these seventeen typefaces belonged to a dear friend who was my first close friend to die of AIDS back in the 1980s.
unlike other mementos of his life that i have (a pot, a photograph), these have never held any meaning for me. i can’t remember where he displayed them or if he even did. i can’t remember him saying, “those were my _____ ‘s,” or “_____ gave them to me when we first fell in love.” none of them are his initial, nor those of any of his circle of friends — most of whom were also part of my circle (a venn diagram, obvsly.)
but yet, i’ve packed and unpacked them over several decades and several homes. most of the time they’ve resided in a drawer with other “important” things: my naturalization papers, my german birth certificate and passport, my adoption papers, a rubber stamp that quotes andy warhol, “art is anything you can get away with,” my collection of address books dating back to 197_ (in case i ever need to call someone i slept with, but no longer remember, as if…), postcards from friends and lovers, notes from my mother on 3 x 5 cards; the fallen leaves of my fall.
i just can’t remember.