One print. One piece of writing. Once a month.
Each envelope holds a fine art black and white photograph,
4 x 6 inches, hand signed — ,
something tangible not downloaded. Alongside it, a poem, a fragment, a small
collection of words worth keeping.
Ten dollars a month. Postage included. It arrives in your mailbox
and waits there patiently, asking nothing of you until you're ready.
We live at a speed that leaves little room for noticing. This is
a monthly pause. A reason to set the phone down, hold paper in
your hands, and let one image and one line do their slow work.
It is also a way of staying in touch — artist and collector, friend
and friend, strangers who happen to love the same quiet things.
Every envelope carries a moment of gratitude inside it.
The hope is that one gets left behind with you
One print. One piece of writing. Once a month.
Each envelope holds a fine art black and white photograph,
4 x 6 inches, hand signed — ,
something tangible not downloaded. Alongside it, a poem, a fragment, a small
collection of words worth keeping.
Ten dollars a month. Postage included. It arrives in your mailbox
and waits there patiently, asking nothing of you until you're ready.
We live at a speed that leaves little room for noticing. This is
a monthly pause. A reason to set the phone down, hold paper in
your hands, and let one image and one line do their slow work.
It is also a way of staying in touch — artist and collector, friend
and friend, strangers who happen to love the same quiet things.
Every envelope carries a moment of gratitude inside it.
The hope is that one gets left behind with you
