Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Coffee table reading
I sometimes daydream about having an extra room to call the library, with floor to ceiling bookshelves, with a ladder on tracks, with a long table in the center wired with reading lamps, with an overstuffed chair near the window, wait, no - with a window seat stuffed with pillows, with an antique card catalogue that still holds dog-eared typed up cards from a library renovated long ago, with...You get the idea. Books in my homes have always shared space in dining rooms, in bedrooms, in living rooms. They sprawl, they pile up, they topple. I haven't yet been able to say, in reply to an inquiry about the whereabouts of a family member, "he's in the Library" with a pretentious faux accent designed to prove that I really know how pretentious that sounds, (though secretly digging it). So coffee tables have always stood in for the library, and in a way, that's good - the books of the moment aren't tucked away neatly, and when finished, they make way for the newer ones, forming that towering stack of words and photographs and essays and articles and illustrations that tilt and topple and color in your internal life.