The scale of the space also suits the content. Self published, hand printed, often labouriously fabricated using retrograde technology, zines are monomanial love poems to obscure subjects. Often they are received by an equally tiny audience. Small books are mini- propaganda machines for groups of one, published in desperation from the margins by activists, pedants, radicals, and loners. Think about the fan base of I Hate This Part of Texas , for example, or Cinema Sewer . Miniscule, probably, but certainly not indifferent. Architects in particular have had a long affinity for them, as Beatriz Colomia notes in her upcoming book on the subject, Clip, Stamp Fold: the Radical Architecture of Little Magazines 196X-197X .
It is fitting that the scale of the space suits the aim of the visitor. Take its dimensions: only 3’6” x 9’, with a sloping ceiling under the stairs above. A small light illuminates a wooden bench and pillow and there is a foot stool. All around the room there are tiny four inch selves jammed with hundreds of small folded books, glued, stapled and hand stitched together. On the right hand wall are the books thoughtfully curated for the visitors enjoyment on themes such as phobias or weather. On a high shelf, just like in an old corner store, are the zines rated R for their content. Here you will find saucier zines such as The Jericho Hot Tub Infiltration Project , or Book of Cocks .
What to read first? There are zines on every possible subject imaginable, in sizes ranging from microscopic to tombstone. There are cut and pastes, collages, blow ups, linocuts and recycled bits of not-quite-sure. The colours are spectacular, as are the contents. What’s not appealing about a zine called Fish Piss ? Or Hate is something I’m good at ? The cataloguing system is simple, by size. According to Fedoruk, this causes visitors to ‘either panic or get comfortable’. Browsing tends to be five minutes or several hours, with no room in between. You are reminded of Paul Valery’s comment on being overwhelmed at the Louvre, on a much tinier scale. Each book seems to compete for your attention, and you are confronted by seemingly ‘incompatible, warring factions, each with a weak, yet persistent singularity’.
Le Corbusier made them. So did Matta-Clark, and Steven Holl. Its refreshing to think that there was a point when the ideas of these architects, and others, were considered so radical, so jarring, that they had to publish themselves. And that as small as their initial readership was, that one existed. When asked what qualifies entry into the lowercase reading room, Fedoruk responded simply ‘a definite point of view’. Reading is a singular experience. Unlike going to the movies or listening to a record, the consumption of the printed word is an internal, and unique activity. Which is why going out in public to commit a private act seems at first seems so strange. But the ultimate triumph and the pleasure of the lowercase reading room is the recognition of this fact. Only one person at a time can and should enjoy Night School. Luckily, they now have their own room. v
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On Site review 23
Small Things
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