The Fluxus movement pushed boundaries in the hope of redefining the parameters of art. The aptly named Fluxus 1, shows the movement’s obsession with the collective and the varied contributions of multiple artists. Fluxus 1 is filled with instructions for how to engage with the work: “put finger in hole,” “put in 5 envelopes.” The result is a greater intimacy between reader and text. The author aknowledges the discomfort of this active exchange in his selection of bizarre images, such as x-rays of teeth and a photograph of the patch of skin behind an ear. The book is also comprised of various found objects which the audience is invited to contribute. In this way, the reader becomes author.Fluxus 1 is not written or illustrated by George Maciunas, it is “compiled and published” by George Maciunas. The artist’s role has shifted from creator to coordinator. This is also apparent in the work of Sol LeWitt, such as Arcs, Circles & Grids. It is a revolutionary concept that the artist can write a set of instructions to be carried out by others.Among the feminist books from Book Set 10 were Treading the Maze: An Artist’s Book of Daze by Susan King, and The Dickenson Composites by Jen Bervin. The first focused on a woman’s struggle with breast cancer, and the second on a famous poet’s unique annotations and marks. These books approach intimacy from a different angle than in Book Set 9. Through their subject matter, they tell us that a woman’s individual experience is an important and appropriate subject for a work of art.

Book Sets 9 and 10 redefined the concept of artist and art. Art is an experience. Art is life. This new artistic realm is well explored by the Relational Aesthetics movement and by the artist Ai Weiwei. There is a fascinating documentary called “Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry” which I highly recommend. As he says: “I think my stance and my way of life is my most important art.” [youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ma6Q03ljdrg[/youtube]

I found that, among the books we explored in this last set, there were various relationships between the text and the artwork.

In Fables, we saw a more traditional mise en page. The artwork played the role of illustration, but it was not a mere decoration: It was presented as playing a role, equally important in understanding the text, but still confined to its own quarters. An exception to this was found on the title page, where the artwork had a more dynamic and dominant presence. The name of the artist and other information were confined to the corners among the foliage as the images spread across the title page, transforming it into an inviting scene, drawing you in to discover what lay amid the pages.

Although Picasso’s work in Le Chef-d’oevre Inconnu was not integrated with the text, there was a play between the two, as evidenced by the wordless introduction comprised of lines and dots, often resembling musical instruments. On the title page (see below), we see the image of two overlapping faces. The O and E in the title do this as well. For the first time, there is a clear dialogue between the images and text, the latter of the two beginning to enter the realm of artwork, which we see come to fruition in Cortege and Jazz.

In Jazz, the literature and artwork were well balanced. The calligraphic font played off the vivid pochoirs. This made sense, as the narrative seemed to contain a similar dialogue with the images. This was also the case for Cortege, which held bold pages of text that bled to the very edge and complimented the audacious collages which were also without margins. The justified text was no longer viewed as words, but, rather, a visual field of color and shapes — an abstract block, just like the artwork.

Books, such as A Toute Epreuve, displayed the artwork as the dominant partner. The quiet font was often pushed by the lively blobs and squiggles out of the confines of the traditional margins to linger, off-centered, in the far corners of the page.

So far, we have seen little deviation from the traditional format of the codex, but a shift in and greater variety of text-artwork relationships.

As Rogers wrote, “Some of these appeal to the intellect, some to the emotions, some to the eye, and some even to the sense of touch. One cannot pick up a beautiful book without inhaling this elixir of creative effort, which is at the same time so stimulating and so gratifying to the senses.” I think that Morris was speaking to a higher standard in book making which would produce books that appeal to the senses — which flaunt their quality craftsmanship. On the first day of class, we talked about why we had chosen this course. Many of us spoke of our love of old texts. We were not talking about the content, but rather the beauty of the binding and fonts used. Personally, the experience of reading a slapped-together pamphlet with yellowed pages and uneven margins is far less rich than when I read a book written with flourish on hand-made paper.

I agree with Russem’s point that a book must be true to its function to “convey the coherent and specific ideas of a writer.” (p. 51) and that it need not be handsome or embellished. I disagree that it doesn’t need to be well-made. Of course, by definition, any form of written or printed pages joined together can be considered a book. But there is value in craftsmanship. Unlike Morris, I acknowledge the value of a paperback novel in serving its purpose, if not with as much flourish. But that third chair is not a folding bridge chair, it is one which eventually bows or collapses under you. A book which is not made well may serve its purpose to a certain extent, but it will cheapen the reader’s experience, allowing only the formation of a weaker relationship to the words. In class, we learned about semiotics. Meaning and intent may be conveyed, not only by the lettering, but also by a book’s binding, the arrangement of the pages, the spacing of line and character, its coloring and illustrations.

I believe there is a middle-ground between Russem and Morris’s ideals. Morris regards the art of book making as a craft which should abide by certain rules for aesthetics, most of which deal with legibility, aiding in its function as a means of communication. Morris is very concerned with legibility and goes in-depth about spacing of both character and line.

As for Russem’s example of the chair which is so handsomely crafted that it is emotionally painful to sit on, at that point, doesn’t the it become a work of art, rather than a utilitarian object? What do you guys think?

I agree with evmdavis that Morris’s villainization of industrially produced books is somewhat close-minded. I believe there to be potential within the industrial world to produce quality books. Although, I have yet to find a mass-produced book which surpasses the beauty and quality of the hand-made manuscripts I have seen.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I did not take this advice. I found I was drawn to books with elaborately decorative bindings or those which were delicate and simple, their cleanliness evoking a sort of mystery which drew me in to explore what delightful illustrations could be held within.

My favorite experience was looking through the Nuremberg Chronicle. I enjoyed looking at the illustrations and finding where blocks may have been re-used.

It was thrilling to be able to understand what was being described due to the availability of a faithful translation. Knowledge of their meaning brought life to the illustrations which before had been bizarre and perplexing. But reading the translation was not enough — I wanted the real thing. I was able to find matching pages and read through them line-by-line. I wish we had translations for all of the different texts.