I was sitting in a cramped, windowless cafe in downtown Chicago last Tuesday, fiddling with my old Sony Walkman—the kind with the tactile click that just feels right—when it hit me how much the surrou...
I was sitting at my desk yesterday, surrounded by a graveyard of half-functional vintage pagers and a particularly stubborn early-2000s MP3 player, when I realized how much our obsession with “s...
I was digging through a box of old electronics last weekend—specifically a clunky, translucent blue pager from the late nineties—when I realized how much we’ve misread the future. We often talk about ...
I was sitting in my studio last Tuesday, meticulously cleaning the internal circuitry of a 1998 Sony Walkman, when the scent of damp salt air drifted through my window—a sensory glitch that felt far t...
I was rummaging through a box of old Sony Walkmans this morning, marveling at how a simple, tactile click used to signal the start of a ritual, when I realized how much we’ve lost in the transition to...
I was sitting on my floor this morning, trying to coax a stubborn, lime-green translucent pager from the 1990s back to life, when I realized how much the texture of our downtime has changed. There was...
I was digging through a box of my old Sony Walkmans last weekend when I realized how much we’ve lost in our quest for the “perfect” aesthetic. We’ve been sold this lie that creating an inv...
I was digging through a box of old Sony Walkmans last Tuesday when I found a water-damaged Discman that smelled faintly of salt and stagnant tide pools. It was a jarring sensory glitch, a tiny relic o...
I was rummaging through a box of old electronics last weekend—specifically a dusty, translucent blue iMac G3 that felt like a relic from a more optimistic digital era—when I realized how much our rela...
I was rummaging through my collection of vintage tech last weekend—specifically a clunky, translucent blue iMac G3 that feels more like a piece of sculpture than a computer—when I realized how much we...