand, a quick cuppa and cursory flick through a mag was too short. Let’s say – oh – two hours then.
Thirdly, take thy rubber scraper and dislodge the by-now softened plastic layer. Go about this Gently Bentleyish. Channel the spirit of a gentle breeze just caressing the tops of waves. Do not even think of Bob the Builder. It is less important to remove all of the plastic than it is to not scratch the copper or reflective surface underneath. Because, forsooth, those scratches will be visible on the final product.
Fourthly, wash thy mirror gently, and dry. Treat it as you would a baby’s bottom, but without the talc. Then take thy spray bottle and make a 50/50 mixture of hydrochloric acid and water. These measurements are entirely haphazard, by the way; plucked from the ether. Take a roller tray, or similar somesuch, fill it with water and have it close by.
Fifthly, identify thy aesthetic and consult it whenever in danger of gung-ho-ness with the spray bottle. If you want a full-on look, give your tile a full-on spray. If, like me, you prefer a gentle foxing, go at it as would a good butler, with restrained hand and circumspect manner. Observe intently for any slight changes in the mirror backing – this may take less than a minute – and immediately submerge in your tray of goodly water. Those minute changes will grow and enlarge and may, if you are not quick enough, become a mutant mess that gobbles away all your backing until all you have left is plain glass. It is easier to re-spray than it is to start again. Naturally, this stage whizzed by so fast there was no time for photos.
Sixthly, decide on thy backing colour. This will be cover thy bare glass patches. Some people slather the backs of their mirrors in black paint. Some favour a melange of brassy, silver and other tones. Me, I tried silver and found it too pale. In the absence of a handy spray can of darker silver in the shed I tried grey. And what I will say unto you is Nah. Not quite.
And this is the end result.
Not as I would have wished, but passable. A little uncouth for my liking. A little short of finesse. I did several experiments, rearranging the parameters each time and what I concluded was that the process is easy to do but hard to control. The hardest thing of all was taking photos of mirror without making a cameo appearance in it myself. Even so, I can imagine making something like this:
But wait! It doesn’t end there.
Because it seemed to me that no matter how proficient I became, the end result was never going to have a certain quality of softness that I was lusting after in the original picture. So. Cue more internet trawling, and what I discover I actually need is mercury glass. The wherewithal for effecting such being readily available.
So, as they are so fond of saying, watch this space…