Tracy Schlapp




LISTENING WITH MY HANDS. Language appears to me in type like images to a painter. I hear voices in janky, letterpress type—impressions sing. I like to build my broadsides in public spaces as I loosely work distilling content. I find connective tissue between ideas to map larger cultural conversations. In an era of online perfection and rapid-fire judgment, we feel our digital failures acutely. We need analog connection—the forgiveness found in the handmade. Strength and frailty of paper. Think of a note that is folded and unfolded, carried around compared to a text. My work is meant to be tucked into a pocket, or passed along to a friend. In 2019, I was fingerprinted at Oregon State Pen for my volunteer badge. The lieutenant took my hand and asked if I worked with paper, as my fingerprint ridges were worn away. Just that morning, I handed out 600 postcards to students that carried my impression. A communion via ephemeral multiples. I am assured: the universe is indeed analog.

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