MOURNING & MELANCHOLIA
The long-awaited bundles of Mourning & Melancholia are finally here! What better readings to accompany the fleeting passage of spring? Nothing more than the books we present in these bundles makes for a better-suited companion to those languorous afternoons spent pondering on life, looking at the indifferent blue of a sunny sky. The government sucks? Capitalism has won? Life got in the way and all the ice cream melted before you’d even notice? No worries: we got you covered.
Here is a set of embroidered handkerchiefs to dry your tears—of joy, of grief, of scorn. To dry your tears as you look at the clouds. What do you see up there?
Here is a small crowd of friends. They came to gather around the grave of Rosa Luxemburg. As someone sprinkles the coffin with a handful of earth, a man with a sharp pen and round glasses starts speaking. What is he saying? For you, we stopped to listen and wrote it all down. An impossible rescue from history’s gaps. This handkerchief reads The Graveside Orations of Carl Einstein.
Another cloud, another shape. A pencil? A relic? How does a pencil become a relic? It happens when a thread draws a line, a line draws a house and a house draws a woman. When a woman draws a pencil from her holster-bag and starts firing memories, inch by inch, she takes the house back into her body one more time. When all of this and so much more, this is her final goodbye. How does a pencil become a relic? This handkerchief reads The Mourning Lines.
Over there, look. Threads and traces left by a friend on notebooks before suddenly passing. An archive? Yes. An archive of works and thoughts we remember hearing like echoes of another person’s art. Ideas. Poetics. Picture films. Chantal Akerman. And boxes and boxes of life. Vibrant ghosts, and the corridors of the British Film Institute. This handkerchief reads Lamentation. In the Stuart Croft Archive.
And what about this cloud here? Here, a mentor has died. Committed suicide and left his fictional scholar Josh Goetz to wonder why. What else has he left? Writings, of course. Fragments. The thread follows words and the words follow paintings. Whose paintings? Giovanni Segantini’s. And what else? Words long to be read, and published. But who’s going to publish? Who’s going to save the mentor’s manuscript from oblivion? A woman, perhaps? Ah… tricky. This handkerchief reads The Small.
A vanishing cloud. The circus was in town, but you missed it. Someone was telling you a joke but they had to go before… Before. Oh, well, this is annoying. Everything here escapes itself and we are left with nothing but laughter paraphernalia. Somewhere, this has worked before. Some time ago, there was a circus and clowns and lots of laughter. Too bad they had to go. You didn’t make it on time. Funny, though. Yes but, what exactly? This handkerchief reads 800 JKS.
Clouds elicit thoughts. One never enters the same river twice. Conversations and echoes of kinship and the steps we took in the halls of libraries and museums and train stations, everything reflecting in the eyes of the past and caught in a brief glimpse before it turns away again, leaving us to think back on those vivid postcards from the Old Continent. Mythology and psychoanalysis. The same river, never twice. And yet… Oh, how we long to be back. Neither wealth nor beauty but life. This handkerchief reads Ruskin's Triangle.
Look, over there. The sun is setting now and the clouds are bright red. The last trick, pulled out of a sleeve by a boy in oversized magician clothes. Later that day I am sitting with My Racist Aunts halfway up a hill. An old man comes by with a bag of shopping. He reaches into his bag and holds out two large peaches. When you're a child and your Racist Aunt takes you for a walk and buys you ice cream. When you have yet to sigh before her blabbering in the face of the coming elections. When you're a child and handkerchiefs serve only two kinds of people: party magicians and racist elderly relatives. This handkerchief reads The Drawer and a Pile of Bricks.
–> Eleonora Natalii
Mourning & melancholiaBundle 1
Any three books from the below (please specify):
£25.00 plus postage
Mourning & melancholia
Bundle 2
All seven books:
£50.00 plus postage
Tamarin Norwood, The Mourning Lines, £9.00
Adam Roberts, Lamentation. In the Stuart Croft Archive, £9.00
Simon Wortham, The Small, £12.00
Mark Francis Johnson, 800 JKS, £10.00
Dale Holmes & Sharon Kivland (eds), The Graveside Orations of Carl Einstein, £15.00
Murdo Macdonald, Ruskin's Triangle, £10.00
David Berridge, The Drawer and a Pile of Bricks, £10.00
Here is a set of embroidered handkerchiefs to dry your tears—of joy, of grief, of scorn. To dry your tears as you look at the clouds. What do you see up there?
Here is a small crowd of friends. They came to gather around the grave of Rosa Luxemburg. As someone sprinkles the coffin with a handful of earth, a man with a sharp pen and round glasses starts speaking. What is he saying? For you, we stopped to listen and wrote it all down. An impossible rescue from history’s gaps. This handkerchief reads The Graveside Orations of Carl Einstein.
Another cloud, another shape. A pencil? A relic? How does a pencil become a relic? It happens when a thread draws a line, a line draws a house and a house draws a woman. When a woman draws a pencil from her holster-bag and starts firing memories, inch by inch, she takes the house back into her body one more time. When all of this and so much more, this is her final goodbye. How does a pencil become a relic? This handkerchief reads The Mourning Lines.
Over there, look. Threads and traces left by a friend on notebooks before suddenly passing. An archive? Yes. An archive of works and thoughts we remember hearing like echoes of another person’s art. Ideas. Poetics. Picture films. Chantal Akerman. And boxes and boxes of life. Vibrant ghosts, and the corridors of the British Film Institute. This handkerchief reads Lamentation. In the Stuart Croft Archive.
And what about this cloud here? Here, a mentor has died. Committed suicide and left his fictional scholar Josh Goetz to wonder why. What else has he left? Writings, of course. Fragments. The thread follows words and the words follow paintings. Whose paintings? Giovanni Segantini’s. And what else? Words long to be read, and published. But who’s going to publish? Who’s going to save the mentor’s manuscript from oblivion? A woman, perhaps? Ah… tricky. This handkerchief reads The Small.
A vanishing cloud. The circus was in town, but you missed it. Someone was telling you a joke but they had to go before… Before. Oh, well, this is annoying. Everything here escapes itself and we are left with nothing but laughter paraphernalia. Somewhere, this has worked before. Some time ago, there was a circus and clowns and lots of laughter. Too bad they had to go. You didn’t make it on time. Funny, though. Yes but, what exactly? This handkerchief reads 800 JKS.
Clouds elicit thoughts. One never enters the same river twice. Conversations and echoes of kinship and the steps we took in the halls of libraries and museums and train stations, everything reflecting in the eyes of the past and caught in a brief glimpse before it turns away again, leaving us to think back on those vivid postcards from the Old Continent. Mythology and psychoanalysis. The same river, never twice. And yet… Oh, how we long to be back. Neither wealth nor beauty but life. This handkerchief reads Ruskin's Triangle.
Look, over there. The sun is setting now and the clouds are bright red. The last trick, pulled out of a sleeve by a boy in oversized magician clothes. Later that day I am sitting with My Racist Aunts halfway up a hill. An old man comes by with a bag of shopping. He reaches into his bag and holds out two large peaches. When you're a child and your Racist Aunt takes you for a walk and buys you ice cream. When you have yet to sigh before her blabbering in the face of the coming elections. When you're a child and handkerchiefs serve only two kinds of people: party magicians and racist elderly relatives. This handkerchief reads The Drawer and a Pile of Bricks.
–> Eleonora Natalii
Mourning & melancholiaBundle 1
Any three books from the below (please specify):
£25.00 plus postage
Mourning & melancholia
Bundle 2
All seven books:
£50.00 plus postage
Tamarin Norwood, The Mourning Lines, £9.00
Adam Roberts, Lamentation. In the Stuart Croft Archive, £9.00
Simon Wortham, The Small, £12.00
Mark Francis Johnson, 800 JKS, £10.00
Dale Holmes & Sharon Kivland (eds), The Graveside Orations of Carl Einstein, £15.00
Murdo Macdonald, Ruskin's Triangle, £10.00
David Berridge, The Drawer and a Pile of Bricks, £10.00