Never did I imagine myself more than a decade later, standing in front of Raymond Carver's grave on his birthday, reading this poem to his loved ones at their annual pie and poetry gathering in his honor.

“What we want to emphasize with this action is the presence of a real community that can try to respond, with a voice at the same time unique and plural, in a united way to the problems that society presents us, demonstrating our existence and our point of view in a clear and understandable way. We want to make our voice heard clearly on the collective theme of freedom of expression and the rejection of war.”

All the while the feeling of it soothed me. The quiet potatoes and the wind rubbing the trees leant a calm recognition of the present ruin we’re in. I needed those words.

“immerse yourself in a single poem ... anchor your week … to the everyday poetry of your life …” I felt a thrill roll through me, a mirror held up at once.

“I don't know if this is relevant but the four sacred colors in Navajo are blue, yellow, jet, and white.”

What I’m most grateful for about the losses I’ve experienced in my life is their effect of making me suddenly, unexpectedly, excruciatingly present. The summer my older brother died I was painting a friend’s 2-story 4-bedroom house a soft pale yellow.

When I first read June Jordan’s “Poem about My Rights,” it was the first day of spring break. I was sitting at a coffee shop next to Expedition Press with my friend. We saw Myrna and she invited us over. On her wall in the shop there was a copy of the poem tacked up. I still can’t fully describe how powerful it felt, so full of emotion and honestly, I’d never read anything more mesmerizing. 

Recently I was interviewed by a 13 yr old who asked me what the hardest part of my job is. “Time!” I said immediately. “Good lord, time management. Knowing what to prioritize when.” A week prior a journalist asked me about my relationship to time as if I knew some secret about detaching from the fast-paced pressures of the digital

A year ago, at a windy roadside stop in South Dakota with a couple flickering bars of reception, I checked my email. There was a message from the manager of a gallery in downtown Seattle. She was wondering whether I wanted to join next year?

I first read the poem “Sweet Darkness” by David Whyte on a Friday, at the end of one of the worst weeks of my life. Husband demanding separation, step daughter screaming, mother gone missing.

 

It’s a simple practice. Write three pages, first thing every morning, longhand. Can't imagine not writing them.

I watched the election results come in with increasing sickness. I went to bed early and woke up numb. The rollercoaster ride since recalls the early days after my brother died: anger, shock, despair, and overall a grand penetrating sense of pure disbelief.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my voice as an artist and my role as a publisher: how they inform and whether they inhibit each other. I feel a strong insistence that I should divide these actions and define them. Then I forget.

People often gawk when I give a typesetting demo, sliding each metal letter one by one into the composing stick, tilted at an angle to keep them in line, upside down and backwards.

I’m just back from two weeks in Italy, the first in Milan, the second at Tipoteca Italiana and then Venice. I am sitting here back in New York feeling a little sad, missing all the lovely new friends I made and knowing I won’t see them for quite some time. Oh time. But what a time!

I spent the last two and half weeks printing up a storm in the Wells Book Arts Center, at Wells College in Aurora NY. I camped out in the new press room with five Vandercooks, reams of Mohawk Superfine, a 3lb can of black ink, and tunes, snacks, and a water bottle.

Halfway through my cross country drive, I had the great honor to spend two evenings and a full day with the very talented tough-as-nails Jen Farrell of Starshaped Press.

I arrived at the Platen Press Museum in Zion, Illinois, at 12:30pm on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Paul Aken’s collection is truly a wonder to behold.

It’s here! We welcomed a 14×22 Colt’s Armory Press into the shop a few weeks ago. Feel lucky, blessed, lots of degreasing and rust removal ahead.

Big ol’ heart throbbing welcome to this 14×22 beautiful new beast, previously owned by Harold Berliner, now employed in the service of literary letterpress.

When it comes to publishing, I have only one criteria: I must love the poems. I’ve always known that so long as I love something, I can make something beautiful from it.

I first imagined this piece nearly four years ago. It was an ambitious project at the time, and I got about three-quarters of the way through before I abandoned ship. It just wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be.

At summer’s close, here’s a jaunt back to June and the week I spent in western Germany. This leg of the trip was largely unplanned until I arrived in Amsterdam.

‘Space Available’ is now filling the Blackbird Bakery on Bainbridge Island.

“A Story That Could Be True” by William Stafford. Commissioned for a wedding keepsake, this print was a surprise gift.

In my recent travels I had the great fortune to tour three letterpress shops and three museums of printing and typography. First up: highlights from Spain and the Netherlands.

I will be abroad for the next three weeks, tromping around Europe in search of old friends, cold brews, and all things letterpress. From Gaudi to Gutenberg.

The steel book saga continues! We’ve arrived at the cover treatment, which consisted of etching the cover art into the steel and then applying a rusted patina.

Collection of poems by Sally Green, published by Expedition Press in 2014. “The title refers, beautifully, to a pool of moonlight: we step into it from the shadows and are “rinsed wholly through to the bone.” 

Inspired by Eileen Wallace’s work, I knew a book with steel covers was possible. 18 months and many prototypes and doubt-filled days later, I made it work.

Riveting may seem an odd topic to file under bookbinding, but nevertheless it came up in a recent commission. I used copper rivets to attach the metal book covers.

We’re packing up the Stern & Faye Print Farm, wondering after each object and its potential destination. I don’t even have a shop of my own yet – that’s to come a year and a half later –

Our main press at Expedition is an 8×12 Golding Jobber No. 6, built in 1901 and still running strong. Running beautifully. She’s petite when it comes to job presses, weighing in at a mere 700 lbs.

I love the challenge of color – and believe me, it’s almost always a challenge. In fact, many printers will attest that only three colors exist: black, red, and the white of the paper. What letterpress printer doesn’t love constraints?