February 17, 2017 § 2 Comments
There’s always the part where one becomes disheartened, or the project disheartens.
It having started with a focus and a deadline and a plan a project an idea yes an idea that was too complicated, and maybe had too many moving parts to meet said deadline, but there was no way I had been able to successfully talk myself out of it and forward ho with reckless enthusiasm I was going.
And this morning a windless sail.
And in between after codex conversations about where to now, what next?
The ways in which one one can start with the book as a stationery object and move toward the book (the art) as experience, (in the making and observing)
or it is, and starts with an/ the experience and moves toward objectification or artifact if you will
we got to the coming and going of it, and if in fact making a book is like riding the freights as in you meant to go to North Dakota and end up in Minnesota then, the art is what happens in between the two places
And so as is the case I was in the wrong place, or thinking in inches using a metric ruler or forgetting that lead type is not digital, though it was in my digits, which is to say instead of fomenting with the tool in hand I was trying to replicate something already done ●●● in the best way that particular thing was going to be done●●● instead of doing, experiencing what wouldcould be done with the tool in hand, and once figuring that out, once, I remembered there are things handily and readily done with lead type and leading that are indelicate and a yearning desire for photoshop well so there I am now, wind at my back!
And I’m off to my own out of order in preparation for advancing waters shop to see what may be wrought.
It is the remembering and forgetting of it all that one forgets and remembers forgetting, forgets remembering.
February 12, 2017 § Leave a comment
And either way, that is on either side of the table it is not for the feint or faint of heart. Which isn’t to say it’s not delightful, but it is opulent. It is obscene. But in its forbearance, annoying though it may be, lies its success, and its provocation, well at least to me.
Each time, and for each who enters there, no matter which side of the table (1000.00 or 30.00 or whatever the four day entry fee was) you are on, to succeed you must know why you are there. You must know what you are doing there, otherwise you are doomed. Otherwise you, one is not up to the rigors of withstanding the onslaughts, and there are many. Fine books to be sure, fine people to be sure, fine views, and conversations and ideas, and community and camaraderie in equal measures. But on the flip side the downside of up, and being called out every which way you go, are you good enough? Smart enough? Right enough? Rich enough? Literate enough? Bookish enough? Hip enough? Conversant? Artist? Writer? Poet? Able? Young? Old? On the list?
And there is no kidding oneself, there is no it doesn’t matter to start with. One can and over a lifetime (artist or otherwise) one does make it to ones own sensibility of mattering, and the aesthetic of it all, but one doesn’t start there, and many with names and experience, many who taught the many who are now the upandcomers were painfully adrift and feeling out of sync and measure somehow not properly given their (sense of their) due, or proper admiration. Never mind their work.
That was a ha!
I confess to having with delight laughed.
black & white and read all over
and made sure to point out the not black and white of it to her nodding boys. I asked the older of the two boys if he knew the answer. He looked blank, I looked to the woman who was also at a loss. “It’s a riddle,” I said, “what is black and white and red all over?” They had no idea. Never having heard such a thing.
When I gave them the answer the older boy asked, “red or read?”
I confess to having smiled. “Well, that’s just the point!”
November 4, 2016 § 5 Comments
Book 1. Limited, varied edition of 10, could be 13. Could be 15, though that would be some kind of magic and variation, or theme and variation.
51 poems, 5 signatures, assorted photos, etchings & rubbings, 108 pages.
The final and 5th part will be a novel novel; hole in the grid.
October 31, 2016 § 4 Comments
I’m reminded often it’s not so much about perfection as it is about the music. Not so much about repeating the same thing over and over so it’s a down pat thing but that like life it is about solving the problem at hand, working your way out of which ever cul de sac you find yourself in, negotiating the dead end or no macaroni and cheese in the pantry when that’s what you planned on for supper. It’s always the ninth inning, and it’s always a could win, and depending on how you play it, could be fun.
Like Nick said lo those 16 years ago, “the best surfer is the one having the most fun.”
October 19, 2016 § 2 Comments
Can’t say I found it in order.
6 months + today I finished typesetting the colophon and the page after the title page. Wow. And c’est tout!!!!
Will finish the printing tomorrow.
Then comes the collating and the putting it together just so, 20 printed for a finished varied edition of 13.
July 3, 2016 § Leave a comment
It started with the box.
Not that I planned it that way at all. The red box was going to be for the need me feed me birthday card, (yeah he’s turning 64).
Or maybe it started with the chicken wire papers
which were on their way to become a star, or flower—could be a christmas tree ornament—book but then there was the fusion paper that I’d made which was the perfect ohdeargod vehicle, underlayment ✴︎pull it together✴︎ structure, well after it was cut to size and folded.
But first there were the colored pencils…and then there was the little piece of paper that said syntax. And of course, the glue stick.
And then I cut the corner off. Which brought the back to the front. Which became a whole other story——line. Calling in to play just the right bits of paper waiting waiting all unsorted in bags in the drawer for their moment, which had come. And more gluing.
And more tag end scraps which I actually ** never let it be said I don’t ** throw away bits of paper.
ACk. But not before one, with errant glue, found just the right spot to accidentally end up on the original square bits of now folded chicken wire paper which had been colored with pencils.
Which led to bits, words from an intact story, cut to wordbits which may or may not suggest, infer, elicit, solicit, mock play with the i/dea/l of syntax.