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.