Owing to a paucity of customers willing to pay retail + 100%, I’m not having much success buying books (I mean books) at the big fairs anymore. But I did find a couple of manuscript items before the London show opened, and a lovely three-volume album of pressed seaweed on my second day working the floor at Firsts. This Victorian-era hobby has been rediscovered in recent years, and better specimens have become collectible for several reasons. In my experience, the artistry involved, as well as the technical skill of getting delicate fronds laid out just so, suggests this was primarily a feminine pursuit. Is that sexist? I’m too old to tell anymore.
Also had good visits with old friends, including Iain Sinclair who has a wild new book out, featuring substantial contributions from multifaceted colleague Jeff Towns. I’m about 80 pages in and wondering if I’ll get out in one piece.
And in one of those moments you think could never happen but often do, Anne Marie and I bumped into Wilfrid de Freitas and Susan Ravdin waiting at a bus stop in downtown London. Wilfrid explained that they’d recently discovered a few boxes of long neglected ephemera in their office and decided to do next week’s Bloomsbury Ephemera Fair… Why not? Gotta admire the way those folks roll.
This year’s edition of Firsts seemed well attended and was predictably spectacular. The multi-roomed Saatchi Gallery made getting lost (which happened to everyone, repeatedly) feel like a high-class treasure hunt. Sadly, the air conditioning was dysfunctional, and it happened to be quite warm in London on opening night. Temperatures in Saatchi hovered in the 85 degree Fahrenheit range. Huge fans blew the hot air, of which there was a great deal, around each room to little avail. I left early Thursday night, just short of heat stroke. Pom Harrington is a genius at organizing and PR, but he’s been dogged by difficulties and bad luck. Organizing a big fair in a mayor city is not for the faint of heart. Chapeau, Pom.
On vaca in Ireland now, so I’m keeping it short. As Bob Dylan had it in his rendition of “Froggie Went a-Courtin,”
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