Archive for the ‘The Match Factory’ Category
- A bicycle is a beautifully simple machine. Two wheels, a frame, and a crank — that's all you need. So I wanted to make a simple poster celebrating one of those key components — the wheel. The call to action is simple: Let's Ride. I chose a light green for the background to touch on the environmental benefits of cycling and also because, as we all know, green means go. Cutting carbon can be fun, too — get a crew and let's ride!
- I think about the idea of America a lot. The history of things. How we got here and where we want to go. It's been a long process in working towards becoming the land of opportunity with freedom and justice for all, and the whole bit. And we have such a long way to go. It’s brick by brick. It’s DIY. So pick up your talents and get to it. Until your hands hurt. This image of the “America in bricks” found it’s way into my design work, really speaking to the idea that many parts make a whole. Optimistic. Hopeful. Good reason to get your hands calloused.
- Every effort was made to produce this book in the most sustainable way possible. The trim size and page count were chosen to minimize waste; the book was printed using 100% wind power on paper made from 100% post-consumer waste fiber; and it was printed in the U.S.A. to reduce fuel consumption in shipping. Yes, this cost more. But suck it up. It's worth it.
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FUTURE - by Bil Johnson
boy the last month you've been put through the wringer flu cold pink eye ear infection ear infection and still that smile. that laugh.
jack was born an anarchist in the true sense of the word (aren't all children?) innocent. enlightened. anarchist. authority figures are ignored with confidence. no rule-of-law no rule of class or race no arbitrary self-righteous leader-figure holds sway over him. he wishes no ill-will or harm he simply wants the shackles to dissolve. he will disarm with a smile as he deconstructs a routine of days once believed to be etched in stone. grinding ones focus until it is centered only on what is real what is tangible what is truth. what is truth? a look into jack's arresting blue-eyes is a look into our deep past. food shelter unconditional love. these are all that exist. as it should be.
The Pledge of Grievance - by Bil Johnson you. is what we never were. silent. we no longer are. invisible. no more. stepping through the fog. of fanatical nationalism. can someone scream. please.
i am first a husband and father. son. brother. grandson nephew cousin uncle. i can no more swear allegiance to a government. than a government can swear allegiance to me.
[caption id="attachment_119" align="aligncenter" width="360" caption="Lumpen Cover, July 2007 - by Jason Hardy"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_117" align="aligncenter" width="475" caption="Composition, March 2007 - by Jason Hardy"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_116" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Everyday, Feb. 2006 - by Jason Hardy"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_124" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="IDA Promo Card, March 2007 - by Jontue Hollingsworth"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_123" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="IDA Promo Card, March 2007 - by Jontue Hollingsworth"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_122" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="CD Packaging, March 2006 - by Jontue Hollingsworth"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_121" align="aligncenter" width="283" caption="We Design, March 2006 - by Jontue Hollingsworth"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_120" align="aligncenter" width="450" caption="Fuck The Crowd, Dec. 2005 - by Jontue Hollingsworth"][/caption]
Weston - by Craig Turnwall
I stayed up late, drank all the beers, thought about my old- man for no particular reason. Imagine the living room where’d he be sitting, he’s still awake tonight too, wondering if anyone’s wondering if he’s tired, restless of rusting shackles. That naked street, outside the small town picture window, the summer air is pensive and lazy, of memories and unhealed wounds which don’t escape the deep gravel, or the firehouse. Where all the engines are cold, alarms at half mast, all is on fire inside rather than rooftops or property, he knows his legs don’t work anymore, there’s nowhere left to run. Ache, on the canopy, airs twisted and silent ghosts, glance from a sitting expression reflection back against the panes of glass, all the hourglass beats poured from extinguished wishes, false dreams and patch-work cigarette burns that no cloth can carry. This carpet and wood, these walls and patient stares of my old-man linger, so we both stay up late, and his streets are alone and mine are meant, meant to imagine cured concrete lonesome, but I just can’t think that hard, that hard at all – out Weston windows.
Where heart meets blood. - by Craig Turnwall I think a man's heart beats fast when he thinks about the hour before him, and the new, a moment when he feels bent, or lapse, night crept upon him like a bleeding wound, dream woke with faded light, night on the creep, mindless drum, anticipation of not finding a way again, to make morning, he wants heliocentric ideas, in a moon phased wanderlust, all that is dark is long, battered can be a cool breeze, men think with their souls wide open, sidewalk is tragic, death is tragic, pain is not a fearless endeavor, all scars remind of past achievements with regeneration, blood pumped toward goals coursed during walk and sleep, what wonderful conquests you entertain, adrenaline, this palpitation and open window.
[caption id="attachment_131" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Daily Drawings, April 2006 - by Kate Bingaman"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_132" align="aligncenter" width="362" caption="Statements, Dec. 2005 - by Kate Bingaman"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_134" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Faces, March 2007 - by THINKMULE"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_133" align="aligncenter" width="436" caption="USSR, April 2006 - by THINKMULE"][/caption]
Youngasabean - by James Dunn You at right now Luck and love Love will explode in these hills Our beds will be ovens. Dirt covers you You are as young as a bean.
A City From Above - by James Dunn The city is no different from above. I see struggle. People with sweet poor faces falling into a mess of numbers. All they want, I think, is to kiss their kids. The city from above, Each brow a light.
[caption id="attachment_135" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="First Snow, Feb. 2006 - Bil Johnson"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_136" align="aligncenter" width="464" caption="Little Girl, Jan. 2006 - by Jennifer Lukas"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_137" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="3 Color Beef, Dec. 2005 - by Curtis Pachunka"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_139" align="aligncenter" width="216" caption="The Shins, Dec. 2005 - by Curtis Pachunka"][/caption]
By Midnight, Bullfight - by Adam Pomajzl mornings blush with light behind curtains, making sheets impossible to unwrap- I assure you, it's just bedposts, tossed jackets, poems on hardwood floors.
so this sunrise salivates answers from dashboard notes, quotes lines from park benches, quip conversation conversely arrogant while our divided attention fell to turning phrases
The Up Side Of A Flip Coin - by Adam Pomajzl keep your knees buried in trenches fingers dug in earth in creases expressions plastered on this thin space between we and window-
it's back spasms that's holding us up at night.
this day passes in a withered wash formulated by a shelf of books binding back a choke of tears a white of knuckles a furious glare that snuck up in the form of a glance with first thought, but shuddered
[caption id="attachment_140" align="aligncenter" width="320" caption="Forever, Oct. 2007 - by Jared Hardy"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_141" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Mountain Summer, June 2009 - by Jared Hardy"][/caption]
Development at the corner of Monterey and Country Club (they're watering dirt that used to have things growing in it) - by Dan Schreiber they were allowed to tear out the date palms native vegetation that would have helped hold the dirt in place without any water but are now required to run sprinklers all day half a dozen or so on giant piles of dry earth so the flow of petroleum-burning, carbon-emitting autos is not interrupted by blowing dust in the desert a large placard gives a number to call with complaints where would a caller really begin?
Untitled 1 - by Dan Schreiber
in hills less black we dig for teeth giving them history introducing timeline
their value now true as assigned their loss now of import as found we give them our grace meaning we give ourselves place imparting gifts
[caption id="attachment_142" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Chicago Summer, Dec. 2005 - by Ian Whitmore"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_143" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Longwave, Dec. 2005 - by Ian Whitmore"][/caption]
Rememory - by Jacqueline Ostrowicki
I miss you in parts, as a whole, and both in various combinations: just the eyes or sometimes the eyes and the fingertips.
[caption id="attachment_144" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="The Check, Dec. 2005 - by Melanie Falk"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_145" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Low, Dec. 2005 - by Micah Schmiedeskamp "][/caption]
Blood River - by Mike Semrad
We built up this bridge so long and high So we don’t get swept down the valley where the forgotten souls lie
Welcome to this well oiled machine Where the poison of heartache is amongst us Old mans leg is dangling through the bridge that we have built To save us from the skies cry
We built up this bridge so long and high So our children and theirs won’t ask why
Tonight we watch out the window at the rain We watched it rise up and go back down again Down to the valley to soak in the lines Where the harvest grows as high as the pines The bridge we built holds strong through the weather Cause the blood we shed holds it together
[caption id="attachment_146" align="aligncenter" width="332" caption="Cold Beauty, Dec. 2005 - by Karen Koch"][/caption]