typographica

Typewriters have always been in my life, until recently. I am without one at the moment. My parents owned several, that they used daily, even after I left home. While in college I would receive typewritten letters from my Abuelita in Mexico. As I read them I would picture her at her typewriter. She always had the dual red and black ribbon and typed in red quite a bit. I only remember her having one machine, it sat on a shelf. It was gone the last time I visited.

I never did officially learn how to type. Instead I took a drama or a sociology class, that didn't stop me from collecting typewriters. I picked up my first machine while away at school, garage sale find. They were always a staple at garage sales. Thrift stores would group several together, rusty or dirty, stretched ribbons, dusty, keys all stuck together, messes. My lil treasures. I'd buy Underwoods, Remingtons and Olivettis, and enjoyed cleaning them up. All were unique, possessing their own idiosyncrasies, never broken. Eventually I stopped seeing them around as often and was happy with my pieces. I never got around to actually playing with them as much as I would have liked. Just as I began too, I had to pack them away again. They sit in storage awaiting a forever home one day.

A new book has been published on a favorite artist named  Dom Sylvester Houédard, who was a Benedictine monk and concrete poet, Notes From The Cosmic Typewriter: The Life And Work Of Dom Sylvester Houedard. He worked with an Olivetti Lettera 22, and that is one reason I bought that typewriter when I came across it. It was also the typewriter my Abuelita once owned.  




Dom Sylvester Houédard, 69, 1964. (Collection: Ruth and Marvin Sackner Archive of Concrete and Visual Poetry)