A guest post by Carolyn Trant.
James and I met at Schumacher College, at a week-long event combining poetry and bookbinding workshops, and soon realised our creative inspiration came from similar sources. We enjoyed discussing our ideas from a position of intuitive understanding. This was quite special, enabling us to get down to the nitty-gritty and fine-tune our arguments without time-consuming explanations, to push ideas forward without tedious back-stories.
Since I was a small child I had always loved poetry but was forced to choose between writing and painting by the tenor of the times (art school in late 60â€™s/early 70â€™s); James also makes wood engravings and pots. We respect each otherâ€™s judgments and feel free to criticise constructively. Our discussions inspire us each in our own medium, passing images and words between us.
We see the books as parallel texts, word and image, which we develop in tandem; neither â€˜illustratesâ€™ the other and a book is gradually extruded, together with the physical processes of itsâ€™ making, like red white and blue striped toothpaste from a tube. For me the physicality of the finished book is a major consideration from the start.
As an artist I have always been inspired by words, music, storytelling and the natural world; gradually the Artists Book seemed the natural gesamtkunstwerk I had dreamed of as a child. Although single-minded in pursuing the vision of my books, collaboration urges one to push oneself even further, with the benefits, if one finds the right person, of moral support â€“ creativity can also be a tough and lonely business. I do also continue to make my own personal books, sometimes using texts of my own.
My first book Gawain was inspired by Harrison Birtwistleâ€™s music, the operatic production premiered at Covent Garden and the libretto by poet David Harsent â€“ a fait accompli but very much chiming in with my own preoccupations of links between medieval and contemporary concerns. Similarly my book Winterreise used Schubertâ€™s music and Wilhem Muellerâ€™s words, in both English and German, plus my own text, all layered on top of each other with images underneath. Iâ€™ve also made a dual language edition of Llorcaâ€™s Sonnets of Dark Love with both texts and images cut in wood. Cutting texts by hand gives them a new dimension.
Working closely with a contemporary poet was an exciting step forward. To date James and I have made Hunting the Wren and Love Poems and Curses; The Untenanted Room â€“ published by Agenda Editions and soon to be re-thought and hand-made as The Ruin; The Rhyme of the Reddlemanâ€™s Daughter (2015) and Some Light Remains (2017). Some of these books have also later been developed into more three dimensional forms, cut-out leporellos, peepshows etc.
For a poet, editions are regrettably small as they are very â€˜hand-madeâ€™ but they find their way to important public collections here and abroad, where there is the potential to be looked read by a large number of people. We also show them at book fairs where many people come by to look, handle and often stand to read them. James also has the poems published in magazines such as the London Magazine, and Agenda, often with an image included. It all feels a worthwhile enough way to get them out into the world.
In terms of art practice, an Artists Book is for me like a little time capsule when deposited in a collection like the British Library. At the same time, when displayed, however briefly, or seen by a â€˜readerâ€™, it contrastingly becomes a transitory event â€“ fugitive and volatile - and like a piece of land-art or a theatrical experience it can live on in the mind afterwards, with a variety of meanings for the possibly wider and more varied audience than the regular gallery-goer; a poetic event in itself which the text concentrates and refines even further.
I prefer this idea to the fixed image on a gallery wall. Book Fairs, with a democratic marketplace of tables and stands (and hopefully without curated interventions) leave room for varying kinds of interactions with the â€˜the publicâ€™ by both poet and image maker, including informal conversations, talks and readings.
Innovation exists in the ways the art takes place whilst embracing longstanding methods of human communication - narrative and storytelling, aesthetic appreciation and emotional response; emotion being not merely a wash of sentiment but something that takes one from one place to another, whether comfortable or not, in a situation where the audience can talk back, critique, discuss. Working with another artist/poet places feedback at the centre of the creative process from the start, keeps one grounded and provides a sounding board at every stage.
Any halfway attempt to reproduce our work digitally always leaves us dissatisfied. For Hunting the Wren we used silk-screened text printed by a local expert; many people thought it looked it like letterpress, which is hugely costly and time-consuming and although lovely, irrevocably linked to a historic aesthetic. Although meticulous within our parameters, we prefer to try to work fast, so that new ideas donâ€™t go â€˜off the boilâ€™, and we can move on. I made a point of being trained by a wonderful â€˜tradeâ€™ bookbinder when the need arose. Sometimes pragmatism is a virtue.
Print runs, like the measure of the â€˜acreâ€™, are contingent on how many images for each page can be printed in a day. For Gawain I actually set myself the same task as in the story of the Green Knight, of finishing the whole project within a year and a day. The next impending important book fair often has some bearing on the case, or at least on how many hours sleep I allow myself.
Latterly, the use of magnesium line-blocks, made by a helpful company called Metallic Elephant, has opened up new possibilities for texts; they are tricky to handle on my etching press, which is what I use for the woodcuts, but any imperfections are part of the process â€“ something I always love about medieval technologies which are often working right up to the edge of possibilities.
In other words materiality, â€˜words made fleshâ€™ as it were, seems exciting and important alongside the digital world, a sort of â€˜slow bookmakingâ€™ for a fast age, within which James and I can keep up the pace of excitement about further collaborations, and battle to get things done with heads full of ideas stretching into the future. The Ruin, with hand-cut texts, is to be finished for the Oxford Fine Press Book Fair in spring 2018.