by Glen Epstein
I woke up this morning at the crack of eleven and all this commotion at the feeder. Though I am a bit puffy from the drive from South Bend, I realized slowly immediately (because I see it twice a year) it was DST and I get totally disturbed how our human power can dictate time without regard to all creatures great and small. The Cardinals are clashing with the House Sparrows, the Red-wings are surprised to find Red-bellies (and vice-versa) and on and on.
Daylight Savings Time is a real snafu for nature. It takes weeks for our feathered friends -whoa, neat phrase-to reaclimate. Well, Days of the Handmade Book was like that (in a metaphoric seque stretched to the edge). I have read some energetic reviews but one really cannot put into words what Anne Binder has accomplished (and indirectly, her family). ‘Curiosa felicitas’ is close: painstaking spontaneity. (One of her kids -I can’t remember if it was Russell or Matthew, whispered to me on Friday night that it was the first time in weeks that they actually ate dinner at home!)
You had to be there to first, be stunned by the architecture of the presentation (yes Anne Binder and Bill Tourtillotte), four related but brilliantly distinct exhibitions of communication (Alphamark, the books of DOHB, Visual Voices, and Logos -and later -the Gestalt ‘fifth’ show the live ‘happening’), and second -and much more relevant and promising and the glimmer of hope - the bunny-like increase and thriving of REAL PEOPLE over the three days; those folk, as someone mentioned, who went back home and called other real people, and if this went on a week I think Anne would have to rent out the stadium at Notre Dame.
Not exactly like the confusion at the feeder. Better. The lovely ‘confusion’ was the crowds discovering something awry when they expected sunflower seeds and the same old mixed feed and loving the exotic new taste. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this kind of education and enlightenment. Sure, the conferences are alive with starry adjectives, but we’re in our own cocoon. Here - except for the radiant cocoonists- were NONcalligraphers and artists, seeing or discovering a calligraphy they had long ago pidgeonholed. And loving it! Like, as was stated (yeah, a sixth exhibition!) the demonstrations were gaggled with adults and children. It’s hard to express my own surprise and wonder without feeling guilty. I’m not Anne Binder but I am now deliberate to maybe change my name to Anne and get something done here rather than bitch about tunnel-vision.
Okay, I’ll slip off. It was one hell of an eye-opener. The only reason I haven’t mentioned other names in our section of the stadium is not one should be excluded, and that would happen, Anne, thank you! It was one beehive and it started with a Queen. I mean that in a good way.