The risograph came from a school auction, weighs about as much as a small car, and lives in my garage under a bedsheet like a haunted heirloom. Ren found it online at midnight and sent me the listing with no message, just the link. That is how all the best decisions start.
A riso only prints one colour at a time. You print the whole run in pink, then feed every sheet back through for the blue layer, and if your hands are not perfectly steady the two layers land a millimetre apart. Real printers call that misregistration and try to fix it. We call it the look and lean in. Every heading on this site has that little offset shadow because of a machine that cannot aim.
The zine itself is twenty pages of my outtakes: blinks, snorts, the cupcake catastrophe, one frame where a pigeon photobombed a tourism campaign. We print a hundred copies, staple them crooked in my kitchen, and leave them in coffee shops around Orlando. There is no barcode. There is no website. Well, there was no website. Now the website is the zine.
People ask why I put the worst frames in print when the good ones pay my rent. Honest answer: the good frames are the job, the bad frames are the person. Clients book the job, but they rebook the person. Also the pigeon frame is genuinely great.