This was the decor in a Madison restaurant, one of many piles in the deep windowsill. Somehow the stripped-down books without their bindings are compeling in their rough texture, uneven color, fuzziness, and warmth. The jute (hemp?) string adds another dimension. And it doesn’t seem disrespectful, merely getting down to the essential.
What mysteries, what eloquence, what agonies and ecstasies are bound in these un-bindings? The texts, the print, the paper; the stories, the context, the narrative — they are just possibility, awaiting the untying. Tantalizing, visually and conceptually, I think.