A risograph studio · est. in a garage

Print is not dead.
It's rested.

Screens forget. Paper doesn't. We run a two-drum risograph in a garage that smells of soy ink, and we believe the misregistered edge of an orange block against a blue one carries more feeling than any gradient a computer ever rendered.

We print zines, posters, small books, and the occasional wedding invite for brave couples.

Soy ink · two drums · no previews

Imperfection is the point.

Riso drifts. Layers land a millimetre off. Every sheet in a run of two hundred is slightly its own. If you want identical, laser-print it — and feel nothing.

Two colours are enough.

Orange and blue, overlapped, make a third thing neither of them planned. Constraint is where the character comes from — in ink and in everything else.

Small runs, kept forever.

We'd rather print two hundred of something people pin to a wall than twenty thousand of something that lines a bin. Paper is a long game.

PrintPrintPrint is not dead.It's rested.

Imperfection is the point.

Two colours are enough.

Small runs, kept forever.

Print is not dead.
It's rested.