01. Lost in Iceland

A tourist who was declared missing and the subject of an intense police search had no idea she was missing, and in fact took part in the search itself.

The search went on throughout the weekend, with no sign of the woman found. However, yesterday morning, she was reported found – and had no idea she was missing in the first place.

To make matters more surreal, she had even taken part in the search, without realising at first that she was the one people were looking for.

Eventually, it occurred to her that she could very well be the “missing person” being described, and reported the matter to the police.

The search was called off shortly thereafter.

02. Invisible Cities

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps…

Perhaps everything lies in knowing what words to speak, what actions to perform, and in what order and rhythm; or else someone’s gaze, answer, gesture is enough; it is enough for someone to do something for the sheer pleasure of doing it…

What he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past it was a past that changed gradually as he advanced on his journey…

With cities, it is as with dreams: everything imaginable can be dreamed, but even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or, its reverse, a fear. Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.

—Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

03. Roma

Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!
Whose agonies are evils of day
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

04. Paris

For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say “I’m going to sleep.” And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would try to put away the book which, I imagined, was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had been thinking all the time, while I was asleep, of what I had just been reading, but my thoughts had run into a channel of their own, until I myself seemed actually to have become the subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V.

—Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way

05. About







Porter Gillespie
Porter has been working as a designer, photographer and artist for over twenty years. He was the design director and production manager of the Jasper Johns Catalogue Raisonné of Painting and Sculpture published in 2017. A graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, he concentrated his studio practice on sculpture, photography and filmmaking.

Porter has studied editorial design with Jessica Helfand and Hamish Muir in Porto, Portugal; Design History, Theory and Practice with Louise Fili and Steven Heller in Rome; and type design with Jean-François Porchez in Paris.

He is a visiting artist at the American Academy in Rome, May 2018.

You can contact him at porter.gillespie (at) gmail.com