The Glories of the Chicago Art Book Fair

On Thursday and Friday I went to the first Chicago Art Book Fair,  which is “dedicated to showcasing emerging directions and diverse legacies within small press arts publishing. The fair features an international group of over 100 arts publishers, small presses, book artists, comics artists, zinemakers and printmakers”.

It was a great atmosphere— a classic zine conference twinged with real art prints splayed across two beautiful rooms (The Tank and Stagg Court) in the Chicago Athletic Association.

Tara Booth Prints: A Weak Horse and Peekin. Fun style.

Lainey Waugh: 3 prints with cutouts; here’s one:

Mary Tremonte of Just Seeds Collective:  I See You and  We Are Born in Flames are exquisite:

Fuck Work by Josh MacPhee, also of Just Seeds Collective is a pretty simple work:

A number of items from Press Press and the chapbook, Jamiyla Lowe: A Whole New WorldPull Groan by Keith Herzik, and WORK/PLAY: The CIA, The War on Drugs, and MK Ultra.

Vice Versa Press: sublime dollar noose poster and “Don’t Text Him” coasters.

One of my new favorite posters is from Other Forms . I’ve long been fascinated by the role of variation in capitalism, but I didn’t know that there was an early typographic corollary.

I really like the style of Colpa and his “He’s on Fire” poster (presumably honoring NBA Jam):

Congress: yellow print, which seems to be part of the Language Barrier family.

And lastly, the Chicago Art Book Fair poster by Clay Hickson:

 

How To Number a Notebook

One of the essential rituals of my journal-keeping is the numbering of the pages of a new book.

To me, touching each page is an incantation, invitation, prayer. Contemplate the glory and the words that will be scratched there. Time conflates and folds over and everything happens at once.

I keep five types of journals at all times: work, health, family, poetry. This is a film shot by Christian of me numbering Work Journal #53.

Recounting My Sobriety Day

I looked back at some of the writing I did on Sunday, September 10, 2000— my sobriety day.

I woke up “with bad hangover & very fuzzy”. I also wrote that I “decided upon waking what i had suspected and hoped: today is the day. i do not want to consume drugs or alcohol today. today. and i will go to an AA mtg tonight if i can find one. today is the day.”

I went to Church— 11AM Mass at Queen of Angels. The gospel was this story:

Jesus Heals a Deaf and Mute Man
(Isaiah 35:1-10; Matthew 9:32-34)

And again, departing from the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, he came unto the sea of Galilee, through the midst of the coasts of Decapolis. And they bring unto him one that was deaf, and had an impediment in his speech; and they beseech him to put his hand upon him. And he took him aside from the multitude, and put his fingers into his ears, and he spit, and touched his tongue; And looking up to heaven, he sighed, and saith unto him, Ephphatha, that is, Be opened. And straightway his ears were opened, and the string of his tongue was loosed, and he spake plain. And he charged them that they should tell no man: but the more he charged them, so much the more a great deal they published it; And were beyond measure astonished, saying, He hath done all things well: he maketh both the deaf to hear, and the dumb to speak.

Continue reading “Recounting My Sobriety Day”

When Irma was a child

In 1993, John F. Burns, my favorite journalist ever, wrote an article in the New York Times: British Fly to Bosnian Girl’s Rescue. Here’s a snip:

SARAJEVO, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Aug. 9— After worldwide publicity about her plight, a 5-year-old girl severely wounded by a Serbian artillery shell was evacuated today from Sarajevo by a British military aircraft and flown to Britain, where she was hospitalized in critical condition.

The evacuation was made possible by Prime Minister John Major, who dispatched an executive jet equipped as a hospital plane to Ancona, on the Adriatic coast of Italy. The wounded child, Irma Hadzimuratovic, was flown to Ancona aboard a British military aircraft that shuttles relief supplies to the Bosnian capital.

The article affected me greatly. I wrote this poem that day:

Injured Child Flown to London

Sound of helicopter.

Fleeting adoration rained on her.
Like Jesus, palms were laid under the hoofs of her
donkey and daymares of a simulated crucifixion
froze her gaze to one spot
just below the horizon. She was here to be
buried, not kissed.

But the kissing continued. Like bees
people swept in and out of her face.

This girl and the atom bomb tell us one thing:
That for sure every person now dead has
built up a visible shadow taken from the sun
after years and days of
eating the sun while they stood in a field hovering over a
noontime meal or pausing over an axe near the woods and we
see this shadow
through the naked sockets of memory
placed into the hypothalamus of every
5 year old kid on Earth.

This is what the pygmies told us when they
bowed down to a crypt holding their maternal
grandfather’s elbow bone. This is what Serbia told us when
they swept down on a million straw men.

This is what Irma, tattered child of Bosnia tells us,
flying in grave condition to a London hospital.
Now it has a name and it’s Irma and she is
free of sin and we will kiss her but maybe
like a hurricane she will go away someday
if we close our eyes and put our hands over our head

August 9, 1993

© 1995 Daniel X. O’Neil

God bless us all.