I’m not dead, I promise. I’m just not home.
I’m here, actually.
I spent the first few days with these folks,
for the sake of this.
Since now my trip is for pleasure rather than work, I spent today up here.
And now I’m leaving for home, but I’ll be taking the long road—by way of this.
The goal is to take as much time as possible for things like this,
and for moments like these.
I promise to share when I get home and have access to a computer again. See you on the other end of the trail.
Some blogger I turned out to be. The normal day-to-day juggling that comes with the territory has escalated into a death-defying circus act while I get ready to exhibit at Codex, the super-big-deal biennial international book arts conference in Berkeley, coming up in a few weeks. So now instead of a blog, a business, a bunch of Dead Feminists and a book—it feels like I’m juggling flaming torches. And I always seem to drop the blog first. Sorry about that.
A composite of two image flats.
Anyway, after a good, long run, my Local Conditions exhibit is closing tomorrow afternoon, and this week I’ve been revisiting some of my favorite images from the book. This one always gets me thinking about how much a city can change over the course of a century, and how for a newcomer like me, that change isn’t always apparent. There aren’t always little plaques or signposts to tell you what used to exist where you’re standing now—or even any evidence at all of how things used to be.
This scene depicts the Drumheller Fountain (also known as Frosh Pond), located on the University of Washington campus in Seattle. Incidentally, on my first trip to the Northwest almost exactly four years ago, I was standing on this very spot when I saw Mt. Rainier for the first time. This is where the idea for the book first struck me—although at the time it was a very different, and much simpler concept. And at that moment, I had no idea that the view itself had a history all its own.
Photo courtesy of the University of Washington Library
This is Frosh Pond in 1909, when it was called Geyser Basin (part of the so-called “Arctic Circle”), and when it was not a part of campus, but the centerpiece of the University’s predecessor, the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition.
The A-Y-P showcased the natural and economic resources of the Pacific Northwest with pomp and splendor. To mirror the purpose of the exposition, the fairgrounds (designed by the famous Olmsted Brothers) brought the region’s greatest symbol into stunning focus. This so-called “Rainier Vista,” culminating in the Arctic Circle, helped draw in 3.7 million visitors over the fair’s four-month duration.
Courtesy of the University of Washington Library
Very little evidence remains of the A-Y-P fairgrounds today; the vast majority of the fair’s buildings were temporary, and even the landscape design of the modern University has all but obscured the original layout of the A-Y-P grounds. But the Arctic Circle is still there, and when you step out from behind a row of blooming cherry trees in the spring, the Rainier Vista still hits you with full force.
Speaking of fairgrounds, closer to T-Town is another historical remnant—this time, however, instead of a long-past event with only a marker left behind to hint at what was, these fairgrounds still hold to their original purpose today.
Illustration by Eddie Sato, Camp Harmony inmate and “staff” artist.
I’m talking about the Western Washington Fairgrounds in Puyallup, which are still in operation (though the event is now called the Puyallup Fair—that’s pronounced “Pyoo-AL-up”). In 1942, the U.S. government relocated and imprisoned over 100,000 Japanese Americans living on the West Coast; the internment began with the forced migration of families living on Bainbridge Island, across the Sound from Seattle.
Courtesy of the University of Washington Library
While they awaited the construction of permanent internment camps further inland, many Japanese Americans were sent to temporary “assembly centers” to coexist in cramped barracks with other families, often in substandard living conditions. Thousands of Washington’s interred residents were sent to the assembly center nicknamed Camp Harmony, hastily constructed on the fairgrounds in Puyallup, right alongside the fair’s permanent buildings and rides.
Three image flats; the mountain is almost completely hidden here.
Camp Harmony was torn down after just seven months, but the Fair continues to this day. And the wooden roller coaster that overshadowed Eddie Sato’s scene of the camp still stands. It made for an image that dovetails eerily well with the homage to Japanese art upon which Local Conditions is founded. Now that I’ve learned the history of the place, I’ve lost my appetite for funnel cakes and blue-ribbon vegetables—at least in Puyallup, anyway. This ain’t no Minnesota State Fair.
Photo courtesy of Jessica Spring
And then there’s the kind of history that unfolds right before your very eyes. Remember the Luzon building?
Two image flats; recognize the sky in the background?
Well, it was slated to be a part of the book from the very beginning—just by virtue of being a structure that caught my eye and that came with a good view of the mountain.
But then they knocked it down in September 2009, and suddenly I became an eye-witness, with an opportunity to document history as it happened.
Three image flats; same mountain, drastically different view.
I wish this were an imaginary scene, but I suppose it’s moments like this that the book is all about. Now you see it, now you don’t.
Courtesy of the Tacoma Public Library
And to top it all off, it’s looking like Tacoma’s history is in danger of repeating itself. This is a postcard dated 1905, depicting what was an iconic view even then—the “Gateway to the City of Destiny.” The building on the left is the former Northern Pacific Railroad Office; on the right is Old City Hall.
Postcard circa 1910—with clock edited out, oddly enough.
Tacoma built a new city hall a few blocks away in the 1930s, but both the Northern Pacific building and Old City Hall still stand—the addition of a freeway the only major change to the site pictured. But on November 24, 2010, after an unusual cold snap, a pipe burst in Old City Hall—soaking the walls, ceilings and floors with 30,000 gallons of water. With extensive flood damage and the building owner entering foreclosure, the building faces an uncertain future. I only hope it doesn’t go the way of the Luzon.
Three image flats; there’s an individual print version here.
When I started this project, I had no idea of what I was getting into. I knew that I would stumble upon some pretty fascinating history, but I never would have guessed that a fountain, some fairgrounds and a pile of bricks would draw me in so completely. But now I’m hooked—and the best part is that after all this work, I no longer feel like an outsider looking in.
This is my history now, too. For better or worse, I want to see how it all plays out.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
P.S. The exhibit is coming down, but you can view Local Conditions online—both here on the blog (look for more posts on the book in the coming weeks), or as part of the Artists Wanted Year in Review competition. Pretty please, take a look at the book on my portfolio page and cast your vote for the People’s Choice award! You can vote once every 24 hours, so spread the word; voting ends on February 4. Thank you!
This might seem a little strange, coming from me, but the New Year’s resolution at the top of my “art” category is to draw more.
I mean that I’d like to spend more time with my sketchbooks—with everything else that happened last year, there just didn’t seem to be a spare second for observing the moment and jotting it down.
The daily book was about the only thing that received any attention, and even it spent the entire year on the back-back-back burner.
I still have quite a bit of catching up to do there, though—
so that’s where I’m going to start.
It’s a daunting prospect; even just filling in half-finished sketches (maybe I should have shown you those instead!) amounts to a huge time investment, and a mountain of work.
But I’ll get there. And besides, it’s those last two blank slots on every page that interest me the most.
They stand for the future that’s unwritten, and I find I can’t imagine what could possibly complete the picture—nor could I ever have predicted what has ended up here thus far.
When I first started this project, it seemed like a painfully slow undertaking.
But now I’m surprised at how quickly the book is filling up,
and I’m anxious to find out what will fill out this page—and the next, and the next.
Well, today I flip the book back to the beginning, pencil in hand—and so I’ll find out soon enough.
Happy New Year!
First of all, a whole lot of letterpress-printed, hand-bound thanks to everyone who came to my talk last week—your smiles went a long way toward erasing my stage fright. I only hope I didn’t say “Um…” too many times.
Second, I’ve been hemming and hawing about how best to share this thing with the rest of you—sorry for taking so long to show my face around here. Even with Sarah’s excellent photography, it’s just a lot more difficult to explain how it works when I can’t hold the book out into space and demonstrate in real time. It’s a problem with every artist book out there—an interactive sculpture, complete with moving parts, that also happens to tell a story is just dern hard to document.
So for now, I’m going to go through the mechanics of the thing, step by step, and go into the whys and wherefores in other posts. And for those of you who might not be familiar with the term “artist book,” you’re going to find out really quickly that this isn’t your basic hardcover book. The definition of “artist book” is way too broad to go into within this post, but I’m hoping that by the time you get to the bottom, you’ll have an idea of just how broad the term can be—and what crazy things can happily fall into the category.
Okay, let’s start with the box. When it’s all closed up, Local Conditions is almost a cube (a 10-inch cube that’s heavy enough to be hiding a sack or two of flour inside). On the topmost face of the box is the frontispiece, containing the title and a topographic map illustration of the summit of Mt. Rainier.
The north, south, east and west sides of the box are faced with illustrations of the corresponding faces of Rainier, each depicting the mountain from the same moment of the day: sunset.
(That’s the eastern face on the left, and the north face beside it.)
Now, those two little bone clasps hold the thing together, and when you flick them out of their loops,
the book opens up, revealing a chest of drawers. Keep pulling on the flap you just raised,
and you’ll find that you can take the whole outer wrapper off and read the colophon (see below) printed on the inside.
The other panels on the wrapper include detailed instructions on everything the book does—more on that in another post.
Next, let’s open the drawers—nested in the bottom one you’ll find a Viewing Box (yeah, I know … a box, within a box, within a box … sorry.) that consists of a window, a background panel, and two tabs that stick out from either side.
The tabs match up with the grooved unit at the top of the chest of drawers, and the Viewing Box slides into place.
So now the box is fully expanded, and the book is assembled for use. Now comes the fun part.
Take a closer look at the Viewing Box, and open the top two drawers.
Inside the drawers you’ll find a series of cut-out cards, each printed with a different image. These little image flats slide right into the slots of the Viewing Box,
and face out the window to form an instant picture—kind of like an old-fashioned stage set.
There are 120 flats to choose from, and by combining, layering and switching them in and out of the Viewing Box, you can create seemingly endless scenes of Mt Rainier. I came up with one hundred, and documented them as part of the book (again, I’ll elaborate later), but I’m more interested in how many you can dream up.
(Hint: a lot. Thousands. Millions. To be precise, 1.4 x 1015, or 1.4 quintillion, if you really wanted to push the envelope.)
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Local Conditions: One Hundred Views of Mt. Rainier (At Least)
Edition size: 26
Book size: 10 x 8 x 8 inches when closed
Viewing window: 3 x 5 inches
Price: $2600
Colophon reads:
Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai (1759 – 1849) is perhaps best known for his seminal works, Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji and One Hundred Views of Mt. Fuji. The two series of woodblock prints, published from 1829 to circa 1847, depict the sacred peak within the context of landscapes and scenes of daily life. At the heart of the series is Hokusai’s own obsession with immortality, and his fascination with Fuji’s eternal presence.
Therein lies the rub: Fuji is anything but eternal. Beyond the usual, abstract geologic transience of eroding rock and drifting continents, Fuji is an active stratovolcano. Its days—and those of the lives and lands at its base—are numbered.
Here in Washington state, just forty miles southeast of my home, lies Fuji’s taller, more volatile, American twin. Variously named Tacobet, Tahoma and Ti’Swaq’, among others, by the region’s indigenous peoples, or simply “The Mountain” by contemporary locals—its most arbitrary moniker, coined in 1792 by Captain George Vancouver, is the one that stuck: Mount Rainier.
It’s easy to forget Rainier’s impermanence. It has presided over thousands of years of indigenous culture, followed by the encroachment and permanent occupation of white settlers. It oversaw the construction of the Northern Pacific Railroad, the fever of the Klondike Gold Rush, the splendor of the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition. It stood in judgment while the American descendants of Hokusai’s countrymen were imprisoned beside the wooden-frame rollercoaster of the Western Washington Fairgrounds, at the internment center nicknamed Camp Harmony. And it has watched the rise and decline and rise again of Tacoma, the City of Destiny lovingly misnamed in its honor.
Yet all the while, Rainier has changed as much as the tableau at its feet. Its volcanic restlessness shifts its form, as our capricious Northwestern weather masks its appearance. It hides, or dominates, depending on the time of day or year. Even we have proved a catalyst, as our warming climate chases its alpine glaciers into retreat at the speed of industry.
And one day—whether tomorrow or in a million years, in an explosion of ash or by the erosion of time—Mount Rainier will disappear completely. I can’t begin to predict the future, but I can attempt to capture the present moment. One hundred present moments, to be exact. If nothing else, Local Conditions is a reminder of the lesson of this place: that here in the Ring of Fire, we never see the same Mountain twice.
* * *
Illustrated, designed, printed and bound by Chandler O’Leary, through freak snowstorms, record heat, and a thousand gentle rains in Tacoma, Washington. Each of the book’s 120 image flats is illustrated and compiled from sketches, photographs and data collected in person, on location, from September 2008 to October 2010. All text and images were letterpress printed in Hokusai’s indigo ink, down the street at Springtide Press. Images and topographic map patterns are hand-drawn and watercolored.
For making it possible to turn this crazy idea into an even crazier reality, many heartfelt thanks to [the Tailor*], Jessica Spring, [Zooey*], Sarah Christianson, the Tacoma Arts Commission, the University of Puget Sound Collins Memorial Library, and the Book Arts Guild. Thanks also to the weather, for always, despite a notorious reputation, seeming to hold just long enough for me to grab the camera and jump in the car.
Produced with the support of a Tacoma Artists Initiative Program grant from the City of Tacoma Arts Commission.
* Names changed, as per usual.
It’s getting harder and harder to keep the secret these days—the Rainier book is almost done, and I’m just dying to show you. But I don’t want to ruin the surprise for T-town, so I’m going to keep it under my hat for just a little longer. Since November is Art at Work month here in Tacoma, I’ve got a whole kettle of shows, events, Dead Feminists, and other brand new stuff to help celebrate the occasion. So you’re invited! Come and see what’s cookin’—all events are free and open to the public. And I promise that come the week of November 8, I’m going to start some serious online bean-spilling.
Local Conditions
This is it, folks: after over two years of being under wraps, the book is gussying it up and stepping out for a solo exhibition. Here’s a brief description of what you’ll see:
Local Conditions, an interactive artist book, captures the changing faces of Mt. Rainier. Explore the 100 Views—or create one of your own—to discover a mountain both immortal and impermanent.
The book contains 120 image flats and a viewing box; by combining and layering the flats, the reader can create literally millions of scenes. Images are illustrated and compiled from data collected in person, on location, over the course of two years. Letterpress printed, watercolored, and hand-bound in an edition of 26 books. Sponsored by the Tacoma Arts Commission.
Exhibit runs November 4 through January 21
Collins Memorial Library, University of Puget Sound, Tacoma, WA
Opening reception: Thursday, November 4, 4:30 to 6:30 p.m.
Artist talk (sponsored by the Book Arts Guild): Thursday, November 11, 7 p.m., Room 020
I know there are a ton of other arts events happening in November, so if you had to pick one Mt. Rainier-y thing to do, I’d recommend the artist talk—this is where you’ll learn about the ideas, behind-the-scenes secrets, and crazy process I’ve been hinting at for so long.
Photo by Sarah Christianson
Studio Tour
Come say hello during the first weekend in November, as artists all over Tacoma open their shops for the annual Studio Tour circuit, hosted by the Tacoma Arts Commission. That weekend, Jessica and I will be unveiling the next Dead Feminist broadside, featuring a quote by this lovely lady (knitters, get your needles ready!):
During Studio Tour weekend, our shops will be the only places you’ll find the new broadside. We’ll be posting photos and ordering info online the following week, but Tacoma gets first dibs—if you want to see it early, you’ll have to come to the tour!
Stop by the Anagram Press studio to chat, browse, shop, and try your hand at printing—I’ll be open both days. Then take a stroll over to Springtide Press (open Sunday only) to meet Jessica—and her seriously amazing letterpress equipment—and special guest artist Victoria Bjorklund.
Saturday and Sunday, November 6 and 7
Open 10 am to 4 pm.
More information, maps, addresses and directions can be found here.
Sorry about the not-so-great photo…bookstore lighting. Oy.
Tacoma is Still for Lovers
If you can’t make it to Studio Tour, Jessica and I will be a part of the next Tacoma is for Lovers mega-holiday craft fair, hosted by King’s Books. The fair will run the whole weekend, with different artists on each day—Jessica and I will be there on day one:
Saturday, November 13
11 am to 4 pm
King’s Books, 218 St. Helens Ave., Tacoma
Photo by Nathaniel Willson
Hand2Hand: The Book as Art
Wondering just what the heck an artist book is in the first place? Join us for a group exhibition of hands-on artist books, and see for yourself! I’ll have The Faery Gardener on display.
Exhibit runs November 17 through January 9
Columbia City Gallery
4864 Rainier Ave. South, Seattle
Gallery hours: Wed-Fri 12 to 8 pm; Sat-Sun 10 am to 6 pm
Opening reception: Saturday, Nov. 20, 5 to 8 pm
Coasting
All this talk of art and shows is exhausting—is it beer o’clock yet? It is at the Tempest Lounge, and Jessica’s brought the coasters. Check out her letterpress installation, Coasting, on display through the month of November.
Tempest Lounge
913 Martin Luther King, Jr. Way, Tacoma
And don’t forget the Feminist Wiles show, open through November 5!
Whew—okay, that’s it. See you in November, if not sooner!
I can’t believe a week has already gone by since my last post. I’ve lost all track of time, because I’ve spent nearly every waking minute with my face an inch away from the drafting table.
Let’s step back, and stretch out a bit.
My studio is often a sea of papers—an occupational hazard—but these days the swells have consisted of pencil snapshots for my Mt. Rainier book. Dozens, and dozens, and dozens of them.
Time is ticking down, counting closer and closer to zero, and there are still many miles to cover before the clock strikes deadline. Yet suddenly, things are starting to come together. It won’t be long until I can share something that makes sense—something that looks more like a book, and less like a pile of drawings. I promise that you’ll be among the first to see it when I do.
I’ll do my best to pop up here regularly in the meantime (and in the comments sections of my fellow bloggers), but if I go missing for long stretches at a time—well, you know where to find me.
I’ve been sitting on this post for months now—it’s just that after spending so much time hunched over this project, I needed some time off from even thinking about it. But now I’m ready to talk birds again.
From left: Cedar Waxwing; Steller’s Jay; American Avocet; Purple Martin; Tufted Puffin
Eighteen months, twenty-five birds, six hundred twenty-five individual prints and ten box sets later, my little Flock is finished.
Mountain Quail; American Bittern; Long-billed Curlew; Hooded Merganser;
Laysan Albatross
Barn Owl; American Kestrel; Eurasian Coot; Anna’s Hummingbird; Herring Gull
It’s a little crazy to see these all together, like, well, birds on a wire. Each one has been broken down into its own little assembly line for so long that I forget sometimes to see them as a set.
Western Tanager; Lazuli Bunting; Northern Flicker; Bullock’s Oriole; Belted Kingfisher
Common Loon; Marbled Murrelet; Northern Shoveler; Harlequin Duck; Brown Pelican
As you can see, what’s represented here is a pretty broad cross-section of Washington birds. There are so many bird species ’round these parts, in fact, that I almost didn’t know where to start—and narrowing the choices down to twenty-five was by far the most difficult task.
Wait. I take that back. The hardest part was keeping the glue off of the pricey imported Japanese book cloth (glue plus cloth equals death—or at least wailing, gnashing of teeth, and starting all over from the beginning).
You see, it seemed silly to have a set of prints with nothing to house it. My inner book artist took over (thanks to Jessica’s tricksy enabling), and insisted on encasing the first ten sets of the edition in handmade clamshell boxes.
Even though the results are always worth it, I don’t have much love for making boxes—what I do love is printing the colophon, or production notes. A colophon (or in today’s hardbound novels, the “note on the text”) is an essential element in any artist’s book; this is where the artist steps outside the book’s content and talks about the making of the book itself. For this I decided to go back to my letterpress roots, and hand-set the text in metal type.
While I’m rarely able to fit hand-setting into my projects these days (a drawback to all this D.I.Y. lettering I’ve been doing), it’s still my favorite method of getting a block of text onto a page. And this beloved Bembo, cast locally at Stern & Faye, is so beautifully spaced and balanced that it’s a dream to set and a pleasure to read.
Here’s what it says:
The sheer variety of avian species here in the Pacific Northwest is staggering. Nurturing a fledgling love of birding was easy; the hard part was winnowing my list of favorites down to a couple dozen portraits. Here, then, is Flock, a motley kettle of songbirds, waterfowl, raptors, and shorebirds. While they’re not exactly birds of a feather, every member of this brood can be found either as a permanent resident or a passing traveler in Washington state—with just a wingtip of artistic license, that is.
Printed from October 2008 to December 2009 on a gaggle of presses, including Vandercook models SP15 and Universal One, a Craftsman 6.5 x 10 platen, and my little Kelsey 3 x 5—at the School of Visual Concepts in Seattle, Springtide Press in Tacoma, the University of Puget Sound, and here at Anagram Press, respectively. The colophon is hand-set in Bembo, and each hand-carved linocut print is hand-painted with Pelikan watercolor (no pun intended). Of a covey of 25 birds, a tweet of 25 prints each, and a parliament of ten box nests, this is number [2].
Okay, so maybe I went a bit overboard on the avian puns. It’s just that the thought of getting my hands dirty on type drawers again had me all twitterpated.
The ten box “nests” are now sold out, as are several of the individual birds, but about a dozen or so bird designs are still available in the “Flock” section of the shop. And I have a fluttering feeling that there might be even more birds in my future—one of these days, anyway.
I’ve had volcanoes on the brain for nearly two years. Littering my studio are volumes of sketches, nearly 6,000 photographs, reference books, stacks of maps, and a brand new, functional prototype of the artist book about Mt. Rainier I’m working on—all evidence of my attempts at capturing a series of fleeting moments and freezing them in time and on paper (Rainier is hiding there in the clouds, at the bottom of the above photo).
Photo by the U.S. Geological Survey
And then there’s the little corked bottle of volcanic ash on my desk, inscribed with the date of the last major eruption of Mount St. Helens: exactly thirty years ago today.
I’ve been staring at that bottle on and off, all day, reminded of why I’m doing all of this (and why I can’t wait until I have something to show you!).
This project began as a tribute to Hokusai, the Japanese printmaker and illustrator who created his famous Views of Mount Fuji (36 views in the first set and 100 views in the second) woodblock series over 150 years ago.
Hokusai wanted to demonstrate the unchanging immortality of Fuji amidst the transient nature of everyday life. To him, Fuji was forever, an unshakable icon of Japan and one of the foundations of his culture.
The trouble is, Fuji is a volcano—just like Rainier and St. Helens—that by its very nature is constantly changing right along with the lives being lived in its shadow. That knowledge is where I found the root of my own project, and since then I’ve tried to document the fire mountain in my own back yard—to be there for every change and permutation.
Today’s date lit a bit of a fire under me, and prompted me to get on with the business of finishing this artist book. Because one day this is all going to happen again. Mount Saint Helens will be first, I’d wager; being the most active and youngest volcano in the Cascades, it may only be a matter of a few years. And some day, even if it’s a hundred or a thousand years from now, Rainier is going to have its turn, too.
For now, though, I’m just doing my best to pay attention to the present moment, because one day I may need help remembering how things used to be.
The sun came out yesterday afternoon, and Mt. Rainier peeked out from behind the clouds. On a whim I tossed my camera into the car and bolted to Paradise, where I had been hoping for one more research shot for my book: Rainier in the snow.
Well, I certainly got my wish.
An hour and a half later I was standing in the cold, at the highest point on the southern park road, and the furthest one can go before the snow melts at the end of June and the rest of the park opens.
I looked over at one of the few cars around me, and was absurdly reminded of all those winters I spent in North Dakota (minus the mountains, of course).
It was nice to think that if I wanted snow, I could come and get it whenever I wanted—without having to shovel my way out of it.
If you ever wanted to find out once and for all what the heck an artist book is, take a little field trip to Burien, WA. The group show Page Turner: Contemporary Artist Books is up this month at the Burien Arts Gallery, a tiny half-Cape house converted into a charming exhibition space.
Kelda Martensen did a stand-up job of curating the show—and artist books aren’t easy to display, believe me. She’s represented a wide variety of work, from prints to traditional bindings to kinetic sculptures, featuring the work of artists nationwide, including Inge Bruggeman, Ken Botnick, Regin Ingloria, Jana Harper, Diana Guerrero-Macía, and many others.
The gallery is open noon to four, Thursday through Sunday, and on Thursday, March 18, at 7 pm, Kelda will be giving a curator’s talk about the work in the show, sponsored by the Book Arts Guild. Free admission, always.
I’ve got a couple of pieces in the show, as well. Above is From Concentrate,
and this is The Faery Gardener.
Here’s the rub, though: the recession has hit all galleries where it hurts, but since the Burien Arts Gallery is run by the city, times have been especially tough there. This will be the last exhibit in the Cape Cod house; and possibly the last ever for Burien Arts, unless they can find public support, funding and a new space. So come check it out before they have to close their doors on March 19 (the website says they’re already closed, but you can still see the show).
Speaking of artist books, if you missed Mnemonic Sampler at PLU, there’s another chance to catch the series in a new venue, closer to home: the Tempest Lounge here in Tacoma.
Although I love the clean beauty of a traditional gallery space, my favorite exhibition venues are the offbeat ones—restaurants, coffee shops, libraries, and now classy retro bars! I love these spaces because they bring art into real life, and invite folks to feast their eyes wherever they are. Most people (including myself, I must admit) are more likely to step into an eatery or a library than a gallery, and a coffee shop doesn’t have the same intimidating associations that some people have with galleries (”If you’re not here to buy, you shouldn’t be here at all”). Plus, at the Tempest you can have a beer or cocktail while you look at the art. You can’t beat that.
If beer isn’t your thing, you can also have a cuppa tea or joe—Denise runs a classy joint here. So curl up on a retro couch for happy hour, come chat by the adorable green picket fence, or just stop in to take in that fabulous red wall. Mnemonic Sampler will be up through April 30.
