Books

"Hope is the most dangerous emotion."
 -Bane


I am learning to make books.  I must admit, books are awesome. There is something about a book, it contains thoughts, unique as well as boring, but thoughts that are wholly human. Thoughts that betray what we believe and what we feel.  Every book says something about the author.

I am learning to cut the covers off of old books to use as covers on my books.  Which is incredibly hard for me to do.  I hate spending money and buying bookboard for 10x the price of an old hardcover is more than I can handle. But only just barely.  As I stare down at a copy of "A Single Step" by Heather Mills, a book acquired for this exact purpose, I find myself hesitating. How dare I demolish this book? This story of  woman's life.  I do not in fact very much care about her story and I will almost certainly never read this book and yet, to destroy her book, seems... irreverent.

Don't worry, I chopped the covers off of that book like the experienced expert that I am not. I even threw the rest of the book into the recycling bin. Yeah, I am pretty cold and heartless. 

But I keep thinking of the value I place on books. And as I make my books, some are blank slates for others to fill and some will be for me.  Will I be able to sell the ones that I put my thoughts into?  Will I be able to put them out there for people to flip through and then dismiss?  I have spent three years at art markets, watching people walk into my tent, glance around at my sculptures, shrug, and leave. My work is a part of my heart, it is a place in my life and a moment.  And oh, it can hurt.  I know, I need to grow a thicker skin, I need to not take it personally, but lets face it, art is personal, if it wasn't, it wouldn't be art. 

 I can eventually drop Heather Mills book into recycling because her very fascinating life is actually not at all fascinating to me. She should not feel sad about this because she is very intriguing to millions of people.  My work is not fascinating to millions of people.  I should not feel sad about that because my work is fascinating to some people.  And as I have learned over the last three years, all it takes is one person, one person who walks into my tent and is spell-bound by what I do.  They are not why I make stuff.  I sculpt for me.  But their appreciation tells me I am not delusional and it gives me hope.  Hope that one day I could do this for a living, hope that someday there will be fewer shrugs and more enthusiasm.   Which is very dangerous indeed.