DARIN HAYTON

Author: Darin

  • Making Zines

    Making Zines

    I like making things. Little things. Big things. Lately, I’ve been having fun with an 8-page zine. Printed from one piece of paper, folded, and cut, it is to me the ideal format for a short outing, or for a case study of a place. Or, I can look back through photographs I’ve taken to find a group of 8 that make a good theme.

    A color photograph of zines I have made recently.
    Some of the zines I have been making lately.

    They are easy and relatively quick to print and to fold. I use 11″x17″ sheets of paper, so that each page is about 4″x5″, large enough to showcase the photographs but not so large as to be bulky. I tweaked the layout a bit so that the cover image wraps around the front and back covers.

    Color photograph of the “Vienna at Night” zine, before I folded and cut it.
    The “Vienna at Night” zine before I folded and cut it.

    This format also gives a place to print a large photograph on the back side. It’s sort of a surprise for the person looking at the zine, and a puzzle — it seems unfolding and refolding the zine presents something of a challenge for people, which I didn’t expect.

    A color picture of the Glorietta in Vienna, which is the central image in my zine.
    A picture of the Glorietta that is the central image of the zine “Vienna at Night”

    When it is all done, trimmed, folded, and cut, the zine is the perfect size for my guerrilla art projects. I have given them to friends and handed them to people I don’t know, left them on tables and shelves in coffeeshops, stuffed them between books in libraries and bookstores, and left them on seats in buses.

    Color photograph of the cover of the “Vienna at Night” zine, showing half of the Hofburg.
    The cover of the “Vienna at Night” zine.

    I don’t know what happens to those I abandon in the world. And I don’t really care. The point, for me, is in the making and giving away (not, I stress, “sharing” which has become an essential part of the economy of likes, has become entirely transactional, and depends on knowing what happens to whatever you make).

    Color photograph of two pages in the “Vienna at Night” zine, after I folded and cut it.
    Two of the pages in the “Vienna at Night” zine, after I folded, cut, and pressed it flat.

    Sometimes I leave the house, camera in hand, looking for a coherent set of images that work well together. That was the case with the “Walking in Sacramento” or the “Alone in Philadelphia” zines — I knew an afternoon’s walk would produce at least 8 scenes I could cobble together into a zine. Other times, I draw from a few trips out and about, as in the “Vienna at Night” zines (there are two of these zines, gathering together the photographs from a few nights wandering the city late at night). In other cases, a zine emerges when I’m looking back through photos I’ve taken over a number of trips out. “Alone in Jefferson” is that type — the central image is part of a collection of photographs I’ve taken usually in Jefferson Station that highlight the loneliness of the modern world.

    Color photograph of the central image in the “Alone in Jefferson” zine. A man stands alone against a blue tiled wall. He looks towards his feet.
    The central image for the “Alone in Jefferson” zine.

    Any group of 8 photographs that cohere can become one of these little zines. Inspired by Alexey Titarenko, I took a bunch of photographs of people in a local cafe (see Ghosts in the Cafe). Turns out I have 8 that work well together, so I printed them as a zine. Seems appropriate that I left a handful in that cafe.

    Black and white photograph of a spread from the “Ephemeral” zine, showing ghost like figures is a cafe.
    A spread from the “Ephemeral” zine.

    Like all of my projects, this one will last as long as I find it amusing or interesting. I will continue to print copies of these zines, and cast them into the world. If you’d like to receive a few, send me $10 and your address. I will send you three random zines. Or, offer something in exchange.

  • Standing Alone

    Standing Alone

    Increasingly it seems we live in an Edward Hopper painting. We are always alone, even in busy places. Whether we have surrendered to the glowing screen in our hand or staring down at the ground, too much of modern life is profoundly isolated and isolating.

    Man standing along a blue tiled wall. On the wall are the words Jefferson Station.
    Urban #240706

  • Ghosts in the Café

    Ghosts in the Café

    Lately I have been inspired by the long-exposure photos of Alexey Titarenko. I think his “City of Shadows” is beautiful and haunting. To be sure, some of my fascination comes from my fascination with 1990s St. Petersburg. Nonetheless, I find the images lovely. So I thought I would try some long or, in this case, multiple exposures

    Black and white photo inside a cafe. All the patrons are blurred out.
    Urban #230911.

    The local café is convenient and has reasonable coffee, so I am practicing there. I like the look, but need to find a better location. I should head into the city one night. Maybe if we get snow this winter. I have some places in mind that will, I hope, look good.

    Black and white photo inside a cafe. All the patrons are blurred out.
    Urban #230916
  • Fragments Red

    Fragments Red

    I recently finished another book project, “Fragments Red.” This volume will be the first of a seven-volume project, each pairing photographs with reflections of different sorts.

    Color photo of a booklet, partially open to the photo of a cliff.
    Working on the first volume of Fragments. The fourth draft.

    A handful of drafts, each with a number of changes. Then there was the layout and design issues, where to put gatefolds, how to bind them, solving pagination issues. It was all so much fun.

    Color photo of a a pile of draft booklets, and some final pages, showing a man in a subway car.
    A pile of drafts of volume one of Fragments, and some early printed pages.

    After I spent a evening or two printing the pages, I made a jig to make drilling the holes in the pages easier and consistent. Then I painted some covers, found some matching thread to use for the binding (a version of “Japanese stab binding”), and sewed them up. Soon I had a dozen or so booklets.

    Color photograph of a couple booklets with red covers. One is open to the title page.
    Final copies of Fragments Red, with hand-painted covers and hand-stitched binding.

    It took a long time, but I find something so satisfying about making something. Now off to start working on volume two, Fragments Orange.

  • Postcards

    Postcards

    Postcards are great, little fragments of life that somebody felt like sharing. Or brief well wishes. Amazing photo or bad, it doesn’t matter. They’re all great. I like sending postcards, sometimes to people I know, sometimes to random addresses where I hope somebody lives to receive it. Sometimes people send me postcards, which always makes my day. Not long ago I received a couple postcards. Both are “homemade,” the best kind of postcards. They sit on a shelf above me.

    A color photo of two homemade postcards, lying on a table.
    Two postcards I received recently. I still smile when I see them.

    If you want a postcard, just ask.

  • Just Create

    Just Create

    Consistency is important. Consistency not in the sense of making the same thing or even the same type of thing, but in the sense of making something. Doing something with my hands. Anything. Lately, I have occupied my hands and my mind by using books as an inspiration for a type of drawing, something called “entopic graphomania.” I came across it in Playing with Sketches, by Whitney Sherman, though there are lots of other accounts, e.g., “What is entopic graphomania.” It is quiet and feeds a certain type of creative need.

    Black and white photo of pages from Catch-22 that I drew on.
    Creativity need not be profound. Here are a couple pages from a copy of Catch-22 that I used for some “entopic graphomania.”

    Like so many creative practices, my approach changes over time. These early examples seem now, to me, to be rather rigid and spare. More recently I tend toward busier drawings. I have also found ways to add layers to the process. So now the drawings within a book speak to each other.

    Image of the title page of René Descartes’ "Discourse on Method” with lines on it, connecting some letters together.
    Descartes “Discourse on Method” was a handy canvas for some entopic graphomania. I ditched it in a bookstore.
    A photograph of a shelf of books, with Descartes’ “Discourse on Method” highlighted.
    A modified version of Descartes’ “Discourse on Method” waiting for somebody to find it.

    And as with all my creative efforts, the process doesn’t end with the making. I cast them into the world. Little Free Libraries, bookstores, libraries, benches are just some of the places I have left copies. Maybe somebody else will stumble across them and try to make sense of them.

    Photograph of a Little Free Library, with two copies of John Hawkes’s “The Cannibal”.
    Two copies of John Hawkes’s “The Cannibal” stashed in a Little Free Library for somebody to find (both have since gone away).
  • Hardheaded guy

    Hardheaded guy

    You need a concrete goal, as well. The longer you keep to these basics, the easier the act of writing will become. Don’t wait for the muse. As I’ve said, he’s a hardheaded guy who’s not susceptible to a lot of creative fluttering. This isn’t the Ouija board or the spirit-world we’re talking about here, but just another job like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks. Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you’re going to be every day from nine ’til noon or seven ’til three. If he does know, I assure you that sooner or later he’ll start showing up, chomping his cigar and making his magic.

    S. King, On Writing, 157
  • My Sandbox

    My Sandbox

    I make things. I often use tools other people have developed, e.g., hammers (some people forge their own hammers, I don’t) and screwdrivers and saws; cameras (some people make their own cameras, I don’t) and printers and developing tanks; ovens and baking pans and measuring cups. But in the end, I use those tools to make things. I make things because I enjoy making (I also enjoy taking things apart, but that’s a different story). Sometimes the things I make are lovely and work well, sometimes they aren’t and don’t. It doesn’t matter. What matters to me (and I’m the only one who matters in this story) is I made them.

    I don’t assemble things (unless I have to).

    Urban #240309.1. A dark photograph of a corner of a courtyard, one light and a door.
    Urban #240309.1.

    Perhaps that is why I don’t have a social media presence, why I don’t write on the many very beautiful and shiny platforms that encourage writing, why I don’t share my thoughts in 280 characters, why I don’t collect images I find online into a virtual scrapbook. Such fora are not tools for making something, at least not in the way I like to make things. They might let me assemble something, and that something might be slick and look remarkably like millions of other things people have assembled — the internet is a monotonous wasteland of polished similarity, like some vast 1990s housing development that’s not going to age well or, apparently, any coffee shop anywhere.

    Urban #240309.2. A dark photograph of a doorway, two lights on either side and some cobblestones in front.
    Urban #240309.2.

    Instead, I have my little sandbox, where I build the things I want to build in the way I want to build them (to be sure, the tools I have chosen constrain what I can make — when that becomes a problem for me, I’ll find new tools). I don’t need anybody’s approval or disapproval, and I am not looking to start a “discussion” — if you want to chat, send me an email so we can meet for coffee. I don’t need anybody’s validation through comments or trackbacks. I take this position not because I have aversion to “someone else’s platform” or a fear of an algorithm or urge to be/build my own platform or worry about being the fodder for some other platform’s monetization scheme or worry my stuff will disappear. Those old chestnuts are still legitimate, I guess, but seem to privilege monetizing over making.

    I just kinda like making things.

  • Worth

    Worth

    Empty love of pageantry, stage-plays, flocks and herds, jousting, a bone cast to lapdogs, crumbs thrown into a fishpond, the toil of ants carrying their burdens, skurryings of scared little mice, puppets moved by strings: amid such environment therefore you must take your place graciously and not “snorting defiance,” no you must recognize the fact that everyone is worth just so much as those things in which they are interested.

    M. Aurelius, Meditations, VII.3 (adapted from the Loeb edition)
  • Books

    Books

    I find physical books comforting. Each one is a statement, somebody somewhere saying “I was here. I made this.” Books are human. By almost any measure they are less convenient, take up more room, and weigh more than digital versions. They require shelves. They collect dust and boring insects. It’s not difficult to take one or maybe two with me, but more than that becomes challenging. Because of my own personal relationship with books, I don’t write in them. If I find something I want to remember, I have to write it down on paper. So I need a pen and paper or a notebook whenever I read.

    Still life #240331.1. A black and white photograph of old books on a shelf.
    Still life #240331.1.

    I do not own a dedicated ebook reader. I can’t imagine ever owning one. Not being able to turn a page would drive me mad. I do read articles on a tablet. And I annotate those articles. I find it incredibly convenient and easy. I can take hundreds of articles with me anywhere I go — my tablet never seems to weigh any more no matter how many articles I transfer to it. Sure, I never need more than a couple articles, but since I can take them, why not?

    Still life #240331.2. A black and white photograph of old books on a shelf.
    Still life #240331.2.

    Books and ebooks make me think of cameras and photographs. I can take thousands of pictures on my digital camera. I can take copies of every one of those pictures with me on my phone. It never gets any heavier. But somehow not being able to flip through photographs leaves me unsatisfied. Pinching and scrolling might allow me to see details I wouldn’t see in a photograph, but I don’t know that my experience has improved. I don’t enjoy holding my phone for other people to squint at, and I don’t enjoy squinting at other people’s phones.

    Still life #240331.3. A black and white photograph of old books on a shelf.
    Still life #240331.3.

    I will not likely examine every photograph I print, just as I probably won’t read carefully and remember every book on my shelves. But I like having those books there on my shelves, organized according to my own idiosyncratic system, ready to pull down when I want. I like having boxes of photographs, organized according to my own idiosyncratic system, ready to sort through whenever I want. When somebody asks, I can pull down a book and point out something, or I can pull out a photograph and show that person something.

    Still life #240331.4. A black and white photograph of old books on a shelf.
    Still life #240331.4.

    I also enjoy the process of making photographs, just as I enjoy the process of making books. Everything I make could never progress beyond some digital artifact — I always use a digital camera, I could compose on a computer, I could assemble documents that combined text and images, I could make PDF or EPUB files. But that would be, for me, unfulfilling. Some days, I use a film camera, some days a digital. Some days I confine myself to a digital process. Some days I stick to analog. Most days, regardless of how I get there, I make books or partial books and fragments of books. I have boxes full of books and possible books. Rumor has it that making things with my hands is good for my brain, but that’s not why I do it. I do it because I find physical books comforting. I do it because it’s my way of saying “I am here. I made this.”