Two benches, a press that once belonged to a printer
on Broadway, and a cat who sleeps on the offcuts.
How a book leaves the lane
We fold sheets into signatures, pierce them against a wooden jig, and sew with linen that has been waxed until it squeaks. Boards are teak leftovers from a boat yard in Willingdon. Covers are khadi, goatskin, or plain cloth the color of wet laterite. Nothing is rushed: paste needs a night, and a wet spine will tell you if you hurry.
The sewing bench
Coptic, kettle, and a simple French link. Most journals are sewn open so they lie flat on a café table or a ferry rail. If you want a hidden stitch, we can do that too — it just takes another afternoon.
Harbor drying
Sheets hang on a line in the courtyard. Salt air is not a problem if you size the rag well. We wait for a dry morning, then stack the quires under a board and a few bricks from the old synagogue wall — borrowed, returned.
Small editions
A run of twelve is a good week. A run of forty means the kettle goes on twice and we eat rice at the bench. We will not make five hundred of anything. If you need that, there are factories up the highway.
Come by, or write
The door is a blue one at the end of the lane, after the spice shop and before the warehouse with the peeling map. Mornings only. If the courtyard is empty, knock once and wait — we may be punching holes. A short email is just as good.