Unpacking my library
Welcome to the 115th edition of this Mailing List!
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I should probably note that this email ended up becoming a lot more introspective than originally anticipated. For that reason, I decided not to add any links to it. If you're looking for links and recommendations, please wait for the next email.
Before I moved, I was taking pride in the fact that I would be able to (mostly) locate every book in the completely unorganized system I had set up. There had been no plan behind it. The room that served as my office/studio was very small. Books would arrive, and I'd put them where there was space. Once space ran out, shelves were added until there was no more space for them. At some stage, everything was filled, leading to Tetris style reshuffling. It worked. But to be honest, it was also quite tedious.
After the move, my books remained in boxes for weeks, mostly because there had been one crucial piece missing for the first big new shelf (one of the feet the shelf was supposed to sit on -- you couldn't go without). It would take weeks of back and forth with people who probably are located in China to get them to send the correct piece (they sent a bunch of wrong stuff along the way).
Once the piece had finally arrived, the shelf was assembled. And then I started unpacking my boxes. Given that I had had enough time to think about how to go about it, I decided that my new shelf would be only for essential books, books that have deeper meaning for me for whatever reason: books I love or books made by friends.
Even though the new apartment is much bigger than the old one, curiously my new office/studio might be even smaller than the old one (it does have functioning heating, though, so there's always that). Filling the space with shelves for all books isn't an option.
But just like good art lives from restrictions, so do many other activities in life, such as having to organize one's book shelves.
Before moving, I had given away about 25% to 30% of my books, mostly books that I hadn't looked at in a long time and that I was certain I wouldn't look at again. Curiously, the local library made it too difficult to donate art books. I ended up dumping them into local charity boxes. So it goes.
With the new shelf holding my favourite books, the older ones will hold the rest. Or rather they will hold what I think I want to have around. A third set of books will live in boxes in the large closet of my office/library.
As you might be able to imagine, the above has resulted in considerable work, which isn't even done, yet. I might be 80% through. But the new shelf has started to fill in nicely. The books are organized alphabetically (by author), which entails a lot of shuffling once a new box arrives.
If you're wondering why I'm telling you all of this -- who cares how some blogger somewhere in Western Massachusetts organizes his books? -- there's a larger and I must admit rather unexpected outcome from doing the work.
I don't know to what extent you have been able to pick up on the following. Maybe this has been completely obvious, or maybe I've managed to conceal it well enough.
For months I have been feeling pretty disenchanted with photography. It's not that I dislike photography -- quite on the contrary. But I think that in the world of photography, there are quite a few things that make me question my existence in it.
Seeing all those books on my new shelf has given me a much needed boost: There were and are so many artists whose work I love. The presence of their work in my home enriches my life. It is that very enrichment that I had questioned before: was it really happening?
Well, it is. And I'm happy about that. Even as my dreams about my own position in the world of photography have come to naught (I'm not teaching any longer, I am unable to sustain myself from doing something photography related), photography is still able to give me something that means a lot to me.
I don't know whether the above is too self-indulgent. There always is a larger degree of self-indulgence when it comes to the arts: if there is no introspection, then, well, you end up with work like [oh, you can insert the names here yourself].
Introspection also has to happen at the end of those who look at art: what's the point of art if you merely consume it?
As an aside, I feel that this is exactly where so many discussions about art in general go off the rails these days: there is no introspection. It's just depressing.
I also feel that someone who writes about photography in a critical fashion needs to not only be honest with themselves about how they feel about things, but also with their audience. I maintain that good criticism has to start from making it clear where you're coming from: what is your base line? What are your assumptions, your preferences, your biography?
As a writer, I think that there is always room for improvement. Once you become comfortable, you might as well stop. At least that's my approach. It makes for perpetual unhappiness, because things could always be better. But it also makes for growth.
(Given that you're reading this email long after it was written, you will not know which parts took longer to write -- or where there maybe was a pause. This is one of those spots with a long pause.)
I want that growth, both as a writer and photographer. To be honest, before my move things appeared to have become too stagnant for me, to the point of me questioning why I was even writing about photography. What else is there to say about pictures of sticks and stones or about other formal exercises? What is there to say about exhibitions created around some incredibly vague theme?
Now, I feel as if there still is plenty for me to write about this medium -- and all of that merely because I organized my book shelf.
But really, what this all comes down to is not the shelf itself. It's not even really the books. It's re-finding that there are love and passion for something that often makes it very hard to feel love and passion for.
Of course, with that passion re-kindled -- or maybe with the clutter around that passion removed -- there now remains the challenge of pushing the writing, and by that I mean attempting to push the conversation forward. That's the difficult part.
I'll try my best.
I told you this email would be introspective. I hope you didn't mind. If you made it this far, all that remains is to thank you for reading -- and also for the lovely responses that occasionally arrive in my inbox.
-- Jörg