Rebinding Memoir: What We Do Becomes Who We Are

​It started selfishly enough and proceeded greedily from there.  I had worked with my client before, and knew him to paint a vision in broad enough strokes. So, when Matthew sent me an advance .pdf of the chapbook I was asked to rebind, I hungrily devoured every word. The commission in question was the first state-side chapbook published by Structo Magazine: Christina Seymour’s book of poetry, “Flowers Around Your Soft Throat”. It wasn’t the first book I’ve dressed up​, and because of my familiarity with Structo, I keenly anticipated dwelling in this material.  Binding a book, whether new or not, means living in some way with its language; Absorbing the words, trying them on, examining them in a fashion afforded only by proximity. In this way, I’ve witnessed rough writing and well-polished writing, and have grown to deeply appreciate the way that well-worded expressions can touch our lives.
 
I am an artist dealing comfortably in geometry and dimensions, delighted by type and graphic design. Though, picking up a pencil to render my own drawing leaves me blank; I have never known how to start.  Awhile back, in an exercise of self-discipline, I began a sketch book, resolving to fill each small sheet with a quote – far less intimidating than the too-broad scope of a large blank page with its silent taunt: “Draw anything you want”.  Using my affection for typography as a starting point, I began to hand-letter words from books and excerpts from lines of poetry, filling sketchbook pages.   As I read Christina Seymour’s chapbook in preparation for the bookbinding project, I began to collect the phrases that spoke to me, penciling her words as I went.

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Creativity sparks most brightly when challenged by a set of constraints, and all projects can be expressed as a sum of three scales:  The clients’ needs and expectations; the demands of the text; the ability and curiosity of the craftsman.  If a client’s expectations are rigid, the artist’s expression might be limited, and the text may never find its voice.  When the text is compelling, the structure could become subordinate.  Adjusting the metrics on any of these scales yields endless combinations and each original set of qualifications provides the opportunity for originality. In this case, with quite a lot of freedom, I chose to work from my curiosity, challenging myself by choosing an unfamiliar binding.
 

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I am changed by my work: Practically, I’ve deepened my skills; And poetically, I’ve gained a wider appreciation for the nuance of language.

Bookbinding is an art of precise measures.  It emphasizes a leave-no-trace philosophy toward the finished product.  A great bookbinder should cover his tracks. Normally when assembling books, my approach is nearer the Craftsman philosophy of architecture, but I’ve been tackling more traditional bindings lately and widening my repertoire.   When the printed material arrived in its final form, I consulted my experts: Books, which are my standards, my classroom.  A chapbook is by nature small, so an intricate binding wasn’t called for.  The volume itself needed to be dressed up as a gift for the author.  So, I found a cased, hardcover binding, which could neatly enclose its simple set of folded pages.
 
Then I began a process, whose steps vary surprisingly little from book to book, and whose pure monotony, when burdened by sheer volume, can drive me to silent screams:

Measure. Measure, again.
Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut.
Glue, Glue.
Cut.
Fold. Fold. Fold. Fold.
Glue, Glue.
Press.
 
Repeat.
Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew.

Step 1:   I clean up my space and put away anything that’s out of place.  I carve out a place for working on a new project.
 
Step 2:  I draw every project on a large drawing pad, document the materials, dimensions of the book, type of binding, including measurements. I show pages, count sewing stations.  If necessary, this is the time to think through surface or finishing details, like a title on the cover, or a special closure.
 
Step 3:  Cut everything: Paper, book board, leather, thread, book cloth. Measure twice, cut once is a rule I discipline myself to remember. Then, make sure all the necessary pieces are accounted for.
 
Step 4:  Assemble tools and make sure everything is in order.
 
Step 5:  Every leaf of paper used inside a book, once folded, yields 4 pages (front and back).  Fold these, usually in half.  Nest them in groups. These nested groups are called signatures.  The whole set of pages is called a text block.  If the paper is printed and collated, it’s important not to misplace any. I make a hole-punching guide, which will indicate where to sew as I gather the disparate signatures into one text block.
 
Step 6:  In an exposed spine binding, the book boards are covered first, before the book is sewn together: pages, covers and all.  In a hard cover casing, the text block is sewn before the boards are covered.  In this case, the chapbook was saddle stitched. (A deceptive name that is a fancy way of saying, it’s stapled.) I remove this, punch my own holes, and sew the pages, through the valley fold. This detail isn’t really necessary, but the finished whole will be more cohesive with my own stitching.
 
Step 7:   Assemble the book.  Depending on the type of book, this means different things, but it almost always involves gluing paper, cloth or leather onto boards, trimming corners with a jig, and remembering to fold the top edges down first before the fore edge. Sewing is an almost invariable part of each project: sewing the text block; perhaps sewing the whole onto boards; maybe even winding silken thread around a core to create headbands at the top or bottom of the spine.
           
In this case, the book’s original covers were embedded between two book boards covered in a French marbled paper, which were hinged on the spine with Japanese book cloth and a starched linen cloth called “super”.  In a manufactured casing, the super—that thin ephemeral material—is glued between the end papers onto the cover.  And that small translucent fragment is what holds a commercial text block to its covers.
 
Step 8: Press. Use heavy boards, books, or better still, a book press.  This will actually happen many times, at different stages, depending on what sort of binding I’m making.  But, because most paper, including book board, has a grain, it will warp if wet.  Gluing is a wet process, so drying boards thoroughly between steps is a must.  Once a book is assembled, the pressing also “teaches” the book its proper position. The nascent debutante learns suitable poise: Straight spine, clean and even hinging, and well-manicured fore-edges being among the expectations of suitable etiquette.
 
Step 9: A new book is presented to the world. I clean up my studio tossing or saving scraps, and start all over again tomorrow.

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The end of one project leaves me open: to another challenge, another job.  But, a book is not the only thing that is borne of this effort.  I am changed by my work: Practically, I’ve deepened my skills; And poetically, I’ve gained a wider appreciation for the nuance of language. I’ve forged a connection through the genuine appreciation of another artists’ work.  It’s true, that our efforts are never in isolation. And creativity is a river that flows freely: We can choose to dip our toes, or be fully immersed, but no matter what our interaction, we emerge altered.