Analog Arts
A thriving, handmade subculture
Fresh out of graduate school in 2003, artist Kathryn Hunter happened upon a Chandler & Price 8x12 letterpress. “I found that press,” said Hunter, who received her MFA in printmaking from LSU, “and it was all the money I had in the world, but I bought it thinking I could start a business or something. I thought, ‘Here’s something I can stay in the creative world with and try to make some money from.’”
Hunter was realistic about beginning a career in the arts, particularly in print. She considered her company, called Blackbird Letterpress, a side project and kept overhead low by renting space in her husband’s metal shop. “[That’s] how I avoided utilities and too many expenses,” she explained. “I didn’t really have capital to start a business.”
Blackbird’s analog artistic focus has been enhanced, unexpectedly, by modern technology. Now located on Main Street just outside of downtown Baton Rouge, Blackbird Letterpress encompasses five presses, along with a handful of studio assistants, and offers a menagerie of handprinted products ranging from coasters and cards to notebooks and calendars, suitable for businesses, weddings, and many other occasions. “Before the Internet, this business would have been very localized. Now we get inquiries from Australia, Germany, and we’re actually about to ship a wholesale order to Japan,” she said. The press accomplishes all of this without the use of third-party printers. “Blackbird prints everything in-house,” Hunter proudly concluded. The press’s aesthetic varies in style, ranging from the distinctly mechanical to the beautifully fluid, for their many wedding invitation orders. Inspirational sayings by great female figures are another popular feature, with notebook covers and other practical products championing feminist causes. Beyond commercial endeavors, the internet has facilitated a thriving subculture dedicated to handmade arts and crafts. In professional blogs, communal imageboards and DIY online shops such as the popular site Etsy, this industry has managed to make a cozy nest within the technology that was once expected to snuff out the printed image and replace it entirely with art viewed on a screen.
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One of Blackbird’s longtime studio assistants, Hope Amico, recently left the press on friendly terms in order to open Gutwrench Press—putting her own printmaking degree, a BFA from LSU, to work. In addition to producing business cards, ‘zines, postcards, and other press products, Amico founded the Keep Writing project, a dialogue between Amico and her subscribers, with handwritten, thought-provoking messages mailed back and forth on Gutwrench Press cards. These cards can be cut in half; on one side, the recipient can answer Amico’s question before sending it back as a postcard, and the other side is for them to keep. “A lot of them follow threads of, ‘What inspires you?’ and ‘How do you take care of those around you?’ Sometimes they’re somewhat broad, like, ‘Tell me about a time when you were lost and got found.’ I want to hear what other people have to say.”
The process can be slow, but Amico doesn’t mind. “I grew up without a computer,” she said, “[so] I stayed interested in writing letters, making ‘zines, and a lot of cut-and-paste media and photocopying. Printmaking is a step up from each of those interests. Even though my designs may be made on the computer, I still print them by hand. The other aspect of it is that you have something to hold on to. I lose texts, emails, and messages all the time from friends who have died, moved away, or I lose contact with. I don’t have those anymore, but I do have postcards and books and similar stuff I can hold in my hands.” That the Keep Writing project is still going strong testifies to the similar feelings of its subscriber base.
This demand for the tactile, as opposed to the virtual, extends beyond high-end pen-pal subscriptions into the concept of mail-order fine art. With Artisanal Postcards, available in six-month or twelve-month plans, Tulane assistant professor of art Jill Stoll has tasked herself with mailing out over two thousand handmade postcards: each numbered card contains a type-written, heartfelt note to the recipient on one side, with a unique collage whose pasted pieces have been cut by both scissor and laser on the other. “I wanted to distribute my work in a different way,” she said. “It started as the Random Acts of Mail Art project to get rid of all this extra stuff I had in my studio, but it didn’t really have the momentum I was hoping for, so I moved into the subscription model.”
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Stoll also relies on the chance and serendipity of the postal service, with its extensive system of stamps, markings, and symbols, to add further character to her postcards. “I love the history of mail art,” she said with a sigh, “but I think the window of mail art and snail mail is closing. I had some of my students participate in this exchange some time ago, and they were just dumbfounded by getting things in the mail. It really made me question what their relationship is with real life and the tactile. Everyone is so used to email now. The audience for this kind of thing is shrinking.”
I lose texts, emails, and messages all the time from friends who have died, moved away, or I lose contact with. I don’t have those anymore, but I do have postcards and books and similar stuff I can hold in my hands.
Stoll’s cynicism implies that these analog arts may be the unique product of those like Amico who grew up without digital media saturation. Still, Stoll’s digital archives, including Instagram and Tumblr, are her only records of the postcards she sends. The irony is impossible to ignore. “It’s funny,” Stoll continued, “because it’s become kind of a lonely-hearts club for people who really love collage and get it. I catalog everything to make sure I don’t repeat myself. I have a digital record of everything I’ve done, hence the Instagram. You’ve got to get your stuff out there, and you just can’t compete with social media.”
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