Parts for some hand-made books — pages, covers, and glue.
I create things I need to create. I guess in some sense I make things for somebody else, though not for some specific somebody else. For me, creating something and leaving it in the world completes the process. The dopamine rush comes from making and leaving, not from some affirmation or condemnation in the form of likes or dislikes, follows or unfollows, thumbs up or thumbs down.
Recently finished hand-made books, soon to be left somewhere.
I guess I would call this a type of a-social media.
I went to see a show last night, an album celebration show. The music was great, but what really impressed me was the musicians. Sure, there were a number of people there to see the show, but our presence was irrelevant. Watching the band play and especially E.J., the front man, I saw a person who creates because he has to create. He would be writing and performing songs whether or not anybody listened. If he took the place of that famous tree in the woods and nobody was around to hear him, he would still be making and performing music. He creates. His creations might also be art, but that’s irrelevant to him.
Urban #230324.0
The show reminded me that I make photographs for me. Some of them will be “original,” others will look like numerous other photographs. The last few weeks have been drippy around here. I started to notice puddles on sidewalks as an opportunity to look at trees in a different way, to take the season’s last photographs of trees before the leaf out. For the next week or so I took lots of photos of trees reflected in puddles on my commute to and from work. Pictures of reflections are a dime a dozen, even with inflation. I will not take an original picture of a reflection. But that assumes I take pictures with an audience in mind, one that has surely seen dozens of pictures of reflections. By that metric, pictures are little more than the subject captured in the frame. But this misses the point, at least for me.
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I don’t care if at first glance my photos look like pictures everybody has taken. Those photographers are not me and did not take my photos. If, as Wim Wenders has asserted, the camera points both directions, forward at the subject and back at the photographer, then photographs I take of reflections are not like anybody else’s. They answer to my questions and concerns and aesthetic sensibilities. For that reason, when I take a picture or print a photograph, I think only of one audience, an audience of one: me.
Urban #230324.2
I make the photographs I need to see in the world, not the photographs I think the world needs to see. Maybe that’s the difference between creating and making art. While the latter fulfills its purpose when an audience interacts with it, the former fulfills its purpose by existing. I am not an artist but rather a person who creates.
I often want to create something physical, usually cobbled together from stuff I have lying around. Nothing big, but something I can share with the world in some small but tangible way. I quite like pamphlets and hand-made books, little limited editions that I can leave for people to find. This time, a little pamphlet of portraits of dogs.
Side one of the sheet that I fold to make a 4″x5″ pamphlet.Side two of the sheet that I fold to make a 4″x5″ pamphlet.
After a few minutes with a publishing program I had the pages laid out so I could print them double sided, fold in half twice, add a cover, and staple.
The cover for “Taco and Tess. Portraits” pamphlet.
The center spread for “Taco and Tess. Portraits” pamphlet.
I don’t know who, if anybody, will take these pamphlets, and I don’t really care. Maybe somebody will just thumb through them. Maybe people will just move them around to get at the good books. It doesn’t matter. For me making the pamphlet was the goal.
I have begun to sort my photographs of flowers into groups. I then print a few of the images and assemble them into little pamphlets, each organized around a particular flower. A recent pamphlet focused on a few photographs of red roses.
Draft title page and back page with colophon. Printed on cheap, copy paper.
Like all of these pamphlets, this one is short. Three photographs pasted onto the pages. Very little text, limited to the first page. And like all my book/pamphlet-making efforts, this one went through a handful of drafts. Revising the text. Testing different proportions for the photographs. Printing both the text and the images on different papers.
Marked up draft of a spread from a pamphlet I recently created.
I find the process fulfilling. Something about producing something that, for me, makes photography so much richer than locking it away in some digital prison where images go to die in the social-media doomscroll.
A spread where I test out a different size image. I like this one better.
The process it iterative and full of mistakes. How many times have I pasted the wrong photograph on a particular page (as above and below)? How many times have I misassembled the pages, or misprinted them? For any normal person, I’m sure this process would be frustrating. But for me the promise of sharing my work, giving something to somebody, even if I don’t know that person, nourishes my creativity.
Heavy paper cover of final draft of pamphlet.
This particular pamphlet/study grew out of a bouquet a neighbor gave us. They were out of town when their monthly flower arrangement was delivered. They told us to take and enjoy them. I photographed the roses from the bouquet as they opened and browned and wilted. I selected three photographs for this pamphlet.
First pages of pamphlet with corrected text and photo with longer proportions (in this draft I pasted the first two photographs on the wrong pages — oops).
I drafted some text that linked the photographs, and printed and bound the pamphlet, with red thread because that seemed best suited for the photographs.
Central pages, showing rose image and red binding thread (in this draft I pasted the first two photographs on the wrong pages — oops).
I left a copy in my neighbor’s mailbox as a thank you for the bouquet. She texted to let me know she got the pamphlet and loved it — that was kind of her to say.
I don’t know how many of these I will make, maybe a few dozen copies. These are another of the “limited editions” I create, prompted by somebody or something and limited because I think there’s a small and finite audience for them. But I’m always willing and able to print more. When I have enough of these pamphlets, I’ll print an entire set and bind them all together into a book. But that’s a project for another day.
I make “limited edition” books, something between art books and photo books. They are often experiments that will never move beyond my work table, hence the “limited edition” label. I play with format, with layout, with folding pages or cut pages. Some are little more than pamphlets. I always learn something from these books.
This “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022” is another type of book. This type I tend to make for somebody I know or someplace I frequent. In this case, I assembled photographs I had taken while at Ashford Farm, a local horse farm. Over the past couple years I had spent a number of days there watching the riders and looking around the farm. I had taken pictures of horses in their stalls, people riding horses, kids in the summer riding camps, and other parts of the farm that seemed interesting to me. These episodic books are “limited editions” insofar as I suspect only a very small number of people will be interested in them.
Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022 first draft title pageDraft pages with notes, from an early draft of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”
Like all such books, “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022” went through a number of revisions in my head before I got around to printing a draft. For me, printing and assembling a draft is essential, even if the draft is small and printed on cheap copy paper. I have to see the sequence, thumb through the pages, test the folding pages and see how partial pages work.
When I’ve worked out the initial problems and arranged the pages the way I want, I tend to print a full-size draft.
Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022 another draft title pageOne of the pages in the draft of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022”Fold-out page before folding out, in a draft of Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.Fold-out page after folding out, in a draft of Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.
I spend a day or so looking at this draft just to see how it feels, especially things like format and dimensions, and to catch the last problems or issues that have thus far escaped my notice. I also think about things like binding, covers, and paper. When I’m happy with the draft (or no longer unhappy with it), I print the final version and assemble the book.
The final cover of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”Tack hanging in door from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”A horse looks out of its stable, from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”A horse walking in a ring, as seen through the fence, from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”
For “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022” I assembled 51 photos I had taken last year and this year. Landscape orientation with a number of fold-out pages seemed ideal. The pages would be large enough to accommodate both landscape and portrait photos, and the fold-outs would let me include some 16×9 proportion shots. I used a binding (often referred to as “Japanese Stab Binding” though also similar to the binding used on “Chinese-style notebooks”) and cover that echoed utilitarian notebooks. I used a smooth, bright matte paper for a couple copies and bamboo-washi paper for another. Each copy is unique — not only did I print them on different paper (my favorite was the Awagami bamboo paper, mainly because of the feel), but I also used different thread for the stitching and in one case different stock for the cover.
Here are a few more photos from this book.
A horse looks out from its stable, from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”A young girl pausing to look at a horse in the barn, from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”Tack hanging on the wall in the tack room, from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”A stirrup, from the final version of “Ashford Farm in Photographs, 2021-2022.”
In the end, I made three copies of this book, one for me, one for a friend, and one for the people who own Ashford Farm and let me loiter and take pictures. These episodic projects exist somewhere between creativity and art. I am happy to have made this book and need not share it with anybody, hence creativity. But it does something more when I share it with an audience that might be interested, hence art.
I might make another copy or two. I might not. If you want one, let me know. Maybe we can work something out.
Following the lead of others requires little effort and less courage. “Innovate and iterate” while a route to financial success and often a means of improving our efficiencies rarely produces genuinely new and imaginative things. To strike out on your own requires conviction and courage. To pursue your own goals wherever they might lead demands trust in yourself. Better to get lost having set out alone into parts unknown, than simply to tread an established path to some recognizable destination. So too in things creative.
