In a culture fragmented by five-second loops, one artist is fighting to reclaim our attention spans, one novella at a time. He transformed his small apartment into a mini screenprinting studio for short-stories designed as an analog respite from the our collective screentime.
We sat down to discuss why he keeps this project non-commercial, how he translates his background in fine art to the page, and the importance of a story that can hold your attention.
Conducted on a high-wind rooftop patio in San Francisco. The fog rolls in as I sip a cocktail, Radio France FIP playing gently in the background.
It's a constant battle, I'll be watching a movie or show and catch myself reaching for my phone. I try and ask myself: why am I not engaged? What am I looking for in my phone? Usually, it's just a cheap serotonin boost because the story-telling isn't delivering.
My free time is a finite currency. I'd rather it be spent on something that's working for me, not something that only half-holds my attention and drives me to a second screen to noodle brain-dead content.
Absolutely, the size of things I can produce is limited, but added limitations helps shape the work. People often think you need a huge, industrial setup to create something legitimate. For some mediums, like glass, that's true.
My studio is basically an iKEA cabinet I bought from a nun in Santa Clara. That's it. It's small, but that limitation is good. If you have a massive space, good for you; if you have a folding table, you're all set.
Added limitations helps shape the work
Money makes things weird. As soon as you put a price on it, it stops being fun.
Pocket Sized Books are meant to be an escape, not another product.
Maybe one day I'll ask people to cover the postage, but for now, they're NFS (not for sale). That way it stays fun.
For me, my "art" was about the relationship between the viewer and the gallery space.
A book is a smaller, more intimate space.
I'm thinking about everything involved, the texture of the paper, the cover design, the way the book feels in your hands.
I sand the edges of the pages, so it feels better when you turn the pages. I consider it all spatial design. I'm moving the gallery experience to your pocket.
The short-story format keeps it temporary, you open the book, you read, you experience it, then you finish it. A brief respite before you return to your screens. And hopefully you're changed afterward, even if just for a little bit.
There is an inherent geometry to storytelling that screens ignore. Imposition is my attempt to map that narrative flow onto flat sheets, turning a series of sequences into a physical signature. It is a technical negotiation with space—figuring out how a flat piece of paper becomes a structured room for a reader to inhabit.
To create a moment where the reader can simply sit and experience... that is the goal.
While sick with COVID in early 2024, I had a very shocking dream where I would lose time—only it would happen as a smash cut done in cinematography, where in one camera cut, we are to know years have passed. In my dream, this was also represented by older aged actors portraying my niece and nephew.
In my dream, being the good actor that I am, I played along with the teenage actors and asked Henry how his birthday was, as I assumed it was still the month of February, although the year, in the dream, in my mind, I could only guess. As the quarantine drew on, each night my symptoms returning, I began to binge *Elementary* and in one lucid moment I recall hearing the name *Strawdog Jed* mentioned and quickly grabbed my phone to jot the name down. What came next is what became the story.
Exactly. Day-to-day life on the West didn't change much, especially on a ranch. The activities were the same each day, they only changed with the seasons. In spring you were branding young stuff—that was dirty, dusty work. Working 16 hours a day from sunup till you can’t see 10 feet beyond the fire. Then you eat and sleep and do it all over again.
At first, he didn’t notice what was happening and the other ranch hands just assumed he was prone to going on benders. They didn’t mind it, since he would show up for a day’s work freshly shaved and never looked none too worse for the wear of whatever bottle he was searching for the bottom in the night before. But then he started losing weeks instead of days. He becomes a wanderer, isolated by this curse of losing time. Decades slip away in the blink of an eye. He returns to towns where he recognizes everyone, but they are suddenly 20 years older, and he hasn't aged a day.
Every signature is compiled, pierced, and sewn by hand using waxed linen thread. The spine remains entirely structural—unhidden by gauze or adhesive, exposing the mechanical sequence of the story.
Operating from a folding apartment workspace, the designer creates handmade books part-time for the pure joy of crafting and sharing stories with friends and family.
By utilizing classic signature layouts and a pocket-sized format, each piece functions as an invitation to explore screen-free activities. Designed to be picked up on daily commutes or in moments of boredom, these print artifacts give readers a physical anchor to hold their attention far longer than a five-second digital shortcut.