TAY \\ HAM Hand made, humor fueld greeting cards.
TAY \\ HAM Hand made, humor fueld greeting cards.
TAY HAM is greeting card studio is located in the historic downtown Wilmington, NC. Owner and artist Taylor Hamilton, is a native New Yorker and has been chasing paper since she was just a young babe wishing on stars for envelopes. The motto around here is GO HAM OR GO HOME. Our greeting cards are consistent crowd pleasers, each one with an eye-popping color palette, simple bold lines, and a twisted pun, a keen observation, a play on pop celebrity. Send them for any holiday or no reason at all. With these weird and wonderful cards, the medium is message.
TAY HAM Greeting Cards is located in the historic downtown Wilmington, NC. Owner and artist Taylor Hamilton, is a native New Yorker and has been chasing paper since she was just a young babe wishing on stars for envelopes.
The motto around here is GO HAM OR GO HOME. Our greeting cards are consistent crowd pleasers, each one with an eye-popping color palette, simple bold lines, and a twisted pun, a keen observation, a play on pop celebrity. Send them for any holiday or no reason at all. With these weird and wonderful cards, the medium is message.
I Could Just Squeeze You s
There are few things I can’t live without. Tacos. Good sheets. Those hottest summer days that end sneaking into the community pool at midnight. Lemon on everything. Our old lemonade stand. Take a dozen perfect shining lemons. Slicing them longways somehow produced more juice. Squeezing them in the reamer, our hands sticky with the soursweet sap. Pulp all over the kitchen counter like confetti. The chipped blue pitcher and wooden spoon. In went water and a scoop of sugar, tantalizing and pure white, like sand in the pictures we had seen of far-off beaches. Hauling
into the street. The busted legs of the car table. Stacking little dixie cups into pyraids, always pouring slowly in the summer sun. Hustling that sparkling drink, watching ice melt. Telling stories. Playing twenty questions. Cat’s cradle. Hopscotch. Friends roll by on skates. Time to split, and split the cash. A few dollars, really, but it added up in the end. It was small-time racket where the only real gain was the time we spent together. Maybe I could, but I don’t want to live without you. Or lemons. And I’m going to squeeze you both.
Nailed It s
is a certain headiness you get when you do something absolutely right, up, down, left, right and center. That sexy, impetuous, I AM THE GOLDEN GOD head rush of finally getting it perfect, after hours or days or months of work, or hell, even on the first try. We all know how the world seems to stop on its axis for a shining moment, and swing your way, how everything is perfumed with that sweet, fresh new car smell of success. We just want to help you celebrate it. We
want to brag about it for you, invite people to a party about it. We want to make roman candles out of kaleidoscopes and shoot out bold colors that spell your name. We want to have iced coffee and go to that place in the mall and get ridiculously elaborate nail art done about it. We want to make pretty cards with puns on them for you, get them signed by all your friends, all the people you made proud. Because you nailed it, just like we knew you would.
Let’s Hang Out s
Cotton fiber is almost pure cel-
lulose and grows in bolls around the seeds of cotton plants. Picture tight swarms of doves. Picture sheep climbing a tree. See fastened clouds. Then dress yourself in those images. 100% cotton clothes air-dried on a clothesline in May. The nylon rope strung taught between wooden poles above just mowed grass. Smell green. Smell lawn. Smell lilac, jasmine, honeysuckle. Smell the dizziness of bees and the sweat of crickets. See the wind court the clothes, how it becomes involved, moving into all their rooms and opening—unbuttoning—the windows to slowly remove the mois-
-ture. Watch the sun get trapped in the corners, in the hems and collars and stitching—a warm to be worn out. The clothes are listless without these two. In the motionless dark they’d hang damp for days. Every object needs interaction, just as people do. So let’s hang out. Let’s clothespin ourselves in the vicinity of one another. Lets drape our bodies across couch arms or fields, benches and boulders. Tell me what you learned today. Tell me your favorite fabric and the color of the comforter you grew up under and I’ll tell you what I buried in holes on the hill in my backyard.
Letâ€™s Party s
can do it every which way you want it. The private kind, just me, you, and this documentary about how cheese is made. Perhaps you want the fancy kind, with vintage Christmas lights strewn around the antique farm tools, people in four hundred dollar shoes eating heirloom tomatoes in the grass and listening to a tiny barn concert. Or youâ€™re in the mood for an allout rager, all the caffeinated liquor and remixed dance music you can drink and dance to, late night food fight,
walking home listening to the early morning birds and smelling the sun break over the river. Or maybe your sister is having a baby, and there needs to be a party. With jazz music and pink peppermint tea cookies and pink lemonade, great strong coffee and a tower of pastel parcels. There will be fluffy perfect lace and booties and a picture book about birds you know sheâ€™ll love. We also do smaller parties, parties for two, parties for no special occasion, other than that we love you.
Holy Crap! s
something is truly shocking, we need a friend. When things get so wildly and completely out of hand, to the high and holy level, we call you. In the bar, at the party, after lunch at work. We have pull you into the bathroom and have a bull session. Talk gets real. There are partitions on the stalls here, but not on our hearts, ya dig? This is where we go to whisper about the ex, the new girlfriend, the job interview at another company. Where the sound of murmurs is flushed away and the fan airs out all
grievances. The secret stuff. The holy stuff. The stuff safe only in rooms with tiled walls, graffiti on the door, a missing lock. Leaning on the sink, back to the scuffed mirror, talking shop. A silver tap and a cool cleansing under running water. The profound blue of the weird soap in the dispenser. Handing a paper towel to a friend. We go back out into the world together, having shared this communion, the ritual of talk, in a kind of temple, a place sacred to some. Arms and hands linked, we leave, feeling restored.
You May Want To Sit Down For This s
you have some big news. Maybe I do. Or maybe you’re just tired. A handsome fella offers his seat on the subway. You’ve just been crowned queen or king of something. You wandered into a furniture showroom and there’s the most excellent Dutch mid-century armchair with buttery soft leather cushions and you flop into it without hesitation because it’s the perfect chair. There’s a million reasons to sit down. The antithesis of lazy, sitting down actually can make your life better. Providing rest,
perhaps allowing you to finish off that crossword puzzle. It’s impossible to eat spaghetti standing up. But mostly it’s what you do with people you love. It’s how you take time to say something important, even if that’s not really much at all. Maybe it’s just the act of sitting. Staying. Whether it’s playing a board game or sharing a bold announcement, pull up a chair and stay awhile. What happened? Who cares. It doesn’t even have to be big, even though that’s fun too. Tell me anything. I just want to sit down together.
TAYHAM.COM (631) 678-1382 â€˘ 105 A market St. Wilmington NC, 28401 photography & design: Jason Hudson // www.kellerphoto.net copyright 2014