There’s something about typewriters, especially old, well-used ones. The clicking of the finger-burnished keys, the crisp inky smacks against the paper, the dings and slides and zips, the whole jazzy, efficient rhythm. The evocative contours and design panache of the machines themselves, sculptural and cinematic, which conjure up archetypes of literary stars and struggling, solitary geniuses with cigarettes and disheveled hair. Its accoutrements have charm too, like reams of clean white paper. shredded indigo ribbons, and sleek, if hefty, carrying cases. The vintage typewriter as an object and a symbol is eccentrically magical, impossibly analog, and frequently fetishized.
And as artist Tim Youd knows very well, beyond the aesthetic appeal of the object, the engaged physical enactment of typing also has its own charms. The ritualistic qualities and the mythological aura of the “great author at work” archetype lend the use of a typewriter a natural performative aspect. Because of the qualities of its objecthood, the choice of using an old typewriter carries with it its own set of meanings and is anchored to time and place, and history, in a way a laptop is not. When augmented by the conceptual and empathetic situational logistics of a site-specific pilgrimage such as Youd regularly undertakes, it makes a witty, emotional impression.
