Tuesday in Stockbridge 2026 
3 Color Hand Pulled Silkscreen Print
 
This piece is one of the most personal works we’ve ever made — a reflection of the Tuesday mornings that have quietly become part of the rhythm of our lives. For the past five years, every Tuesday has meant gathering at Stockbridge Coffee with old coworkers from the Red Lion Inn. Some people come every week, some drift in when they can, but somehow we always know who’ll end up on that corner wall by late morning. This scene is drawn from our perspective: showing up late like we usually do, spotting Paddy and Chris T. already talking on the corner, Glenn making his way up Main Street mid-conversation — either with someone he knows or maybe just a bird. Over time, that corner became more than a routine. It became one of those rare places where people slowly fold into each other’s lives without even realizing it.
 
About a month after creating the original postcard version of this piece, our friend Chris T. passed away suddenly. The corner has never felt the same since. When we later met with his family, they told us they had found our postcard sitting on his nightstand, ready to be mailed out to family members living in different places. In the middle of grief, we also learned more about the strange, beautiful details that made him who he was — like his deep fear of butterflies, or how as a kid he used to sell golf balls on this very corner near the golf course. Quiet little details that somehow made him feel even more alive.
 
Not long after we heard the news, we went for a walk to clear our heads on a trail near home where we had never once seen a deer. That day, though, a one-horned deer stepped out onto the path and didn’t run. It stayed close enough that we could’ve reached out and touched it, even following us for part of the walk before slowly disappearing back into the woods. We’ve never seen anything like it there since.
 
When we reimagined this piece into a larger silkscreen print, we quietly tucked those parts of him into the illustration — the butterfly, the golf balls, the one-horned deer — small hidden pieces of someone who felt impossible to replace. Chris T. had a rare kind of presence: deeply thoughtful, endlessly curious, quietly hilarious. The kind of person who could say one line under his breath and have the whole corner cracking up. This piece is for him, for that corner, and for the strange, beautiful ways people continue to stay with us long after they’re gone.