My Type of Type

The perverse and the personal at the Hamilton Museum in Two Rivers, Wisconsin.
Hamilton Wood Type MuseumPantograph.

“The best American writing has always been regional,” said Flannery O’Connor. Maybe, maybe not—but I would argue that the best American museums are. Further, I would offer that the Hamilton Wood Type and Printing Museum in Two Rivers, Wisconsin, may be the best regional museum in the Upper Midwest.

If you are suspicious of superlatives, here are some specifics: 180 miles from Chicago up the coast of Lake Michigan, 88 miles north of Milwaukee, sort of in the middle of nowhere, the Hamilton Museum is, per their website, “the only museum dedicated to the preservation, study, production and printing of wood type.” By “type” they mean movable type—as in Gutenberg, as in the reusable letterforms and decorative illustrations used by generations of printers, from the Middle Ages till the dawn of phototypesetting in the late 1950s.

Located in a vast and drafty factory building on Jefferson Street, the semi-haphazard, semi-organized museum houses—in drawers, cabinets, shelves, and boxes—1.5 million individual pieces of type in over 1,000 styles and sizes, from a quarter of an inch to four feet tall.

This is the largest such collection on public display anywhere in the country. But the largeness of the exhibit is not the reason why the Hamilton Museum is so powerfully awesome. Rather, the museum inspires awe because of its smallness: the narrowness of its focus, and its relative irrelevance to contemporary life and commerce.

Wisconsin poet Lorine Niedecker—herself awesome at least partly because of her own relative cultural and geographic isolation—wrote, “Civilization is an immense ad: Go to hell and be happy.” I recommend that you skip hell and go to Two Rivers. Yet even as I’m telling you this, part of me doesn’t want you to go—because the Hamilton Museum’s obscurity is part of what makes me love it. Big museums can seem overly civilizing—advertising, in their way, a false idea that everything worth knowing about art or history or technology is All in Here, Under One Huge Roof, and requiring you to pay handsomely to cast your gaze upon their narrative.

Which maybe is fair enough. The word “museum” derives its meaning from the idea of such a building’s being not just a structure in which to display objects, but also a seat or shrine of the Muses. Very grandiose. Very overarching. But these regional museums are not authoritative. They are not presumptuous. They do not pretend to present any kind of comprehensive Big Picture of culture or history. These little museums communicate an enthusiasm that enormous museums do not; they exemplify a form of passionate advocacy. This kind of museum is personal, even perverse.

I was thinking of Niedecker when I visited the Hamilton Museum—partly because she’s the only semifamous Wisconsin poet I could think of, and partly because she identified as an Objectivist. In the 1931 issue of Poetry that he guest-edited, Louis Zukofsky defined Objectivist poetry as consisting of “sincerity and objectification”—the latter meaning “to present or regard as an object.” The objects of poetry, the most basic ones, could be the blocks of pine, holly, and maple you see stacked as you walk into the Hamilton Museum: the wood that makes the type that makes the words that make the lines that make the poems that make the books that make the libraries that make the canon, or the conversation, or whatever you want to call it.

Of course, poetry books are not generally made using wood type anymore, unless they are self-consciously quaint, or retro, or special editions. If you are looking for an object lesson in how an enterprise can go from being widely practiced, lucrative, and popular, to relevant only as a focus of aesthetic interest and academic study, then look no further than Hamilton.

The J.E. Hamilton Hollywood Type Company began manufacturing in 1880, incorporated officially in 1889, and by the turn of the century had become the foremost producer of wood type in the nation, shipping their product to printers all over the globe. Yet by 1985, the Fisher Hamilton Company had stopped making wood type entirely, focusing instead on lab furniture and airflow systems.

The Hamilton Museum opened its doors in 1999. For a time, Two Rivers was a bustling timber and maritime town. But when I visited, the street that holds the museum was so sleepy that the only other human figures in sight were two female mannequins someone had placed on the balcony of the Waverly Inn Pub and Pizzeria.

For something to be commemorated by a museum it has to be over, usually. In the case of the Hamilton Museum—in the case of wood type generally—the phenomenon of printing by this method is not totally bygone, just no longer commercially viable. People still print with wood type, and do so with ardor. The zeal with which Jim Moran, Printer and Archivist at the museum, will give you a personal tour—showing you the saws, patterns, routers, pantographs, even the perforator—is unmatchable, palpable.

To experience a decline, you must once have been at a considerable height. It took Hamilton just 20 years to become the best of the best, and they were for some decades, and now they are no longer. The middle of nowhere was often somewhere once. Despite the assertions of conservative commentators, I don’t believe there was ever a golden age when poets were read ubiquitously and regarded as rock-star god-kings—but even if there was, I am neither supremely depressed nor righteously angry that these days most people don’t care about poetry. And I am not disheartened that most people won’t ever visit the Hamilton Museum.

Admission is free, but donations are welcome. You can become a museum member at the level of Gothic, Roman, Tuscan, or Aetna. You can buy samples made with wood-type from them through Etsy ( But still, there is a general sense that a visit to the museum itself should be free—in one sense because, really, who would pay for this kind of thing these days? In another sense, for those people who do care, how could you ever hope to put a dollar value on what the Hamilton Museum is and does?

Many of Lorine Niedecker’s closest neighbors and relatives did not even realize that she wrote poetry. But the people who did know loved her work, and the following she has today is the best kind: the cult kind. In a way, poetry as a whole has been irrelevant for so long that its irrelevance has become a kind of strength.

Like poetry, the Hamilton Wood Type and Printing Museum is a money-losing operation. It is clearly inefficient by design: inefficiency is part of the point. Neither the technique of wood type printing nor the art of writing of poetry is obsolete—at least not the way, say, Windows 95 is obsolete; rather, they are obsolete the way vinyl LPs or butter churns are. They are artisanal. But when does something go from being out-of-date crap to being classic and collectible? How did Irving and Nancy Silverman—the couple responsible for saving so much of the type now on display at the Hamilton Museum—know that they ought to save it? Why did they commit themselves to its rescue when almost everyone else was ignoring it or dumping it out by the truckload?

Some people just like what they like. They don’t just like poetry, or books in general, but the printed page and the markings on it. As a kind of fetish, an object to which one attributes value or powers—not just to a word, in this case, but to the very letter that can make the word. The pleasure of looking at letters and words on paper instead of as pixels; the pleasure of looking at and treasuring something that most other people would overlook.

A selling point for making literature digital is that it can be more easily accessible to everybody. A selling point for not going digital is that some literature should not be accessible to everybody. There’s something discouraging about the idea of a book of poems that is printed in a large run by a large publisher, and that finds its way into the stacks of every good-sized library and bookstore in America, and that virtually nobody actually reads. There’s something to be said for hitting what you aim at, for honestly assessing your position in the culture, and for having your means of production and distribution reflect that. Like: “About 300 people will dig this chapbook that I have written. So is it a good idea to send it to a printer and get it perfect-bound and do a minimum run of 1,500 copies to take advantage of economies of scale? Or should I get together with some friends and lay some type? And make exactly 300? And maybe make them at the Hamilton Museum?”

Because that’s the best thing: Hamilton is a living museum—30,000 square feet of space and a 4,500-square-foot printing studio that students, designers, and bookmakers are encouraged to make use of. In some ways, the Hamilton Museum’s mission is analogous to that of the “slow food” movement, which encompasses farmers who make heirloom crops and livestock viable for cultivation, as well as chefs and restaurateurs that prepare dishes with these ingredients and make them available to an interested public. All of this work—preservation, production, and promotion— quietly takes place under the Hamilton Wood Type and Printing Museum’s roof.

After Jim Moran has carved a block of type with one of your initials, and your visit to the Hamilton Museum is finished, you can walk across the street to another Two Rivers attraction: the Washington House, where they commemorate the 1881 invention of the ice cream sundae. A Historical Society member in a striped apron will step behind the counter and carefully and lovingly make for you an edible replica of the original dessert. This will involve more time and patience than the assembly of your average ice cream sundae, but if it did not, then why would you or he or anyone bother? 

Originally Published: April 12th, 2010

Kathleen Rooney is a founding editor of Rose Metal Press, a publisher of literary work in hybrid genres, and a founding member of Poems While You Wait, a team of poets and their typewriters who compose commissioned poetry on demand. She teaches English and creative writing at DePaul University and is...

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  1. April 13, 2010
     Steven Breyak

    Great article, Kathy! For some reason the reality of museums on the small reminds me of Stephen Millhauser's larger than life variety. I think those of his creation and these real hidden gems share some magical quality; just reading about such places stirs the butterfly soup in my stomach. And speaking of my stomach I'm still most intrigued by the sundae museum piece. ;)

  2. April 13, 2010
     Jim Moran

    Thanks for the detailed article. My hope is
    to reverse the "inefficiency by design"
    aspect and make it a profitable museum.
    We are on the way and letterpress is very
    much alive.

  3. April 13, 2010
     kimberly southwick

    i love that you love the little guy! and i
    love that you give love to the little guy
    with known fear that by giving the little
    guy love, you threaten his littleness.

    what a beautiful gem of an essay.

  4. April 13, 2010
     Christopher Phelps

    Wood type, slow food, and poetry: artisanal! I'd like to visit this muse-um sometime and maybe even set some type. Thanks, Kathleen, for this handsome portrait of the artist's workshop. Coincidentally I just requested a book of Niedecker's poems from the library two days ago. Double-cool.

  5. April 15, 2010
     Patrick Moran

    This is a great article and I'm not just saying that because Jim Moran is my older brother. He and my brother Bill Moran have transformed that sleepy old place into a lively and promising venue for graphic designs, printers and poets. They are tireless in their vision and impressive in their determination to make the Hamilton Woodtype Museum a place where the smell of ink, the hum of presses and the good will of many devoted volunteers an important new home for poetry and printing.

  6. April 16, 2010
     Judith Scott

    Wonderful surprise. I lived in Two
    Rivers as a child and never knew a
    thing about the wood type or
    about the ice cream sundae. Love
    it. Feel completed by memories I
    never had. Must go back to see
    that Hamilton Museum (my grade
    school was Hamilton School) and
    to try one of those sundaes!

  7. April 24, 2010

    liz, greta

  8. July 20, 2010
     Bob Ferrett

    Kathleen: What a wonderful essay about one of the really special small museums in this country. My younger son works for one of the few remaining metal type foundries (M & H Type Foundry in San Francisco), and he got me interested in printing. Last November, I went to the Wayzgoose (look it up...) at the Hamilton Museum, and it was absolutely great. I have nothing to do with the printing industry, but I am going again this year. I think you would enjoy both the conference and the people. For further information, go to

  9. July 20, 2010
     Karen Koegler

    Not the TYPE of essay that would usually attract me, but I found it quite MOVING.
    Long live the book as artifact! Every day of the week. And sundaes, too.

  10. August 26, 2010

    If you found the museum interesting, you
    should check out the documentary
    TYPEFACE. It's about the Hamilton
    museum and the letterpress community at

  11. December 17, 2010
     Ann Engelman

    I visited the museum this fall for the Wayzgoose weekend. It has changed the way I look at my craft of book arts and how I might incorporate poetry into the form. I am also a huge Niedecker fan and have created many artist books inspired by her poetry. I am hoping to spend a day(s) at the museum to print bookmarks and pages with Niedecker poems on it. Those will be distributed at the Lorine Niedecker Wisconsin Poetry Festival on October 1 and 2 of 2011. More at
    Thanks for this delightful essay.

  12. February 19, 2012

    ooh, I just heard about this too! I'm actually in Maine at the moment, but I'm not with my truck or any other means of acquiring an entire printshop. Might check out the auction, though.

  13. May 11, 2012
     Kate Currin

    Field Trip!!!!