Pass the Flame

To whoever has taken up the flame,

Welcome to the Storm Post Office. Two thousand years ago a Roman poet described the way generations of living things give way to one another: "and like runners they hand on the torch of life." — Lucretius, On the Nature of Things (c. 55 BC)

In the training room at dusk, breath has fogged the window, and an ocher schedule is pasted to the wall. This letter comes from London's East End, 1935–36, in a muted green kraft envelope. The title is bold, slanted block lettering done by hand. In a cream linocut, one pair of hands takes a flame from another, and below runs the contour of a dark green stadium, its rust-colored ink printed a hair out of register, like a fingerprint just pressed.

A flame belongs to no single pair of hands; someone always has to run their own leg first. Come onto this relay: give us your letter, and we will pass it on, slowly, to the next person.

The next leg is yours

Storm Post Office

1935–36 · East End, London