Issue 6 · April 2026
You.
I have been writing this newsletter for six months. I have written about a blanket, a ceramicist, a crewneck, an empty studio, and a list of things worth keeping. I have not written about you.
I don't know who you are. I know that there are, as of this morning, 127 of you. I know that you subscribed to a newsletter from a shop that does not sell things, which tells me something about you, though I'm not sure what. It tells me that you are a person who opted into something with no obvious value proposition, which is either very trusting or very curious, and I suspect it is both.
I think about you when I write these. Not collectively; I can't picture 127 people. I think about one person, sitting somewhere, reading this on a phone or a laptop, probably in the morning, probably with something to drink. I don't know your name. I don't know where you live. I don't know what you make or what you keep or what you've given away. I know that you are here, which is enough.
The shop has been closed for a while now. I no longer think of it as a shop that is closed; I think of it as a thing that happened. A period of making and documenting and then stopping. The products are still here, around me. They are good. They are doing what they were made for. The crewneck is on a chair. The blanket is on my bed. The bowl is in the dish rack, drying.
I started this newsletter because I wanted to keep writing. I told myself it was an archive, a record of the process. Maybe it is. But I think the more honest answer is that I didn't want to stop talking to whoever was listening. The shop closed and the things stopped selling and the reason to speak out loud seemed to close with it. The newsletter reopened that. You reopened that.
So: thank you. For reading. For subscribing to a newsletter from a closed shop. For being one of 127 people who, for reasons I don't fully understand, opted into something with no obvious utility and kept showing up.
The newsletter will continue. I don't know what I'll write about next month. Something I'm making, probably. Something I'm thinking about. Something I noticed in a drawer or on a shelf or in the quality of the light at a particular time of year.
You'll be here. I'll write something. That's the arrangement. I think it's a good one.