When IBM introduced its Selectric line of typewriters in 1961, it did away with individual type bars in favor of a single, motorized ball imprinted with letterforms, which rotated so nimbly it earned nicknames like the “bouncing ball typewriter” and the “flying walnut machine.” It dominated typewriter sales for two decades before the personal computer took over.

Now the Broodthaers Society of America invites visitors to sit down with a Selectric II as part of an intimate exhibition devoted to concrete poetry and typewriter drawings. The conceit showcases how a tool for mass production can be commandeered by artists for unruly ends. Near the typewriter are graphic compositions by Anni Albers and Françoise Mairey—grid-like forms built from repeated keystrokes, achieving the tactile density of a textile.

The machine hummed, gathering speed and momentum as I typed—a sensation similar to scrolling online, but with added dimensions: the drubbing hand-feel, the keys’ loud report, the carriage return’s bright, resonant ding. After a little warm-up (“the quick brown fox”), you can play with chunk-chunk-chunk repetition or permutation through error. Using only the 8 key and the left platen knob, I made compositions that looked like falling water.

The typewriter suits the Society’s focus on Broodthaers, who abandoned poetry in 1964, burying the unsold edition of his last book in plaster. The act echoes Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s rubber stamp piece Mot Cache (Hidden Word) (1978), on view here in an exhibition catalogue. Alongside varied typewriter experiments, her piece makes a quiet case for the show: that a tool built to standardize language can also be turned toward opacity and refusal. —Nicole Miller