In our apartment, you’ll find stacks of books, magazines, and catalogs in every room. Some are perennial favorites—read, re-read, and referenced on a regular basis—while others have yet to be cracked since arriving home from Amazon or the local bookstore months, sometimes years, ago. We subscribe to a half-dozen magazines, but average at least four weeks behind on the weeklies, particularly those as dense as The New Yorker. We cancelled our subscription to Time Out, simply because the frustration that resulted from reading about the show we missed or the exhibit that just closed became unbearable.

(Mis)Readings attempts to document that which I’ve actually read. Page for page, every word ingested from books and magazines is replicated in its original typeface and layout. Colors and images have been eliminated. Headlines and drop caps loom large against vast expanses of white; credits and small point legalese rarely appears. What results is a visual record of my own predisposition toward content—that which is omitted is, perhaps, equally, if not more, significant as that which appears on the page.