No brief.
No client.
No safety net.

Rock poster culture had a devoted following in Seattle, but no physical home. Collectors were hunting eBay. People who loved the work couldn't always afford it, and most had no idea how it was made. The prints they were chasing were screenprinted by hand on a flatbed press, often in editions of 50 to 200, using hand-mixed inks and careful registration on each pull.

There was a craft story nobody was telling. So I rented a space at 112 N 36th Street, built the interior walls myself, moved in a screenprint press and a 1955 Chandler and Price letterpress, and opened. I had no investors, no partners, no client to answer to, and no roadmap. I also had a very clear idea of what the place should feel like.

I wrote all the copy, set all the type, printed all the fliers, and then walked the neighborhood attaching them to every surface that would hold a staple. The voice was deliberately not corporate. It was opinionated, specific, and a little rude in the most welcoming way possible.

Screw Portland. Torch Your Home. Punch Your Brain in the Face. Every opening had a flier, every flier had a joke, and the jokes were all basically the same joke: we know exactly what we are, and so do you. The fliers weren't marketing for the store. They were the store.

The retail floor ran on consignment from regional artists alongside work printed in-house. Band posters for Mudhoney, the Black Keys, Spoon. Art prints that had nothing to do with music. The wall changed constantly as artists came in for shows, left work behind, and sold out of editions people didn't know existed until they walked through the door.

Every piece had a price tag. Most things were between $20 and $40. The idea was that somebody who'd never collected a poster before could walk in, find something they genuinely loved, and leave with it under their arm for the cost of a dinner out.

The screenprint press ran in the back during openings. People could watch a shirt come off the press and buy it still warm. The screen exposure process, the registration, the pull, the rack... all of it visible to anyone who wanted to watch. Demystifying the process was part of the point. Once people understood how the work was made, the price tags started to make a different kind of sense.

The format was simple and it worked. Book a poster artist for a solo show. Pair them with a band that fits the vibe. The band sets up in the corner. The artist is there to talk about the work. We screen a free tote bag on the spot so there's something to watch. People show up because the openings are worth showing up for, not because of a discount or a subject line.

I hosted classes from the Seattle Video and Art Center, offered small group instruction, ran letterpress demos so people could pull their own print and take it home. The goal was always the same: make the store a place worth coming back to, not just a place to buy something once.