Looking Foward to the Cold Season

I have always had a tendency to become introspective when the days shorten and fall bleeds into winter. I've been thinking about how I came to book binding in the first place and how I ended up with degrees in photography instead. Physicality, permanence, a fleeting moment captured. At the time these were the things that attracted me to photography but I couldn't explain that besides blindly referencing to 'the very essence of photography'. The time I spent in the darkroom, light, time, chemistry; resulting in a physical manifestation that was precious. But it was more, it was the very first time I could speak and feel heard. When I speak out loud I mince my words, stumble, I get anxious and go blank. Photography was the first time I had a language I could command with authority.

I remember when I was young, warm bright sunny days, sitting in front of a reproduction baroque bookshelf with claw and ball feet and glass paneled doors. This was my favorite piece of furniture growing up, one of many antique and reproduction pieces purchased by my father; a man who thought he could just buy happiness and class; who when he realized he couldn't find either he left, discarding us with the detritus of his failed attempts. The many moves our family had to make left the piece covered with deep scars and improper fixes. Intoxicating, the odor of mahogany and old paper filled the room when the doors could be persuaded to open. I would sit propped up against one of the claw feet, pull down one book after another not reading but judging, more concerned with the packaging then the content. The age of various volumes fascinated and perplexed me. Why was one a hundred years old and becoming dust in my hands while another volume, twice as old, seemed fine. To me they all had importance, they existed. I had the power to continue that.