Opened 2014

The winter the leather lied

Marta’s own midsize turned into a sausage casing during a January thaw, then a broomstick after a dry freeze. She was tired of shops that blamed her tempo.

The first desk was a folding table behind a print shop that no longer exists. The caliper was her father’s. The pine board was a scrap from the locksmith. People from the capitol walked in because the sign said WIDTH and they thought it was a copy shop. A few of them still come back with irons.

What stuck was the 64ths. Golfers in 17101 are used to being sold a letter. A letter is easy to print. A crease is harder. Once you have seen your own palm written as a fraction, the catalog starts to look like a weather report for a city you do not live in.

Suite 5 is still small. The solvent still announces itself on the stair. We like it that way. If the room were a showroom, we would start believing our own bins.