Artist's Book Yearbook 2003-2005 - Book Arts - University of the ...

Judging by the quality of image and
construction, I’d want the artist to have
achieved more here. The capability
demonstrated in producing a work of palpable
material luxury such as this one, is capable of
twisting that luxury into forms that do more
than play into the patterns of advertising. I
think there were glimmers of intention behind
this book that wanted to present something
more subversive than the final product. I don’t
mean uncomfortable, or challenging in that
sense: I think there may have been an intention
originally to create a much more voluptuous
response.
There was an initial situation created by the
excellent packaging and construction of the
book. Very effective in setting the scene for
some sort of metaphorical chocolate combat,
but let down, unfortunately, by the interior.
But on this showing, I would hope that the
artist will continue making books, and working
more on how they create the content for them.
Paradise is Always Where You’ve Been
Sandy Sykes
Paradise usually suggests and pre-supposes its
opposite. And the threat of transition from one
to the other. This book’s title “paradise is always
where you’ve been” denies us the distinction,
and challenges us to look at paradise depicted
in the round. It’s a shocking place.
I’m writing here, looking out at a bright sky, a
few russet trees not touched yet by spring.
A herd of placid animals seem to be looking at
me. All very peaceful. Yet this is only removed
geographically from hell, and is less than the
width of an instant away from airwaves
saturated with panic, recrimination, lawlessness,
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confusion and the absence of justice. But here,
all is peaceful. There’s a box of paper from a
supplier on the table. The supplier’s name is
Paradis. I wonder if the paper is made from the
pulp of forbidden trees.
I pick up this book, with its heavy wooden
covers. There’s a hole in the front of the book.
I take a deep breath and heave myself into it,
descending (if that is the word) into the
torments of paradise. It’s a tight squeeze, and
when I make it I’m not sure that I don’t prefer
my previous world. At least there I have
luxuries. I can wear the shroud of ignorance
from time to time.
My guide is a dog. A survivor, but not a
reassurance. An accomplished accompanist,
his howl counterpoints the main themes and
drags my attention around as I bump along the
bottom. I’m bombarded with texts and images
that seem to burst all around me like shells.
There’s no peace here, not even in the fabrics
of the body itself. The appeal to Gerald Manley
Hopkins’ Windhover, usually a source of
satisfied perfection in nature, is winged: a hurt
hawk spirals down and is consumed. There’s
hunger, destruction death, accusation.
Paradise, though. There are tiny glimpses of
what has failed. It just makes the absence
harder to bear. There are territories, loves, losses
touched upon. There was supposed to be a
design to which everything conformed. There
was supposed to be justice: here the notion is
poked fun at. It’s just another criterion in
God’s box-ticking management-style, and
subject to change without notice. But power
remains. There’s plenty of that, for those that
have it, and precious little for those that don’t.
The only power left to some is the accusation
their bodies make after their death. Their
power is in the vacuum made by their removal
from life. The dog’s howling again. I wonder