I’m overly romantic about type.
I remember the moment of epiphany at fourteen when I thought to myself: what if every word I’d ever spoken, written, typed on my battered electric typewriter were papered over the walls. What would the overriding message be? What could anyone glean about my grand narratives?
Now, when I’m typesetting, the same thoughts mingle, but without my teenage self – obsession, I find myself wondering what other people have written with the second, third, fourth-hand type that I hold. There are so many possibilities, so many combinations, and its impossible to really ever know. I could own type that wrote a masterpiece, that composed a love poem, that advertised an iconic exhibition. Exciting.