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January
2012
At the opening ceremony of the book art exhibition in Płock I met a friend of mine, a graphic artist and designer, who from time to time makes also books. I do appreciate what he makes due to a special purity and delicacy of his works. The book he presented at the show was of that kind. As usually his book had no words at all, except for the title. Also he was interested in my latest books – we meet rarely, once a few years. I told him I had come back to drawing lately and made quite a lot of sketches, mainly landscapes, although not as many as I would like to; in my next book there would be as much drawing as writing, and maybe finally I would make a book which would have only drawings and sketches, however with haiku-like titles. He reminded me, a bit mockingly, that years ago, visiting his exhibition in the capitol city I stated, a bit dismissively, that a book with no text was not a book.... Well, I can't deny.... But I mean a drawing which is like writing. Drawing which is writing. Which is text. To make it so there are no differences between drawing a view from my window and describing it.
Anyway, the next book is going to be a map. A written-drawn map, like it is in the case of maps. Sometimes page-maps appeared in my books. Yet I have always been dreaming of a book-map. Probably it will be titled Flattering the Flatness.
At the opening ceremony of the book art exhibition in Płock I met a friend of mine, a graphic artist and designer, who from time to time makes also books. I do appreciate what he makes due to a special purity and delicacy of his works. The book he presented at the show was of that kind. As usually his book had no words at all, except for the title. Also he was interested in my latest books – we meet rarely, once a few years. I told him I had come back to drawing lately and made quite a lot of sketches, mainly landscapes, although not as many as I would like to; in my next book there would be as much drawing as writing, and maybe finally I would make a book which would have only drawings and sketches, however with haiku-like titles. He reminded me, a bit mockingly, that years ago, visiting his exhibition in the capitol city I stated, a bit dismissively, that a book with no text was not a book.... Well, I can't deny.... But I mean a drawing which is like writing. Drawing which is writing. Which is text. To make it so there are no differences between drawing a view from my window and describing it.
Anyway, the next book is going to be a map. A written-drawn map, like it is in the case of maps. Sometimes page-maps appeared in my books. Yet I have always been dreaming of a book-map. Probably it will be titled Flattering the Flatness.
December 2011 – January 2012
Each of my books has its beginning in one of my former books. A word, phrase, thought, page layout, graphical element, or any other part of a former book can be a germ of a new book. Then the germ, like it is in the case of a germ, grows, fast or slowly, sometimes it is in dormant stage for quite long, gathering forces, accumulating energy, getting mature. And then it explodes, sprouts, blossom and a new book appears – like those freaky plants which can wait so long under the ground surface until great fire cleans the place, then they start growing like mad to do everything they need before other plants appear, carried by winds and in birds' bellies, to colonize the fertile wilderness..... Having been so satisfied and delighted with such attractive comparison I must shake off and ask a standard question: where has the very first book come from? Unlike it is expected the answer is very easy: from the abundance and diversity of my primordial writings, which have never turned into books and have been preserved, or not, in old copy-books and manuscripts, however it might happen that the germ of the first book had never been written down but had been only spoken and it is gone like galore of spoken, or only thought, words and phrases which preceded those written ones – a hypothesis that a scribble made by the not yet skilled hand had been more important than any word can not be excluded as well.
If this is really so, then my new book is not mine, because it has no beginning in any of my books I made so far. Finally the exception has proved the rule. This book appeared unexpectedly. Absolutely suddenly. From outside. It was not planned. It was not supposed. It had no germ, no seed patiently maturing inside me, accumulating energy, waiting for its time that would come inevitably. I haven't been thinking of this book at all. One day I saw on the screen on my monitor some sumi-e paintings made by Venantius. They showed dancing people.... It's interesting, but I couldn't explain why I saw just these very paintings, why out of numerous drawings, paintings and sketches made by Venantius just these ones appeared on the screen. It would be rather stupid to suspect the event was the result of sophisticated and extremely complex intrigue. Nor it was a result of our encounter which had taken place a few years ago, lasted a few hours, and during it we had not been discussing dance, ballet nor butoh, definitely not. Solving this riddle could be a nice topic for a spy story which would probably be printed and sold in edition of many thousands, not just in a few hand made copies..... Nevertheless I won't try to solve this mystery, because some other, much more fascinating issues are waiting for me.
So, I saw the pictures, and a while later there was a book ready in my mind. CorrespondAnce. About the correspondence of mind and body. Image and text. How the mind keeps dancing with the body. How the text keeps dancing with images. It was supposed to look like that: in the beginning texts were to be distinguished very clearly as texts and images as images (drawings as drawings, paintings as paintings). On each following page this distinction was to be less clear, less obvious, less sharp – the text was to look more and more like drawing, while the drawings were to become more and more the text, until they, texts and drawings, would merge into oneness. It was to be like that, but it is not. Well, it is like that only partially. Which means I did not succeed, as usually. The fact I didn't succeed indicates undeniably this book is mine, as well as this book is a germ of other books to come – I wonder what books....
Venantius Pinto in an Indian artist based in New York. I would like to express my deep gratitude for his talent, for his open mind and open heart.
Thank you, Venantius, thank you one hundred times (as people use to say in Poland).
Each of my books has its beginning in one of my former books. A word, phrase, thought, page layout, graphical element, or any other part of a former book can be a germ of a new book. Then the germ, like it is in the case of a germ, grows, fast or slowly, sometimes it is in dormant stage for quite long, gathering forces, accumulating energy, getting mature. And then it explodes, sprouts, blossom and a new book appears – like those freaky plants which can wait so long under the ground surface until great fire cleans the place, then they start growing like mad to do everything they need before other plants appear, carried by winds and in birds' bellies, to colonize the fertile wilderness..... Having been so satisfied and delighted with such attractive comparison I must shake off and ask a standard question: where has the very first book come from? Unlike it is expected the answer is very easy: from the abundance and diversity of my primordial writings, which have never turned into books and have been preserved, or not, in old copy-books and manuscripts, however it might happen that the germ of the first book had never been written down but had been only spoken and it is gone like galore of spoken, or only thought, words and phrases which preceded those written ones – a hypothesis that a scribble made by the not yet skilled hand had been more important than any word can not be excluded as well.
If this is really so, then my new book is not mine, because it has no beginning in any of my books I made so far. Finally the exception has proved the rule. This book appeared unexpectedly. Absolutely suddenly. From outside. It was not planned. It was not supposed. It had no germ, no seed patiently maturing inside me, accumulating energy, waiting for its time that would come inevitably. I haven't been thinking of this book at all. One day I saw on the screen on my monitor some sumi-e paintings made by Venantius. They showed dancing people.... It's interesting, but I couldn't explain why I saw just these very paintings, why out of numerous drawings, paintings and sketches made by Venantius just these ones appeared on the screen. It would be rather stupid to suspect the event was the result of sophisticated and extremely complex intrigue. Nor it was a result of our encounter which had taken place a few years ago, lasted a few hours, and during it we had not been discussing dance, ballet nor butoh, definitely not. Solving this riddle could be a nice topic for a spy story which would probably be printed and sold in edition of many thousands, not just in a few hand made copies..... Nevertheless I won't try to solve this mystery, because some other, much more fascinating issues are waiting for me.
So, I saw the pictures, and a while later there was a book ready in my mind. CorrespondAnce. About the correspondence of mind and body. Image and text. How the mind keeps dancing with the body. How the text keeps dancing with images. It was supposed to look like that: in the beginning texts were to be distinguished very clearly as texts and images as images (drawings as drawings, paintings as paintings). On each following page this distinction was to be less clear, less obvious, less sharp – the text was to look more and more like drawing, while the drawings were to become more and more the text, until they, texts and drawings, would merge into oneness. It was to be like that, but it is not. Well, it is like that only partially. Which means I did not succeed, as usually. The fact I didn't succeed indicates undeniably this book is mine, as well as this book is a germ of other books to come – I wonder what books....
Venantius Pinto in an Indian artist based in New York. I would like to express my deep gratitude for his talent, for his open mind and open heart.
Thank you, Venantius, thank you one hundred times (as people use to say in Poland).
September 2011
Something what could and should have happened long time ago has happened finally. Finally I have got a reason to be proud and really glad. At last somebody wanted and tried to steal my books. With no doubt I would be even more proud if the theft was a success, for both Road Nonsigns and Treatise on Pageography, the books which were to be stolen, can be made quite easily and the production is not very time consuming, so the sorrow caused by the loss would not be deep enough to overcome the feeling of satisfaction. It happened at the exhibition of my books during the three-day long “confrontation of arts” in a culture centre. The lost books were found in the adjacent room, a kind of chill-out space. They were brought there by two young participants who maintained they had “wanted to read them a little in a less noisy place”; however they didn't say they were to bring them back – what were their intentions? what were they going to do with the books after reading? We don't know. It's hard to suppose they were going to destroy them, tear into scrapes and burn down. More probably they would bring them into even “more quit place” to end reading. Nevertheless these are but suppositions. By no means not unpleasant.
May 2011
They say that history likes to repeat. Maybe it does like, but it does not repeat. The second copy of NOrWAY TO KVIKAKO arrived where it should have arrived. It will remain a mystery why two weeks later than the first one, since they had been sent together, at exactly the same time. Maybe one day somebody will write a book about it.... Maybe myself?
They say that history likes to repeat. Maybe it does like, but it does not repeat. The second copy of NOrWAY TO KVIKAKO arrived where it should have arrived. It will remain a mystery why two weeks later than the first one, since they had been sent together, at exactly the same time. Maybe one day somebody will write a book about it.... Maybe myself?
April 2011
I haven't been writing for a year. A several very important and serious conclusions can be drawn from this very simple, even trifle fact. For example: this blog (if this is a blog – well, this is called a blog, but names not necessarily tell the truth – probably I won't exaggerate writing that names very seldom, if ever, tell the truth) belongs to the most boring and awful blogs. The truth is, the life of books is very boring, so how could the blog describing the life of books be exciting? The overwhelming majority of books spend the greatest part of their lives standing motionlessly on shelves. Even the process of creating a book (although itself very fascinating – how a cloud of vague thoughts hovering inside the writer's-artist's head gradually or rapidly materialise) is boring, too; if somebody would like to make a film honestly and straightforwardly telling the history how a book has been created, nineteen twentieth of this film should show but a writing writer; of course, he could do some others, more or less dramatic actions, like phone calls or drinking a cup of tea, or getting furious or delighted, but first of all he would be tapping the keyboard or scribble something in a copy book, depending on his likes, habits, needs or necessities. Unfortunately, books don't write themselves, and the quantity of letters and words composed of them and needed to make not so bulky book is really enormous. And adding some editing-composing-designing actions... forget it...
However sometimes a fluctuation really inexplicable can happen. But because such fluctuations happen very seldom (much more seldom than entries in this blog), they should be mentioned also very seldom – of course it is the other way round since people are deeply convinced that just such rare events are extremely important and make history, so only they should be described. Moreover, these rare events are used to build of them extraordinary constructions, and houses built from playing cards seem strong and solid like Egyptian pyramids when compared to them; strange, but very logic and easily explicable, those constructions are more durable than the pyramids – well, they are not flogged with sandy whips of desert winds...
And here is such an event.
After toilsome and boring, as usually, and absolutely fascinating, as usually, process of creation, I finally made a few first copies of a new book NOrWAY TO KVIKAKO. Because I had promised to send it to where the idea of this book had been born (but not to the place described in this book, because this place is a bit somewhere else) or to Mundal in Fjaerland in Norway, I did so. I decided to send two copies. Each copy was carefully packed in exactly the same way, on each envelope I put exactly the same address, I paid the same money and I glued the same stamps. I don't know if the seals were put in the same places - I didn't notice, and I should have done it, since it could be the reason of what happened next. And thus two twin letters went-flew northward. (Why did I send the books separately? I am not so sure about it. The financial reasons were not so important, although I was informed that sending them together, as a parcel, I would pay more, which was not right, I checked it later – could this be evidence of deliberate misleading? rather not, because since the very beginning I wanted to send the books separately.) I was expecting the books would arrive to Mundal together, it means in the same time, though maybe not in the same minute, as they were sent in the same moment. A few days later I got a message informing me that only one book arrived – at once I remembered a history from before five or six years. I also sent two books packed and addressed identically, but to another country. Southward-westward. Two street-books. And only one arrived. Because the street books were already bought and paid, I sent the third copy replacing the lost one – and it arrived with no problems at all. To my utmost surprise, a few weeks later the lost copy was delivered back home by a postman. Neither he, nor anybody at the post office could explain what had happened – it looked like somebody working at the post office saw the twin letters and decided it was too much, just a redundancy, that a sender made a mistake and this mistake had to be fixed... Will the history repeat? We shall see. Now I have to send the third book to Mundal. Maybe this is the necessary condition to make the second one come back home. And what it is doing now? Is it flying somewhere? Going? Lying in a repository waiting for rescue? Somebody is reading it?... Or maybe I should issue also a “warrant”? A book of mine has ran away. To nowhere. Anybody who seen it please send me a message.
April / May 2010
With a small delay, and also with a small satisfaction, I'd like to announce, that Hasa Rapasa won neither any prize nor even a honorary mention at the 50th competition for the most beautiful book of he year organised by PTWK. Discussing their choices at the meeting with the participants the jury said they didn't understand at all what was the point of this book and why it looked so bizarre. We proposed they should simply read the book to understand it, but the jury replied sharply they did not read the books submitted to the competition. Further conversation, as well as any attempts to explain the rules of magic-and-bizarre geometry (the book has a shape of pentagonal trapezium) had no sense at all.
An interesting fact: discussing the book which presented the collection of unique colour diapositives taken in Jewish ghetto during World War II, the jury explained that this book was only mentioned, not prized, because the pictures had been taken by a German and Jews in these pictures were smiling.
With a small delay, and also with a small satisfaction, I'd like to announce, that Hasa Rapasa won neither any prize nor even a honorary mention at the 50th competition for the most beautiful book of he year organised by PTWK. Discussing their choices at the meeting with the participants the jury said they didn't understand at all what was the point of this book and why it looked so bizarre. We proposed they should simply read the book to understand it, but the jury replied sharply they did not read the books submitted to the competition. Further conversation, as well as any attempts to explain the rules of magic-and-bizarre geometry (the book has a shape of pentagonal trapezium) had no sense at all.
An interesting fact: discussing the book which presented the collection of unique colour diapositives taken in Jewish ghetto during World War II, the jury explained that this book was only mentioned, not prized, because the pictures had been taken by a German and Jews in these pictures were smiling.
December 2009
I noticed that my books had been transforming surprisingly. With no doubt some of these transformations are caused by technical conditions – I use better machines which are more skilful. Myself, I am more skilful, too – at least I hope so.
Here is the book which has right now a form of a wall calendar. Before it had a form of a sand-glass bicodex, and in the beginning it had had a form of monstrous leporello (a paper accordion made of 365 leaves is really monstrously unhandy) – but the essence of this book remains intact: its structure... day part and night part... number of pages and the layout of every page... all stories it contains..... And here is another book: in the beginning it had been a set of loose rectangular paper sheets, then it was a square triangle, now it is a pentagonal trapezium – but the essence of this book remains intact: its structure... this mysterious, magic geometry... all stories it contains, although pages have been redesigned, but each one is still a puzzle composed of the same pieces..... Are they still the same books or maybe they are now new books which should have new titles? Or maybe they like to change clothes? Or maybe they keep metamorphosing: they had been like larvae, then they were like pupae, now they are like imagos? ...... All the time the problem of identity tormenting every being with the lack of solution: everyday I am somebody else yet I am still myself ....... Whereas some of my books do not transform, nothing has been changed in them since the very beginning. Maybe they were born old, old and mature? Maybe paper butterflies emerged from my head, flew out of my hands at once and ready?
I noticed that my books had been transforming surprisingly. With no doubt some of these transformations are caused by technical conditions – I use better machines which are more skilful. Myself, I am more skilful, too – at least I hope so.
Here is the book which has right now a form of a wall calendar. Before it had a form of a sand-glass bicodex, and in the beginning it had had a form of monstrous leporello (a paper accordion made of 365 leaves is really monstrously unhandy) – but the essence of this book remains intact: its structure... day part and night part... number of pages and the layout of every page... all stories it contains..... And here is another book: in the beginning it had been a set of loose rectangular paper sheets, then it was a square triangle, now it is a pentagonal trapezium – but the essence of this book remains intact: its structure... this mysterious, magic geometry... all stories it contains, although pages have been redesigned, but each one is still a puzzle composed of the same pieces..... Are they still the same books or maybe they are now new books which should have new titles? Or maybe they like to change clothes? Or maybe they keep metamorphosing: they had been like larvae, then they were like pupae, now they are like imagos? ...... All the time the problem of identity tormenting every being with the lack of solution: everyday I am somebody else yet I am still myself ....... Whereas some of my books do not transform, nothing has been changed in them since the very beginning. Maybe they were born old, old and mature? Maybe paper butterflies emerged from my head, flew out of my hands at once and ready?
November 2009
Oxford. Brookes University. UK Fine Press Book Fair. For the fourth time. But after a few years break. Nevertheless once again I had the stand number 55. I was not forgotten. It was nice. Very nice. Many people I knew – now much older and more grey. Many people who knew my books and didn't forget them. As usually many conversations, a lot of talking. It's a pity (little bit) there was not as much purchasing as talking.... well, you can't have everything. And as usually a lot of doubts: is it really the right place for my books? in fact they are not pressed fine, they are not letterpressed, they are printed just nice..... It seems they would feel much better, or even the best, at the Semantic Press Book Fair. However so far nobody has organised such fair.
Oxford. Brookes University. UK Fine Press Book Fair. For the fourth time. But after a few years break. Nevertheless once again I had the stand number 55. I was not forgotten. It was nice. Very nice. Many people I knew – now much older and more grey. Many people who knew my books and didn't forget them. As usually many conversations, a lot of talking. It's a pity (little bit) there was not as much purchasing as talking.... well, you can't have everything. And as usually a lot of doubts: is it really the right place for my books? in fact they are not pressed fine, they are not letterpressed, they are printed just nice..... It seems they would feel much better, or even the best, at the Semantic Press Book Fair. However so far nobody has organised such fair.
September
2009
I haven't been writing for quite long. This can mean there was nothing I could write about, nothing interesting and worth my attention happen in the secret life of my books. Or there were so many events I had no time to write. Or both. Or neither this nor that.
On April 1, 2009, Krystyna registered LIBERATORIUM as a normal publishing house. An excellent date. The best coincidence I could imagine. You need to be really a fool to set up a publishing house right now and right here. But maybe madness is the only method to succeed. From our point of view there's nothing mad in it. Well, just some chaos will be transformed into order and some order into chaos. The books will get ISBN numbers. New gorgeous machines bought for the EU grant will give us a chance to print faster, better and cheaper – the prizes of the books will decrease to a reasonable level, although it is a sheer madness to expect that people will start to buy things they don't need at all. The whole studio and the library will be moved upstairs, to the attic, and the living room downstairs will at last become a living room... Besides, nothing will change. The books will remain crazy labyrinths, they will be like they are in my visions and dreams, not like the people want them to be – unless the people want my books to be just like the are in my visions and dreams ..... Well, I can't help it. The world is like it is, not like the people imagine and expect it to be, or would like it to be. And this is how it is with my books. Must be like that since my books are but next parts of NONDESCRIPTION OF THE WORLD, and nondescription is not a description, it is being like something that is to be described....
I haven't been writing for quite long. This can mean there was nothing I could write about, nothing interesting and worth my attention happen in the secret life of my books. Or there were so many events I had no time to write. Or both. Or neither this nor that.
On April 1, 2009, Krystyna registered LIBERATORIUM as a normal publishing house. An excellent date. The best coincidence I could imagine. You need to be really a fool to set up a publishing house right now and right here. But maybe madness is the only method to succeed. From our point of view there's nothing mad in it. Well, just some chaos will be transformed into order and some order into chaos. The books will get ISBN numbers. New gorgeous machines bought for the EU grant will give us a chance to print faster, better and cheaper – the prizes of the books will decrease to a reasonable level, although it is a sheer madness to expect that people will start to buy things they don't need at all. The whole studio and the library will be moved upstairs, to the attic, and the living room downstairs will at last become a living room... Besides, nothing will change. The books will remain crazy labyrinths, they will be like they are in my visions and dreams, not like the people want them to be – unless the people want my books to be just like the are in my visions and dreams ..... Well, I can't help it. The world is like it is, not like the people imagine and expect it to be, or would like it to be. And this is how it is with my books. Must be like that since my books are but next parts of NONDESCRIPTION OF THE WORLD, and nondescription is not a description, it is being like something that is to be described....
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
October 2008
I have found my very first book. Probably I shouldn't use the word “book”, but I don't know how I can call it, how I can label it. “Text” is not the right word, either. It is something more than a text. IT. Well, IT is a tale about time flowing, maybe about travelling too, so a bit more than twenty pages of typescript have been seamed on the top, like a calendar hanging on a wall usually is bound. The construction referring to a wall calendar probably was to be a metaphor of time passing by – with no doubt there was another reason: the text flows more smoothly when the pages can be turned topward, when my eyesight doesn't have to jump from the bottom of the just read page to the top of the page which will just be read, when the line is not cut brutally by turning page leftward. Just a sheer intuition prompting: if life is flowing, if time is flowing, then a tale should be flowing too ....... That is why the left margin is not straight - I wanted my text to look like water in a stream – both banks were to be covered by dense bushes of drawings, but my brother couldn't draw anything, so they are naked and barren. He said he couldn't draw anything because he could draw only when he was guided and led by his hand – any commission, and even my request was a kind of commission, used to destroy this very subtle relation - I understood him very well so I didn't insist ........ This was happening in late autumn of 1976.
Later IT was presented to my aunt who WAS WRITING. She had already published a small collection of short stories. The aunt read IT and said she didn't know how to judge IT, because she didn't know what IT was. If she knew what IT was she would know what could be said about IT. For example, if IT was an essay she would criticise IT as an essay using the suitable criteria. Alas, I couldn't help my aunt, because I didn't know what IT was either. Now, after so many years, I also don't know what IT is, and writing frankly I'm not so much interested in finding it out. Everybody can see what IT is. IT is what IT is, that's all ...... Well, probably I won't be brave enough to read IT now. But maybe IT is just what I will use in the future to make a book: an old text written by myself many years ago placed in the centre of the page – the page size A4 or maybe bigger to have large margins around the body text giving enough room for various commentaries – so these commentaries will be a bit like the bushes full of fantastic creatures my brother once didn't draw - - - just me-old reading SOMETHING written by me-young - - written as if by somebody else, by a stranger, by an author not well known to me - - - anyway, me-old and me-young, we are not the same person, are we? - - - - - - -
I have found my very first book. Probably I shouldn't use the word “book”, but I don't know how I can call it, how I can label it. “Text” is not the right word, either. It is something more than a text. IT. Well, IT is a tale about time flowing, maybe about travelling too, so a bit more than twenty pages of typescript have been seamed on the top, like a calendar hanging on a wall usually is bound. The construction referring to a wall calendar probably was to be a metaphor of time passing by – with no doubt there was another reason: the text flows more smoothly when the pages can be turned topward, when my eyesight doesn't have to jump from the bottom of the just read page to the top of the page which will just be read, when the line is not cut brutally by turning page leftward. Just a sheer intuition prompting: if life is flowing, if time is flowing, then a tale should be flowing too ....... That is why the left margin is not straight - I wanted my text to look like water in a stream – both banks were to be covered by dense bushes of drawings, but my brother couldn't draw anything, so they are naked and barren. He said he couldn't draw anything because he could draw only when he was guided and led by his hand – any commission, and even my request was a kind of commission, used to destroy this very subtle relation - I understood him very well so I didn't insist ........ This was happening in late autumn of 1976.
Later IT was presented to my aunt who WAS WRITING. She had already published a small collection of short stories. The aunt read IT and said she didn't know how to judge IT, because she didn't know what IT was. If she knew what IT was she would know what could be said about IT. For example, if IT was an essay she would criticise IT as an essay using the suitable criteria. Alas, I couldn't help my aunt, because I didn't know what IT was either. Now, after so many years, I also don't know what IT is, and writing frankly I'm not so much interested in finding it out. Everybody can see what IT is. IT is what IT is, that's all ...... Well, probably I won't be brave enough to read IT now. But maybe IT is just what I will use in the future to make a book: an old text written by myself many years ago placed in the centre of the page – the page size A4 or maybe bigger to have large margins around the body text giving enough room for various commentaries – so these commentaries will be a bit like the bushes full of fantastic creatures my brother once didn't draw - - - just me-old reading SOMETHING written by me-young - - written as if by somebody else, by a stranger, by an author not well known to me - - - anyway, me-old and me-young, we are not the same person, are we? - - - - - - -
October 2008
Krosno. The Public Library. I am presenting, displaying, exhibiting, demonstrating, explaining, telling, performing, showing. My books and hypertexts. For almost two hours. I can see two dozens of listeners (mainly various library workers, I suppose) are neither tired nor bored - I don't suspect they can pretend in such a perfect way. Your books, they are fascinating, aren't they? but how can we catalogue them? - says the head of the library. Yes, that's a problem, however such books make a librarian's life fascinating, don't they? - say I.
September 2008
Płock. The Art Gallery. I display Road Non-signs. I can display nothing else because all my books are imprisoned in the white room with semitransparent walls. We printed Polish non-signs with the plotter and they are the size of normal road signs. They hang in a row. They fake a road (I wanted them to fake a town, but there was not enough space on the mezzanine). Or maybe they do not fake. At the end of this fake-not-fake road near the wall there is a chair and a table and the book is on it. A road to the book – or something like that. Or a road from the book. No – to the book, with no doubt to the book, because the stairs to the mezzanine are at the other end of the row ....... An enthusiastic man approaches me and says he's an actor and the non-signs can be and should be performed on the stage, absolutely, what a fantastic monodrama this will be, he can see the props, stage design, whole performance, he can hear these texts swarming and whirling in a frustrated driver's head ...... I didn't say: no. I did say: we shall see. Working on this book I didn't think of a frustrated driver. Well, I didn't want a frustrated driver to be the main topic – a frustrated driver could be hardly visible somewhere in the background. This work was to belong to those never ending dissertations on a picture superiority over a word or vice versa.
September 2008
Kielce. The Public Library. A brand new building. A very big and very empty space which is supposed to be a store in the future but now is a kind of temporary art gallery. I make a smaller room in the centre – to give visitors a chance to sit down comfortably in the armchair or at the desk, take a book from the shelf and read. I use semitransparent white material for the walls. I cut squares 90x90 cm and on each square I write one letter with white crayon. They make a sentence which can be read while walking around the room:
and there is whispering shining emptiness around every book
Forty six
letters, seven spaces and two squares lacking for the
entrance. There can't be more. That's good. Nothing more
is needed. Is there anything more I have to write about?
....... I was to write one sentence more. A very long
one. On the floor. Close to the walls. It would run all
around the hall. It would tell something about an empty
wall, a blank wall. Or about the most important moment
in this long and tortuous process of book making, when
what fills my mind must get out of it and appear somehow
on a sheet of paper or on sheet of something else
....... But I didn't write it. Because of various
reasons. Maybe that's better. Since this very moment is
not the most important one. It is as important as any
other moment. Well, maybe it is more intangible and
elusive than the others. Like falling asleep is.
After the opening a library worker who helped me a little to assemble my room approached me and said: I really do admire you – wow, making such things in such times... (He meant my books, not the exhibition itself.) He could add: and in such a country – but he did not. While myself I could answer: It's not that bad – both the country and the times could have been much worse. But I said nothing. We went out. We left the emptiness in the gallery. Let it whisper and shine silently.
>>>
After the opening a library worker who helped me a little to assemble my room approached me and said: I really do admire you – wow, making such things in such times... (He meant my books, not the exhibition itself.) He could add: and in such a country – but he did not. While myself I could answer: It's not that bad – both the country and the times could have been much worse. But I said nothing. We went out. We left the emptiness in the gallery. Let it whisper and shine silently.
>>>
January 2008
Gdynia. „The Second Book Revolution”. The conference. Why „revolution”? Why „the second”? I don't know. Well, this is not a good reason to be upset and worried. Titles and names can be strange. My lecture (if it was a lecture) had a strange title, too. Very strange. MAKING TEXT A SIGN. MAKING SIGN A TEXT. What a bizarre thing it was. I wanted to tell something about relations between text and sign. I wanted also to present my recent book – Road Nonsigns. Of course, what I was telling was not exactly what I had prepared and expected to tell. This is usual that what I tell is not exactly what I want to tell. Frankly writing I shouldn't have opened my mouth. I should have shown page by page on the big screen behind me. Maybe it would have been better if I had clicked through Emeryk – maybe a hypertext would have been perceived as more revolutionary than a signtext. But I didn't do that. I was to read a lot in the train but I only snoozed a lot. A gale could pushed me into the see but it didn't. So, it was not that bad in Gdynia. And I found some new ideas for Liberland. However the most important was an illumination. Yes. I experienced an illumination. I had brought there ten wooden slats almost two meters long to hang on them ten nonsings (A2 size) and thus transform a part of the lecturing hall into a road-like path. Afterwards I didn't know what I had to do with them. I was walking along the street like a primitive hunter carrying a spear or javelin. The wind was roaring, rain was slashing. Rage and despair. And suddenly an illumination: neither a spear nor a javelin I'm carrying in my hand but side faces of the boxes for my books! For five years I have been cutting them out off large pieces of plywood – always askew and twisted – what a toil! rage and despair! - and I can just buy slants! - slants can have different sizes and they are always smooth and even - - - - - I needed five years and five hundred kilometres to get this idea! A revolutionary idea! This is going to be a real revolution! Next revolution of my books!
December 2007
For two months several dozen books made myself will be displayed in glass cases in the main hall of the National Library in Warsaw: shut, open, folded, unfolded... Is there any better place for books? Yes. Certainly yes. The reader's hands.
September/November 2007
It happened what had to happen, because nothing else could happen and I would be extremely naive expecting anything else to happen. When in spring 2005 End of the World according to Emeryk had been released on CD I was wandering which bookshop's shelf one could find it on. There was no hypertext novel shelf in any bookshop here for nobody had written and published hypertext in Poland until then. And now my curiosity has been satisfied. An audiobook shelf has appeared lately. And there, to my utmost surprise, although I shouldn't be surprised at all, I found Emeryk. Of course not in every bookshop, only in very few – in majority of bookshops it is not available. In the biggest online bookshop one can find Emeryk among audiobooks, too. So, hypertext lovers and hunters had almost no chances to find it. However, we don't need to bother about it. There are almost no hypertext lovers and hunters here. That's why enitre Emeryk can be found in Liberatory since now on.
July 20, 2007
My friends were reading aloud my books in the BWA Art Gallery in Kielce. At night. Frankly writing I shouldn't have accepted the proposition, because all my books are banned from being read aloud. The reasons of aloud reading ban are obvious and clear and don't need any explanations. However I said yes for I thought it would be a chance to show my books were after all for reading although with no doubt other than aloud. Many people are convinced my books can only be looked at, because they are unreadable at all.
May 2007
I have changed LIBRO2N. I transformed leporelloes into codices. Now the book is more handy. A friend of mine who got recently the leporello version informed me that he had succeded to open and unfold the book, However he mentioned nothing whether he had succeded to fold and shut the book. I'm sure he will succede. He is a great book lover, so he will read it carefully and carefully will fold and shut it.
May 7, 2007
The City Library in Krosno. Me on one side of the barricade – two or three dozens of teen pupils on the other. The barricade of books, liberature and hypertext. I'm telling them stories about something they don't know and I don't blame them for it – where and how could they learn about it? I'm telling them about things they don't want to learn about because these are absolutely useless things and this is more difficult and annoying. I can only hope that many years later one of them, to his or her utmost surprise and horror, will wish to find the answer for this tricky question: can sharp and angular things be described with round letters?
April 25, 2007
Edinburgh World Heritage. 5 Charlotte Square. Two hours long presentation of Liberatory. Very good response, even enthusiastic. So enthusiastic that nobody will think of making something more. For example to make a new edition of Sienkiewicza Street (the day before The Demarco European Art Foundation purchased the last copy). Or to proliferate any other of my books absolutely not miraculously. Myself I still have not enough courage to ask. Anyway, the situation is much better than, for example, the lack of enthusiasm or perfunctory commendations for politeness sake or indifference and disgust.
Books are supposed to live their own lives. If so, they should take care of their business themselves. But it may happen they simply don't like to push themselves forward too much. What then?
April 2007
Bristol Artist's Book Event. In fact I shouldn't have been there – my books are not artist's book. My books are writer's books. However, so far I haven't heard about any writer's books event, what seems quite strange since there are quite many writers' books. Nevertheless my presence here is not unjustified – in fact I am also a bit of an artist; sometimes I make a drawing. I could really easily take part in any musician's book event. Unfortunately such events occur even more seldom than writer's book events... It's nice to meet good old friends whom I haven't seen for a couple of years. Very nice. I wonder if books have such friends, too. It's nice to see some new places. I have never been in Bristol before. I wonder if the books are pleased, too. I wonder if they can see the same as I can. I wonder if my eyes are their eyes - not necessarily it must as it could seem.
January 2007
I took my books from Białko Art Gallery and Ha!Art book store back home. They spent there enough time, I think really enough. They already experienced what they were to experience. They were already seen by those ones who were to see them. And who was to buy one or two of them has already done so. Quite likely. At least I think so. There is always some hesitation and uncertainty: maybe just the very next day somebody came and wanted to purchase all books? Well, if so he or she would be determined enough to contact me while nothing like that happened. So now the books will travel a bit. And relax at home.
October 27, 2006
I am in a gallery of contemporary art in the town where I was born. This is to be the beginning of a collection presenting the achievements of various artists living in this region. Among many pictures hanging on the walls I can see two my books. They are imprisoned in tight show cases. They could easily hang on the walls of a musuem of Nature among various butterflies and other bizarre flying creatures. Maybe it would be better... The showcases have been made specially for my books and they are neat and nice - the books look pretty. However this seems the most awful fate books can experience.
October 14, 2006
I'm telling about my Treatise on Pageography at the IALS IV Conference [Institute of English Philology, The Jagiellonian University of Cracow]. Just telling – not lecturing. And even this “just telling” is transforming gradually into “just showing my books”. As usually. It could seem my presence among philologists, theoreticians, researches and academics has no sense – we are on two sides of a barricade. It could seem so, but it should not – this barricade is made of books that I (non)write and they (non)read.
September 2006
Nondescription of the world continued...
After a few years break again in the Book Art Museum in Łódź. An exhibition-reading-room. Tidy, precise, clear, without anything unnecessary. And I succeeded to complete my new book: LIBRO2N. I almost completed it - the CD with pictures was not ready, but I don't suspect any visitor to be so inquisitive. Well, to mislead a visitor's attention I hung on the walls the prints showing how the Norblin gamadelt was created.
September 14, 2006
I show my books at the Library in Płock. I talk for almost two hours. Like mad. Can't shut my mouth up. I keep promising not to talk and tell since I'm fed up with this constant explaining why I make so bizarre books and why they are so very few and then I talk like a wind-up toy. A few listeners buy End of the world according to Emeryk. They are going to wander through the wilderness of hypertext. It may happen the intentions will suffice. They look like people who wouldn't replace easily the noise of turned pages with the clicking sounds. However the look may be quite confusing. They may be daredevils and madmen in disguise of ordinary citizens.
Summer 2006
Andrzej Metzger second hand book shop in Kielce. The shop window. Notes. Sketches. Copy-books. Manuscripts. Typescripts. Old type-writers. My first dot-matrix printer. My first inkjet printer... An attempt to show the process of book making. Well, to show just a scrap of this process - I couldn't unmount my head and put it there... Also an attempt to show the relations between technology and the ultimate shape of a work... Yes. Just some attempts. Nothing but attempts. Indicating the problem. Drawing the curtain a little bit back. And I had to place there shelves with my books. And I had to hang there the explaining-complicating texts. And I had to put in the background some drawings. The shop window is not so big. But it is astonishingly deep. Really and metaphorically.
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