A Booksmith Journal

For graphic designers, booklovers or just lovers of Typograhpy, this great short stop motion movie gives us a glimpse of the rich History of these guys. Made by  http://forrestmedia.org

What follows is not necessarily another boring dissertation about me, or a ego-panegyric. It's my first attempt of writing a short story. Excuse my English. -------------- A Nootka On an evening without wind, lying against a tree, John trembled and awaited anxiously. He wasn't siting directly on the ground: a layer of white and something that might be a pinecone came before the humid soil. From there, he could still see the shore line and the endless ocean upon it. The destroyed tall ship and the ones that would never come to rescue him could find shelter on that bay. People from the tribe were approaching in silence. He lost track of time a while ago, but it must been more than two years, and by now he knew everyone's name. An old man was climbing slowly but effortlessly. By the time they both were face to face, John couldn't tremble anymore, a strange resignation was given to him while they look at each others eyes. The Chief held his cane on one hand and t

I never wore a suit to grieve. Too expensive. Not worth it, and I will stand for that. If I ever die, put me in a coffin with short pants and flip flops. To be dressed properly it won't fade the fact that I would probably have died from a ridiculous reason such as being ran over by a rickshaw. But last week, I sent my only suit to the dry-cleaner for the first time. When I meet Fabio, we spoke in “Portuñol”, which is a meet-me-in-the-middle option for Spanish and Portuguese speakers who doesn't know each other language. It was two years ago, and he came to learn English, but with no basic knowledge of it. Nothing, nada. Even with such a barrier ahead, he made tons of friends in just a couple of months. He arrived in September and by Christmas eve, he was in the conundrum of picking one of the many dinner invitations he got from friends and acquaintances. The secret: being completely fearless of English language. It was a learning process: Honey is not the same as horny, sweet

I came back from home less than a month ago. My dad was diagnosed with a severe heart condition and I went there to support him and the rest of the family on the surgery. It was late August when I found out, and in less than 48 hours I was in Toronto, killing eight hours of endless time  before my next flight. Eight hours is a lot when your mind works feed by anxiety and emotions. Two years ago, shortly after I began my journey in Canada, my parents moved from the small condo I lived almost my entire life into a larger house, in what could be called the suburbs, which are quite endless considering the size of Buenos Aires. The moving, my trip. For a nostalgic person like me, those two events drew a line in my life. Youth was comming to an end; adulthood was inevitable. When I landed for the first time in Toronto's airport I had nothing but a backpack, a girlfriend and some money. We lived there two months before moving to Winnipeg. Sorry, I don't have a picture at

The main reason why it took me so long to write is the author itself. Hemingway will be among the most hypnotically personalities that literature ever had. I am no literary critic, nor an expert. Just a person who likes reading. But there's something deep in my mind that puts together some authors. For me, Hemingway shares a large room, smoky and poorly furnished, with Roberto Arlt, Edgar Poe, Lord Byron, Ambrose Bierce and José Martí. I'm not going to explain the reasons, but they are definitely not just literary ones. Hemingway dedicated the novel to his third wife, Martha Gellhorn. Photo: hemingway and Gellhorn in China. Hemingway spent most of the 1920's in Paris with his first wife and the lost generation gang, who used to gather at Shakespeare and Cía.: Ezra Pound, Getrude Stein, Faulkner, he got drunk several times with Joyce; and other artists. Just a side note: this is reminds me a lot of the Argentinian group of the martinfierristas in Buenos Aires during

Cuando trabajaba de librero en Buenos Aires, cada tanto se me daba por agarrar un libro al azar y darle una chance. Sin pensarlo demasiado. Así fue como un día tiré de ese lomo fino color blanco de la editorial Interzona. A Plop lo dejé estacionar por cuatro años en la biblioteca de mi casa. Casi añejo, lo tomé una tarde y lo leí de una sola sentada. Con sus capitulos breves, contundentes, los golpes secos de la narrativa de Pinedo es inusual y precisa. Una novela difícil de clasificar. Ucrónica y fantástica, se la podría aparejar a The Road, de Cormac Maccarthy, Borneo de Oliverio Coelho, o El año del desierto de Mairal. Pero también profundamente antropológica: Un mundo después del mundo. Hombres que vagan por el basurero universal. La narración de una historia de la degradación y la superviviencia. Pinedo nos cuenta la historia de Plop, uno más entre un grupo nómade siempre amenazado. La trama en sí no es necesariamente original. Pero lo que se destaca por encima es el est

I joined a workshop about creative writing for new canadians last Saturday. I'm going to leave aside the adjective "new canadian", my thoughts about that are a lot to take in on a few lines of this blog. I joined mostly to improve my poor writing skills. But it  turns out that this will be way more exciting that I though. The diversity of the group and the approach to writing looks very promising! I definitely recommend it. Find more info HERE . So I went home last Saturday with an assignment: to write, in no more than 500 words, "who am I". It looked easy in the beginning, but after some thinking you realized that is a dammed complicated question! This is my response. I decided to write it as a dialogue (or super short story). I better post it here before I change mi mind. -----------------------------  -Do you really think that's who you are?- asked lecturing him. -Well, not really- answered uninterested. The room was filled with cigar smoke an

Last night I had some friends over for dinner at home and one of them asked me Why do I love Buenos Aires. For the first time I thought about it not in a classic-sales-pitch perspective. Because, lets face it: Buenos Aires is a beautiful huge city among many others in the world, and also very dense, awful traffic, dirty, definitely not safe if you get caught in the wrong place and time. So, why? I may be able to understand the tourist seeking for and "adventure" in the far south, but besides them, why do I love the city? To able to have a café the proper way . That's it. That was my best immediate answer. Let's see. One of the things I miss the most is to be able to sit down at a Café, order un cortado en jarrito and work on my stuff, whatever that means. For me, those places are study rooms, gathering point with friends, reading rooms, dating places, restroom -of course, among many other uses. I have to admit that I barely knew Buenos Aires until my teen age. Th

Mirá que si será procrastinador, que hace dos años y medio comentaba aquí  la adquisición de una nueva prensa de encuadernación que me disponía a restaurar. Mancha de aceite, oxido, no giraba. Hasta caca de pájaro tenía cuando llegó Después de algunas idas y venidas a Buenos Aires, le pude dar esos retoques que buscaba. Aún interminada en los detalles, por lo menos quiero dar cuenta de su pogreso. Le metí lija y cepillo de alambre a más no poder. En contra de los escépticos, la fórmula limón+bicarbonato de sodio me ayudó mucho a sacar el oxido. A fuerza de movimiento de brazo y mates en los de Marian, el óxido fue cediendo. Por supuesto que como el tiempo es cruel, no pude terminar de emprolijar los últimos detalles. Pero al menos quedó más presentable ya con su mano de pintura encima. Por lo menos tengo la confianza de que puedo hacer un buen trabajo. Así que ya saben, quién quiera emebllecer su prensa.... Faltó hacer brillar esos pernos y tuercas, pu

Hace horas nomás anunciaron que Alice Munro es la galardonada del premio Nobel de literatura de este año. Noticia que siempre sigo por puro cholulaje, y tengo que admitir que creo que leí solo dos cuentos de ella y nada más. Pero como es canadiense y resulta que ando por el pago, nobleza obliga, queda mencionada el día de la fecha. Dejo uno de los dos cuentos que leí, que casualmente también lo publico la revista Ñ, así que mejor les dejo el link nomás: Ficción, Alice Munro No, no voy a hacer una semblanza panegirísta. Soy cholulo, pero no chupamedias...

La semana pasada leí Plop del autor arriba mencionado. Tenía en casa una copía de la primera edición de 2004 publicada por Interzona. Escribí algo acerca de aquel libro, y cuando me tenté a buscar al en internet acerca de él, descubrí con tristeza que murió de un cáncer en 2006. No cambia en lo esencial al relato, pero me deja un sabor a pena por lo que hubiera podido ser... El siguiente texto lo recogí de la edición del 12 de Diciembre de 2006 de Página 12. Este fue su último escrito. ---------------------------- La felicidad es esa extraña bestia que se come al pájaro que se agita Proverbio incaico ...Y mañana la extraña bestia se va a despertar dentro de mi pecho y va a empezar a masticar, a deglutir, a triturar a ese pájaro que se agita en mi interior. Y va a empezar desde mis labios, mis ojos, mis dientes. Y lo buscará por mis manos, mis brazos. Va a bajar hasta mi vientre, a mi entrepierna. Va a recorrerme, en los momentos en que yo te recorra. Y

As many youngsters in their early 20 -or earlier, I thought several times about having a business of my own. Not so much financially driven, more likely a desire to have a place to achieve independence and work in my beloved projects. Unlike most, not a bar. More like a combination of cultural centre, café porteño, bookstore and workshop. Pretty vague. Since it's opening in 2012 I worked at a small boutique pizza joint. Corrientes is a beautiful restaurant in the historical exchange district of Winnipeg. Unconsciously, some part of me leaked into this project. A sixty-seat restaurant that manages to have a cozy coffee area at the back with a couple of bookshelves that pretend to reflect the literary aspect of the avenue. And of my life too. For some reason I don't want to understand, I don't read as much anymore. Travelling and living abroad brings a sum of complications that push against the habit. Plus, I've been very lazy lately. A joint argentinean-canadaian

I don't wanna go out  and I won't stay in get things done. Kevin Johansen? or David Bowie? Often I hear this voice inside of me asking me about my passion. Well, everyone knows that a passion nowadays is something you do and you really, really like doing it. Work on it, spend endless hours without noticing because you enjoy that and there's some sort of hidden source of stamina that makes that possible. It doesn't make him or her a robot, but they could turn very persistent. And when you see them you feel inspired by they energy and vision. I often see this people and their achievements while browsing social networks, on those rare and occasional high school reunion or similar. I have some disturbing thoughts about that. The same reason as many: is not that easy for us to find our true Passion (note the capital letter). It ain't a minor detail. Seems that most of the people have that crucial first step figured out and they are moving on to the fol

Toronto is a lovely city. I feel that I haven't enjoyed it enough. To walk on King st. or Spadina, to browse the stores or walk around at the Kensington market. Type is a small bookstore and an example of the beauty of the city. http://typebooks.ca/ I was pretty sure that the sentence in the cover was "There is nothing  quiet  in a real book". Oh, well... ------------------------- Boring Thoughts About Me (BTAM) (This is the very first of a new section in this blog) It is for me a very strange feeling every time I'm in Toronto. Two years ago, we landed with nothing but bags. No idea of where to spend the night, or how to get a cab, a job, a beer, or even if to stay or move to another city. El turista nunca sabe a dónde estuvo; el viajero nunca sabe adónde va*. It's hard to get a grasp on such a rich city, when you are overwhelmed by your own emotions. The two months we lived in Toronto we stayed in several places and meet so

And finally you found a purpose for those magnets you bought... Eduardo Tarico and Sol Rébora are probably two of the most internationally acclaimed bookbinders from Argentina. With different backgrounds and training, both were gifted with creativity and a neat technique. I wrote about them back in the days, and this time I decided to do it in english to give a chance to some   anglo friends to know them. These two pieces were selected on the Designer Bookbinders International Bookbinding competition 2013. Eduardo Tarrico Romeo and Juliet , by Sol Rebora Links: You can find here the whole list of   Prize Winning Binders Eduardo Tarico's website:  http://www.eduardotarrico.com/en/index.php Sol Rebora's website:  http://www.estudiorebora.com.ar  (spanish)

Entre pedazos de palabras y caricias en ruinas, encontré algunas formas que volvían de la muerte. Venían de desmorir. Pero no les bastaba con eso. Tenían que seguir retrocediendo, tenían que desvivirlo todo y después desnacer. No pude hacerles ninguna pregunta, ni mirarlas dos veces. Pero ellas me indicaron el único camino que tal vez tenga salida, el que vuelve desde toda muerte hacia atrás del nacer, a encontrarse con la nada del comienzo para retrocederse y desnadarse. Roberto Juarróz, Poesía Vertical Este blog comenzó con el objetivo de compartir mis experiencias en el mundo de la encuadernación y alguna que otra apreciación acerca de la literatura, libros y afines. Pero dos años atrás decidí emprenderme en un viaje que resultó ser más permanente de lo pensado. Mis prensas, cizalla, mis libros (!), es decir, mi taller y mi biblioteca quedaban en Buenos Aires y el autor desprovisto empezó a incursionar en alternativas para mantener su

(De cómo llegué a la crisis en la que actualmente me encuentro. Ejercicio de catársis autobiográfica no recomendado para su lectura por terceros. Parte uno) Creo que no te quiero,  que solamente quiero la imposibilidad  tan obvia de quererte  como la mano izquierda  enamorada de ese guante  que vive en la derecha.  Julio Cortazar, Otros cinco poemas para Cris   El primer libro "serio" que leí me lo regaló mi viejo. Tenía unos 12 años y un día llegó con un ejemplar de editorial sudamericana de "El cazador oculto" de Salinger (conocido mejor como El guardián entre el centeno o The catcher in the rye). Fue mi primera novela de hombre grande, y por supuesto que me impactó profundamente. No solo por el libro y la conveniente edad a la que lo estaba leyendo, también porque me lo había regalado mi viejo que nunca lo tuve como un tipo lector. Es decir, desde que nací que mi viejo no leé y me había regalado aquel libro fenomenal (lamentablemente como

La encontré en el sitio web de diseño de  http://www.reinierdejong.com . Una biblioteca que literalmente crece a medida que crece nuestra hambre literaria, o al menos a medida que crece nuestra colección. No me atreví a preguntar el precio, pero si alguien se siente curioso. El contacto del manufacturador es el siguiente: company: address: zip code: telephone: email: Reinier de Jong Design Coolhaven Terras 2d NL-3024 AT Rotterdam +31-(0)10-2602110 info@reinierdejong.com