I find myself consistently creating books because of the draw of their tactility, portability and familiarity. Below you’ll find a selection of books I’ve created, both by hand and through commercial printing.

If Max were as good of friend as I (2018). Half-clamshell box made of Japanese Kozo paper, book board & silk, to house the burnt, unread pages of The Trial.

Franz and Max were the best of friends, seeing each other daily, studying and working together. At one point Max even introduced Franz to his cousin, they became engaged for some time, and so they were nearly family. However, 94 years ago, at the age of 40, Franz died of starvation brought on by laryngeal tuberculosis, but asked one thing of his friend: “Dearest Max, My last request: Everything I leave behind me [is] to be burned unread.” But Max didn’t listen. His friend died, and by the following year, he had begun to organize and publish everything that was left behind. Franz became famous thanks to Max, and Max gained fame and wealth off of publishing his friend’s stories.

A colour selection tool like no other in “16” (2016). Commercially printed book, ISBN 978-0-9950835-0-9.
pg. 76 – 88

Jordan Pedersen: Volume One, Quotes (2016). Commercially printed book.

Part of the larger Jordan Pedersen project. This project was initiated after the artist repeatedly got confused with “the other Jordan PeTersOn” (which is as frustrating as it sounds).

Archive II: New Standard Course (2016). 19 sheets of Japanese papers, vinyl, board, compiled into a handbound book; handmade birch plywood, poplar, and hardware table. 42 x 30.5 in height (adjustable).

My artistic practice is an exercise in learning something which was once valuable but ceases to be so. Archive II: New Standard Course is a work based on a book belonging to my mother, the Pitman Standard Shorthand Course. This learning requires practice, and so my art practice has developed into the act of practice itself. Practice is traditionally understood as repeated exercises with the aim of acquiring skill, in order to use these skills with mastery, which is how the women who learnt shorthand did so. Not so for me. I practice, developing my understanding of the potential future for the object, while developing nothing of particular use.

Life moves on as I practice; I wake up, I read, I go walking, I sleep. But I know my objects cannot be neglected, so I find ways to incorporate them into my life, guaranteeing practice. They affect how I write grocery lists, the way I listen to the radio. One day I wake up and find the object to be exhausted, void of any future in my imagination. I know I am done; I abandon my object, the process memorialized in an archive of what I’ve learnt from my practice.

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