Perhaps digital scanning and additive prototyping will become more sophisticated, replacing my old fashioned hands-on work, but here's how I have recreated decorative cast iron objects:

This illustration represents a flat surface that is badly pitted and rusted.  You can imagine swirls of acanthus leaves, grape clusters, or even cherubic faces, quite complex surfaces being this damaged by time and atmosphere. There would formerly have been lines and smooth transitions defining the surface.

The great thing about cast iron is that it came from a moulded surface, so finding parting lines and taking moulds from the surface is relatively easy.

I have made the mould transparent to illustrate that the mould picks up all the detail from the surface. I wax the surface quite thoroughly and pour a quick-cast polyurethane over it to create a rigid, sandable surface.

I use Repo One from Freeman, a nice, predictable two-part urethane, one that keeps really well, without reacting to the atmosphere.  Many other resins start to go crusty and bad within days of opening the container.

Here's the plastic mould, shown open. Note how all those pits have become raised bumps. The original surface gradually became more and more pitted. The mould can now be sanded, removing that damage while following original lines and curves. I've worked a lot in the negative, as it's a great way to make detail come alive.

A typical surface, an historic iron gate or post might require many hours of sanding to level out the damage.

And here's the sanded mould in blue, with a copy taken in plastic. This copy is used to produce the new cast iron reproduction. 

In reality, there might be some hours of work on that plastic copy, fairing lines, cutting in lowered detail that was lost, and sharpening features. 

One of our Fathers of Confederation and Globe newpaper founder, George Brown, built his home in Toronto in 1874. It was common for ships travelling back to Canada after delivering loads of timber to return with holds weighted down with cast iron objects.  It does imply here, though, that Brown had a hand in designing the fence, so perhaps this was locally made, though I suspect that the castings were somewhat more sophisticated than those produced in most of the area foundries.

In the late 1980's I was commissioned to restore the fence, working from the well-rusted and pitted remains of the various bits of the fence. Some sections, perhaps inches across, were missing altogether.

It was my job to figure out how the fence was made in the first place, where the parts came together, and how they were cast. 

That heavy rope motif top rail was hollow to incorporate a long pipe that supported the various panels. It's pretty hard to weld cast iron, especially if you're a 19th century blacksmith. The original castings were quite thin, leading me to think that these were cast with some skill. The thin parts, of course, were the area most rusted and broken.

This is the curly decoration on top of the posts. This arrived in about 4 pieces. One piece from the original is shown here. I roughly assembled what I had, took moulds off these parts, and added carving to fill in the blanks. To make this work in the foundry, I had to produce "tooling", the grey board shown. This gets placed in a metal box, and sand is rammed around the pattern to form a mould into which molten iron can be poured.

Here's another view of the restored fence. Each panel consists of the main panel, top finials, the rope motif top rail, and a cap for the  bottom rail. There are pipes running along top and bottom, hidden inside the castings. The whole thing is bolted together.

This is the panel tooling in progress. I would have started by filling in some of the surface pits with clay, then taking moulds off both sides of the surviving iron panel. The mould would have projecting bumps where the iron surface was pitted. I would have spent hours sanding these bumps off, effectively rebuilding the surface. When I took copies out of the moulds, I would further refine the surface to get pretty close to where the casting started out 110 years ago.

Here is a piece of the main post, perhaps already somewhat cleaned up. Occasionally, on restoration projects, I can slather on a plastic filler and sand it smooth. Other times I have to return original pieces untouched. Or appear to be untouched.

Here is half of the post pattern. I've smoothed the surface and added 'prints' top and bottom. To make the post a hollow cylinder I have to generate a separate box that creates a sand form that fills the interior of the casting. Those 'prints' support the sand form, the Core, in the main mould.

There are often long discussions that accompany a project like this. We have to figure out how to hold the whole thing together, often trying to improve on the original structure. We have to make the patterns work in the foundry. On a job this big, there are some dozens of small pieces to be cast, so I might be asked to make a tool that makes multiples of the part to keep the cost down. 

It's fun to be part of this kind of effort, connecting, in a way, with the original builder and foundry guys, making something that might extend the life of this bit of history for another century or so.

I can blather on forever about stones, and will do soon. Early in my career I was always trying to include my love for natural textures in my work. 

And the Mother and Child motif was always a favourite, too. I still like it. Therapists? Got any theories?

I showed my work for some years, early on, in Art in the Park, Stratford, Ontario

A kindly Torontonian, quite a sophisticate, bought one of my first Mother and Child bronzes. I had admired the work of Mathias Mulume, and wanted to incorporate some of the textures that I found in nature, and in his work.

The kindly Torontonian came back a few weeks later and said that she'd like a large piece for her foyer. I guess I must have visited her home to see the space. She was European, decorating in that cool, white, sparse way, everything rather crisp and clean-lined.  She said the fateful words that artists might love to hear, something about liking what I did, to make this perhaps 7 feet (213 cm) long to be mounted in a long high-ceilinged room lit by a long skylight. It was a perfect white stucco wall. 

"You know what I like"

I felt like I'd been treated like a real artist, at last. I'd made it! Someone trusted me! 

I don't remember if I ever submitted as much as a thumbnail sketch. Maybe. This was long before the internet, so tossing ideas back and forth wasn't the effortless thing it is now.

I simply went ahead.

If I ever offered to show the maquette to this customer, the idea must have been dismissed. Or maybe I was just in some euphoric fog, a favourite place to hang out. But I just went ahead and played for hours, adding texture to my plaster master. I had this cast locally, and was quite pleased with myself when I presented this to the customer, standing in her immaculate entry, feeling like the artistic master at his patron's castle.

I think I had a template ready for drilling 4 large holes for substantial anchors into that wall. Perhaps we spent a short while finding just the right spot. I drilled the holes, inserted the anchors, and hung the sculpture. 

The nice lady looked serious for quite a while, then said:

" I don't like it"

Yikes. Being a well-brought-up fellow, I did not go ballistic. I simply offered to take it away. She was quite contrite, not wanting to do harm to a penniless artist. Still, she nodded, and asked me to take it down.

It took seconds. A couple of lifts to remove the bronzes, a few yanks to pull out the anchors. Then she said:

"what about those holes?"

I've always been pretty handy with tools. A few holes in drywall have never been a problem in my world. Everyone I know can slop in a little Polyfilla as required. I said that any local craftsman could fix this for her in a few minutes. She looked quite worried for some time. I let the silence hang until she said:

"Put it back."

I was astounded. I think I might have asked for clarification.  It was true. She wanted me to put it back. I did. I got paid. I went away, no longer some high-flying artist, but a man who installed really expensive drywall compound.

Over the years, my proposals have gotten more and more explicit. When fax machines came out, I could submit drawings and quotes in real time. I grabbed on to the internet fairly early on, appreciating the ability to submit photos of work in progress.

I don't swagger as much, nor do I fall down in horror or amazement. Life is more boring, and this is good.