My recent creative projects have reignited a fascination which has been flickering away, quietly, for some time now. I have this thing about books. It started whilst on a foundation art and design course in Chesterfield back in 2005, when I opted into a module which taught me about the creation, binding and concepts involved in making books as art forms in their own right. There was a course trip to NYC where we visited the HQ of the wonderful Booklyn artists alliance. Named 'creative book structures' as part of the foundation course, 'book art' by some, and 'artist's books' by others, it is a strange and often overlooked art form, and one which I'm currently attempting to tackle in my dissertation for my MA in Contemporary Curating. This is partly the reason for this informal piece of writing today, as I'm hoping the process of explaining it will open up some more doors of thought for me.
I am aware that every object varies on this, some politically, some in terms of function or concept, but for this particular article, I am focusing on the handmade, the inclusive and the labours of love. In other words, books which are part of a project.
Last fortnight, Lancaster, once my hometown for three years, saw the launch of Back & Beyond, described as "the flagship publication for Made in Lancaster, a collective of creatives sharing skills and offering peer support." It's beautifully designed and printed on big, light sheets of paper; it draws on the practicality of a newspaper, but retains a sincerity and attention towards Lancaster and its local creatives. This is not an artist's book, but it is creative in appearance, in its literary content, and is as accessible to the public as any of the artist's books which gained a platform through Printed Matters publications in the 1970's. In this way, the publication is promoting the very notion of art for everyone, art by everyone. Lippard would be proud.
Having only had a brief read of someone's copy, I hope to pop into a shop or café somewhere in Lancaster and pick up my own copy this week.
And that is where part of my problem lies. I collect things. When it comes to books, in particular, those creative book structures, or books where the content is unusual or the design a little bizarre or homemade, I feel that I must own a copy, be it for its history or ingenuity. Were there as many collectors of fiction, autobiographies and various books of reference, as there are collectors of the coffee-table photography book, the one-of-a-kind, the early edition children's book (all of these I am guilty of obtaining), there may be no libraries left. A couple of months ago, I was overjoyed to obtain an early edition of children's book Babar The Elephant, became mildly worried when one of the dogs attempted to chew it up as it arrived on the doormat, and have resigned to feel slightly foolish for the fact that I wont really do anything with the book. It's so precious that the children for whom it was originally written, would probably not be allowed to read these early editions; rather, they would be scolded for attempting to turn the pages, just as the poor dog was scolded for attempting to chew it up. It's utterly daft.
The real contradiction, however, lies in the fact that I criticise myself for preferring some books just for their structure and design, yet there are hoardes of artists out there whose book art deliberately forgoes content for form, and it really works.
In the Spring of this year, I organised and curated a small show in Lancaster (as part of Undecorated Café collective), in the window of shop Arteria. I enlisted local artists to make art that centered round the form of books, and named it Static Pages to highlight the difficulties in experiencing a book when it's behind glass. Not being able to turn pages, or hold the book, leaves these objects frozen in time. The visual response from the artists was uplifting, curious and good humoured, as they each tackled this obstacle in their own brilliant way.
It seems that places like Lancaster are perfect testing ground for overlooked art forms like books and publications, mainly because of their focus on community and inclusion. Artist's books, creative book sculptures or structures, and artistic and poetic publications, all lend themselves to projects which find a joy in, not just the showcasing of work, but the showcasing of work which sits happily in that very context, and which draws on the place and time around it. This is, in my opinion, a recurring format, possibly because there is safety and satisfaction in its cyclical nature. These are projects which can be started, seen through to the end, and picked up again for the next installment, be it a second edition or a follow-up exhibition.
This ties in very neatly with my own urge to own and collect these objects. When I curated Static Pages I enjoyed collecting the artists together, and when I put that exhibition up I wanted the participation of those artists who had made their work. I wanted them to be a part of the whole process. I wanted them to share in the satisfaction of completion. I strive for the collective, because I am a collector. Many of us rejoice in the complex, complete (yet quietly evolving) and contained nature of the book, because we, and those modest communities, are all those things.
Continuing in this very way then, I shall end this article here, and ponder a second article. Life trundles along, page by page, and I have a dissertation to complete.
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