Book Objects as Containers

Over the last half a year, I have thought about the necessity of containers—a structure to house experience, or an idea, that would otherwise be vast and unruly. A gaping hole that is never-ending. Expression needs a form to be tethered. Containers create a resting ground for the distillation of ideas, thoughts, imaginations—a bounded space for play.

I have always been drawn to the book object as a container for art. One that is tangible, textural. It is private and intimate in creating experience for the other. In order to be experienced, it needs to be opened and touched. Art (belonging to the art world) is so rarely allowed to be touched, and so rarely belonging to anyone beyond the sphere of the art world.

Certain mediums, however, exist simply for people. The book object is one of them. It belongs to anyone. It can live on a shelf, a coffee table, or be left behind on a public bus that a stranger will find three days later. Entering the world of a book is a slow process. It is a beautiful ode to touch, intimacy and accessibility.