By the secret and the intimate, I am not trying to hint at seductive innerwear. I am trying, instead, to think about things as banal as, say, the linings of pockets, collars, jackets and bags. This is where skin meets stuff in order to create for us the experience, rather than the appearance, of what we choose to wear. And this is not, or not just, about comfort and convenience, but about a quality that has nothing to do with how we want to be looked at by others. It is what makes us who we are, purely to ourselves, when we put something on, be it a shirt, a shawl or a perfume. For those who wear clothes as well as for those who make them, the invisible is what lies closest to the person, and hence to personhood.

Edited by Tom Melick. Photocopies by Simryn Gill. Typography by Ruud Ruttens.

Elisa Palacio and Juan Laxagueborde choose to discuss cafés in the present, the pandemic. I briefly introduce you to their past and, secretly, mine. The translator is the shadow of the text. I find myself thinking about the Dirty War since returning to Buenos Aires, perhaps due to the social unrest in the United States. Some things are best said and lost in the murmur of a crowd in a café, voices merge and become unintelligible, except to the intended listener. A man and a woman sit at the bar. He says, “Feel my hand”—this is not a joke. It is outstretched and trembling. Upon her touch it grows still. Some things are simple and beautiful. I realise now that I am introducing a conversation by speaking to myself, but we always have someone in mind. A figure on a balcony, face illuminated by the light of a cellphone, with nowhere to go but back in, home.

Translated by Elisa Taber. Typography by Ruud Ruttens.

The sea-hibiscus flowers start off pale yellow with deep red centres, and mature into rich striated sepia, at which point they fall, still beautiful. A few weeks before, a photo of fallen blooms had appeared on my phone, sent by a friend who lives around there. I recognised them at once. What are these flowers doing on your side of town? I wanted to know. They belong over here, near the champak trees. And there are others, too: I think of the guava trees that unashamedly drop their steamy musky crop around them when in season; and someone has planted, with wavering success, a moringa (I know it as drumstick tree); and I have even seen a Java apple — Malacca jambu to some — attempting to fruit. I know these flowers, I tell my friend. They’re where I’m from.

Text and images by Simryn Gill. Typesetting by Ruud Ruttens. Edition of 50.

Before it had a name… a distant permanent storm… a 4.5 billion year old nuclear war… a creation of condensed interstellar dust… a collapse… the destruction of four million tons of matter every second… sending itself… wriggling through space… to your face… the morning light…

Images by William Eric Brown. Text by Tom Melick. Typesetting by Robert Milne. Edition of 50.

Here and there are industrial white buckets, some with the ends of the entrail-tubes from the processors falling into them; others full of chemicals and with their lids still on; others yet empty. There are racks of PVC and metal rollers for the machines, and standing in the space between them, a jerry-rigged mini-crane to help her lift the lids off the monster-machines when she needs to dip inside to dislodge stuck paper or adjust or change something. A deep metal sink runs the narrower length of the room, large rubbery black gloves hanging off the edge. Plastic trays of various dimensions, once white and now in various hues of brown and yellow, lean against the back. In one corner there is a silver recovery unit for the metal that washes out of black-and-white printing, and which brings in a little bit of cash now and again. (There’s a second, similar machine stored away, Sandy tells me, given to her by the technician who comes to take out the silver; there’s not much call for them anymore).

Images & Essay by Simryn Gill. Typography by Ruud Ruttens. Edition of 60.

The Matrix by Norman H. Pritchard (1939–1996) gathers a selection of the Concrete and Black Arts poet’s work from 1960 to 1970. The seventy-one poems collected here might be regarded, as Charles Bernstein has written, as “sound” poems, being tethered not only to the literature of the Black Arts Movement but also to jazz culture and urban life in New York. Drawing as much from the visual arts and concrete poetry as from sound-based experimentation and music, Pritchard utilized the simple tools of spacing and typography to create syncopations, vibrations, and musical rhythms. What emerges is nothing less than a self-contained system of mimetic codes that challenge modernist modes of perception and representation. Formally innovative and anticipating what Michael Riffaterre would come to call the semiotics of “ungrammaticalities,” the book is a syntactical and visual experience in repetition, stutters, and structure.