Sunday, October 26, 2008

meetings as memory and snow flakes

I played games as a child, where I was moving without touching the ground. We drove around in cars made from the tops of gift boxes, and we built bridges from books so that we could cross the hot lava without losing a limb. I don't know how we rationalized what 'counted' as safe ground, and what didn't. I just know that there was always a we, because these games were not fun without one, and you can't decide what really 'counts' without one. The rules seem permanent when there's a consensus.
I have just been thinking about staying in touch, and the impossibility of truly remaining there. People are splinters, aside from the words we use, and the sentimentality we prescribe to every person we make love to, or eat lunch with.
So here is to a good first impression, repeated like pi, or ground hog's day, to time spent reborn as memory, and to our mind's arbitrary reflexes:




"How many of these exquisitely constructed jewels do we heedlessly crush and shatter unconsciously during a brief walk in the snow and how crude and imperfect seem the productions of human minds and hands when compared to those formed by the blind forces of nature."
-Jean M. Thompson

Friday, October 24, 2008

The Compound Umbel Looks Like a Leaky Umbrella


When the stalks all arise at the same level, the inflorescence is an umbel. An umbel is compound when it is repeatedly branched.

This book is coptic bound, and approximately 4x5". It's a blank book, inside, and was altered from less than one cover of a reader's digest book, some packing materials for a multi-tool, tracing paper, plant diagrams, and stamped text. Happy Birthday to Melinda, a bit late.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

"Multi-tasking is the name of your generation."

One of the most serendipitous events of my life just occurred over a couple hour phone conversation with someone I am very excited to work for. I don't usually make these posts about personal events, but this is the point in my life where the conversation converges with the craft...and it is the most exciting thing in the world. I am afraid to address this new treasure in my life in too much detail...and I will leave it at that, and close by saying that book binding will be involved, but so will many things.



March Already, I Must Give A Party
from Cocktails With Brueghel at the Museum Cafe by Sandra Stone

There's a reason for the house to resonate like this,
like a catacomb. Company's due.

I don't need an excuse to doll myself in clothes of the deceased,
to implant a vase with green lilies.

Mirthlessly now, the chime, the assembly, totemic on the doorstep,
the porch light's blaze, an inverted horn.

Shall we begin with the salver heaped with place cards,
our names impaled on a pin? A refuge, the niceties.

Please be so kind, would you be so kind
as to sink completely into the plumped sofas,

the scintillants over there. Tell me about your children
and lives, the one, so demonstrable.

I love the sycophantic murmur at the table,
the tyrannical eye of the connoisseur

fresh from the auction, don't you?
-the baffle of curators, conservators, aestheticians,

the eminence grise, that tenant with his salient wit,
the complement of picks and tongs,

bon mot and bon bons, salts in their cellars,
the ceaseless ping of crystal, don't you?

The banality of candles. Also, the flame that gutters,
globules that wax the limbs of inherited candlesticks,

that clog shallow pocks bored by artisans
to create an impression of worms,

where real mites are interred.
They nibble inaudibly, they impinge on my nerves.

A rote welcome to all.
A merciless Chin Chin.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Adaptations of Birds: On Winged Things and Others in the Sky

I am disappointed in the quality of these, the only photos I have, of this book. I was meeting a deadline of sorts, and sacrificed documentation for detail. Left is before, right is after. The inside pages are collages, paintings, and blank pages paying homage to the beautiful things in the sky. I'm happy that my work is taking direction again. I moved across the country, and for the time before, and a little after the move, I was all over the place. This book took shape in a way that I am familiar with, but found me desiring cohesion apart from the context of the owner. Most of my books are gifts, and some of them turn into a more personal documentation of my relationship with the owner.
The inside pages are mostly new to the book, coptic bound, and glued by end pages to the cover. The folios consist of pages from the original book, tracing paper, gouache paintings of walking patterns of birds, pictures from old books, and so on. The cover is altered by an octagonal recess, covered with green graph paper, with a layer of tracing paper on top. On the underside of the tracing paper are penciled diagrams of war planes, and on the upperside is the stamped text of the title.