I finally got all of these working perfectly, except for the Model Seven, which was sold to me yesterday for five dollars and is inexplicably held together by fishing line in certain sections. Worst case scenario, I’ll scavenge it for parts.
The smaller black Underwood works (after an exceptionally rough bit of tinkering), but for some reason four keys were cut off. It was like that when I got it. I’m guessing for jewelry, but if that were the case, why not take all of the keys? Maybe they just really hated certain letters and wanted anyone who tried to type them to get finger shanked.
So instead of working on any of my goals I spent the past 2 days restoring a 100 year old typewriter.
I’m a huge nerd for typewriters and own a little Royal from the 40s that I’ve had for ages. I use it for writing poetry and in some art projects. But my all time biggest goal has always been to own an Underwood.
Then, a few months ago I posted a painting I made of an Underwood on fbook and a coworker of mine told me he ‘has one of those old things in his basement’. So I told him if he ever wanted to part ways with it, to hit me up.
Finding one of these in working condition is pretty hard and even if you do, getting it shipped (to Canada, no less) is really expensive because they weigh at least 35 lbs. It can be upwards of $500.
So on Tuesday my coworker shows up and gives me this babe! She was covered in a pretty thick layer of smokey dust (probably 20 years worth according to him) and it took 2 days of scrubbing, cleaning out all the gears and then oiling and replacing some minor bits but now she runs perfectly!
I’m such a nerd for these types of things… I mean, this machine was made in 1913 according to the serial number. That’s pre-WWI. I cant help but wonder who owned it before me, and what they wrote. Love letters? Business? Secrets written in codes?
Now I kinda want to find a pen pal I can send letters to.
And now I have some goals to catch up on… damn. Worth it though.
Guys!! June 23rd is Typewriter day! I figured I would celebrate with these drawings of some of my favorite typewriters in pastels, because that’s what I’ve been into for the past few days.
I have a Royal (the one in the middle) for art and journaling purposes and I love it!
Fun fact about typewriters: the reason for the layout for the typical English keyboard is based on the typewriter keyboard! It’s the standard QWERTY instead of being alphabetical order.
The reason for this is apparently because to hit a key on a typewriter takes a lot more force than it does now, and to stop from hitting the keys next to each other, they placed it in order of keys that you use less frequently together!
//please do not remove my caption or repost my art//
I think it’s great for two people to be together. That is a good number. I think, that to keep it alive though, you can’t spend every day together. It wears out the magic, Love means nothing to me if it’s not fortified with fierce, painful longing, brief explosive instances of furious passion and intimacy and then a sad parting for a time. In that way, you can give your life to it and still have a life of your own. I think some couples spend too much time together. They flatten out the potential for experience by constant closeness. Passion builds over time like steam. Let it rage until it’s exhausted and then leave it alone to let it build up again. Why can’t love be insane and distorted? How can it be vital if it has the same threshold as normal day-to-day experience? Why can’t you write burning letters and let your nocturnal self smolder with desire for one who is not there? Why not let the days before you see her be excruciating and ferment in your mind so on the day you go to the airport to pick her up, you’re nearly sick with anticipation? And then when desire shows the first sign of contentment, throw it back it its cage and let it slowly build itself back into a state of starved fury. Then when you are together, it all matters. So that when you look into her eyes, you lose your balance, so that when she touches you, it feels like you have never been touched before. When she says your name, you think it was she who named you. When she has gone, you bury your face in the pillow to smell her hair and you lie awake at night remembering your face in her neck, her breathing and the amazing smell of her skin. Your eyes go wet because you want her so bad and miss her so much. Now that is worth the miles and the time. That matches the inferno of life. Otherwise you poison each other with your presence day after day as you drag each other through the inevitable mundane aspects of your lives. That is the slow death that I see slapped on faces everywhere I go. It’s part of the world’s sadness that’s more empty than cold, poorly lit rooms in cities of the American night.