January 5, 2018 § 3 Comments
So in the up is down department I now have a folder, spawned from sorting through the ever growing pile of saved scraps of paper the next project to catapult past inertia and entropy and every other foil, and the sickness that all those hordes of saved scraps is, or could become, having heard myself say, I can’t keep every good idea I ever had and so in a fit of what a good idea is this, deciding I would send my small ephemeral treasures to others, they should could and would have the delight and burden of throwing them out or passing them along or who knows saving them…
Anyway there it is, the proud yellow folder in the new charcoal gray file cabinet the other one in the throes of the tidying turmoil having developed a drawer closing malfunction and so needed replacement, titled: CAN’T KEEP EVERY GOOD IDEA I EVER HAD.
Yup. Full of heretofore saved bits of paper with just those words printed on them.
And which will accompany all the outbound ephemera. Forewarned is forearmed. And I’m happy to put you on my mailing list. (judigoatyahoodotcom)
April 5, 2017 § 2 Comments
as if I were tired or old
as if I were waiting, unprepared for no small thing
as if I were not who I am
silly isn’t it
as if the river weren’t still muddy
and your touch didn’t
move me, tired and old
April 4, 2017 § Leave a comment
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!”