A Booksmith Journal

... o Craft Beer como le dicen en Norteamérica. Cuando vivía en Buenos Aires cerveza era un equivalente a Quilmes y las no tan múltiples variaciones de cerveza lager liviana. Las importadas eran una delicadez ocasional y las cervezas artesanales no tenían mucha presencia (excepto quizás El Bolsón, Antares y Patagonia). Cuando entré a una licorería por primera vez en Toronto, fue un agradable shock encontrar una gran variedad de cervezas. Pero más aún fueron dos cosas son las que me sorprendieron. La primera fue la variedad de estilos: nunca había escuchado de tripels, doppelbocks, lambics. Sin contar de que muchas de mis categorías por mi degustadas eran una pobre interpretación de las mismas. Hay un mundo allá afuera. Irónicamente, también encontré la Quilmes entre las cervezsas importadas Pero en segundo lugar, lo que lentamente fui descubriendo fue la variedad y la peculiaridad de las cervecerías artesanales locales. Las llaman microbreweries (o microcervecerías) a aquel...

To read this entry in english, click here . Escuchar:  Carta a Poste Restante by Jaime Roos on Grooveshark En el último mes y medio no publiqué nada. Y no es que nada me haya sucedido. Bastante anduvo pasando en los últimos meses! Pero a menudo me pasó que tenía algo que escribir y los límites de este espacio se me hacían muy angostos. Intenté de cambiar la estructura el agosto pasado, y quizás el cambio fue incompleto. Hoy saldo esta deuda. Este espacio solía llamarse El Taller de Libros; completamente dedicado a mi experiencia en la encuadernación. Mientras sigue siendo una de mis pasiones, la curiosidad me llevó a viajar por Canadá hace unos dos años y por azares del destino sigo allí. Muchas cosas cambiaron con la complicación para encuadernar o de traer conmigo mi prensa de fundición de hierro. Más que un salto al vacío, moverse y transformarse pareciera ser mi modus operandi.  Quizás sea la manera que encontré de empujarme a aprender. Lo más probable es que u...

Para leer esta entrada en español, clic acá . Carta a Poste Restante by Jaime Roos on Grooveshark Over the last month and a half I haven't published anything. It's not that nothing particularly interesting happened to me. A lot happened to my over the past months! But I often found myself trying to write it down and been limited by the structure that I personally assigned to this space (on top of my still limited english). I tried to change it last august, perhaps the change was incomplete. Well, here I am, ready to review that. This used to be "El taller de libros" (the book workshop), fully dedicated to my experience on bookbinding. While I still have a true passion for it, my sense of wonder brought me to Canada about two years ago and lots of things changed. Rather than a leap, moving and constantly transforming myself seems to be my  modus operandi. Perhaps a way to encourage myself to learn. Reflective and sensitive, I am definitely not a fast thinkin...

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 pictu...