Just returned from an event at Tribes Gallery down the block, where two poets were reading from their new books, both of which are published in paper form.
The kinds of books these happened to be speak to the future of books, which some have rightly compared to vinyl. The vinyl record, of course, is now a niche object as the book is soon to become: Rarefied but not necessarily rare or exorbitant.
Still, the limited-run collector's item will probably always be with us, as my first example suggests.
The first of the two books contained nothing but etchings. It was by a New York poet who has collaborated with an artist in Ireland to create a book in which the poems as well as the artwork are all etched by hand (the artwork by the artist and the poetry by the writer). The book will be sold primarily to wealthy collectors.
The other book was by a poet named Susan Scutti. She began her career by performing spoken word at the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe down the block, but she makes her living as a proofreader and copy editor by day. She simply wanted to do a collection of her best poems on the printed page she's come to love, since her usual venue has involved performing and recording.
Scutti seemed gracious as well as grateful for her book's appearance. She thanked everyone she possibly could for their part in bringing it to the paper stage: Those in the audience, those who were elsewhere and those no longer with us.
Said collection,
The Commute, is published in paper form by a small press and will be done in small runs, as needed.
The printed novel might well be headed for niches like these (though I can't see a five-hundred-page-long etching in fiction's future).
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Before that, I'd been involved in a reading with a group of writer friends. It was intended to celebrate an anthology of pieces paired with artwork. All of these were once published in limited paper form, as a "portfolio" on a letter press.
The occasion was their release on CD and also on a dedicated web site: Niche, niche, niche.
When I sat down before the reading, I found myself conversing with a man who had brought a camera mounted on a tripod. He explained that he documents readings constantly and would be recording the whole event. Eventually, he said, he'll add the edited version to his series of poetry and fiction documentaries on DVD, volumes of which include many famous writers as well as the occasional odd duck (me).
I'd never really spoken to the man before, but once he'd shown me the finished product, I realized I'd encountered his work in video stores throughout the country.
It's amazing how much work still finds expression in backroom whispers: in lofts, galleries, fugitive manses, performance spaces, indie stores with shifting half-defined merchandise. "This couplet comes with a platinum squirt gun by Leon Golub."