/solace/mechanical-keyboards-lithographnote · 6 min · 2026.08.19
plate №001W ‡ collection yore's summer
edition of 500
A piece of paper ordained with ink, a scream into the void ; or perhaps a whisper, if you're polite.
; from the letter, 22/08/2026
§ solace ‡ note ‡ lithograph
Mechanical keyboards, do notbuy.‡
A poster about niche obsession, made into the kind of object the obsession produces. Numbered, wax-sealed, shipped with a typewritten letter that is not a copy.
19 August 2026‡6 min read‡lithograph · poster · yore's summer
The lithograph is not a piece of wall art. It's a record of an argument the maker was having with himself about why he kept buying keyboards.
At first glance the design pulls you in with the loud parts ; the striking type, the surreal dissected diagrams, the small wet-sounding verbs. Linger a moment and the piece starts to work on you. The warnings ; CRIME · BACKPAIN · BROKENESS · PROSTITUTION ; are tongue-in-cheek until they aren't. The central DO NOT BUY is the joke a collector tells on himself at 2am, with a basket open in another tab.
The broader argument is older than the object. Certain niche communities have a way of turning utility into identity, and identity into a ledger of small, escalating sins. A keyboard stops being a thing to type on and becomes a thing you are. The piece leans into that and then laughs at it. Warning! Adults only.
The typography‡
The type does most of the tonal work. Stacked DO NOT BUY in a condensed slab, the double-underline yellow rule doing the job of an orator's finger. The CRIME/BACKPAIN block set in vertical chevrons against a black ground, like a traffic sign you can't negotiate with.
plate №02 ‡ the injunctionplate №03 ‡ the disclaimer
Craftsmanship‡
Printed lithographic on a rustic, warm-white 250gsm stock. A1 ; 59.4 × 84.1 cm. The tactile experience matters: paper that gives back a little when you press on it, ink that sits on the surface rather than soaking in, a stock that ages rather than yellows.
Each one is numbered by hand and sealed with a bespoke wax stamp in the corner. The seal is not a flourish. It is the one thing on the object the maker can't automate ; every seal a slightly different stamp of pressure and a slightly different rim of dried wax. That is the point.
plate №04 ‡ framed, 59.4 × 84.1 cm, lamp-lita1 · 35mm · f/2.0plate №05 ‡ the footnote and the sealcolophon · y.s. 2026
§ the letter ‡ typewritten, sealed
Yours unfaithfully, in the struggle‡
Dear Sarah & Erglë,
The clock is striking 2 o'clock when the moon is being swallowed by the city light, an unfortunate casualty of progress, or so they say. It's in these quiet hours that the mind begins to unravel the absurdity of it all, clearer than ever. What is a poster, really? A piece of paper ordained with ink, a scream into the void ; or perhaps a whisper, if you're polite. You've chosen to indulge in this folly, to hang a fragment of someone else's madness on your walls, and for that, I commend you.
Life, as it happens, is much like this poster. A series of contradictions, wrapped in artifice, yet somehow genuine in its deception. You see the warnings, the sins, the degradation ; but you're still here, aren't you? Because deep down you know the truth: nothing matters, but we persist. We chase meaning where there is none, collect moments like we are hoarding treasures, all while the void laughs in our faces.
But let that not dampen your spirits. Instead, let this poster be a reminder ; a monument to the beautiful futility of it all. Hang it proudly, and when you gaze upon it, smile at the absurdity. After all, isn't that what makes life bearable?
Yours unfaithfully, in the struggle,
S. Wxël‡
22 / 08 / 2026 ‡ stamped, sealed
Every letter is individually typed. Not printed on typewriter-font stock ; typed, on a 1959 Olivetti, on a single sheet of torn 120gsm handmade rag paper, and then sealed with the same wax as the poster. The salutation on each letter is the buyer's name. If you order a pair, the letter knows. If you gift the second, the letter knows that, too.
This is the part of the project I cannot scale. Every letter takes somewhere between forty minutes and two hours, depending on whether the day wants to be written on. Some of them are closer to short stories than letters. The paper takes ink unevenly ; which is why each one is torn at the bottom rather than cut: so the tearline does the signing.
The tube‡
The packaging continues the work. The postal tube is not a neutral vessel ; it wears the joke the poster is telling: POV: YOU JUST BOUGHT AN EXPENSIVE LITHOGRAPH IN ORDER TO FILL THE VOID. It's printed on the tube lengthwise, so you read it as you unbox, not before.
The compliance label at the base carries the edition number, the signature, and a small technical description of what's inside. The tube is designed to be thrown away ; but, if the reviews are anything to go by, people keep them.
What the piece is, finally, is a small closed system. The poster commits the crime, the letter confesses it, the tube hangs the evidence on the wall of your flat. Each part needs the others to make sense. Sold apart they'd be an object, a printed card, a shipping container. Together they are an argument about why we keep buying things.
If you want one ; ask plainly, below. There is no shop, no checkout. The edition exists. Most of it is still in the flat.
Some obsessions are worth the consequences.
; footnote, bottom right corner
§ enquire ‡ plate № to be assigned
Ask plainly.‡
No cart, no checkout. Send a short note below; I reply by hand with a PayPal invoice, the plate number I'll set aside, and a shipping estimate. Usually within two days. If the edition is closed, I'll say so.
