There is a palpable sense of raw bravado underpinning the contemporary art “scene”, a healthy — rather than exaggerated — sense of optimism. This curious fact is hinted at in the large number of art books suddenly jostling for shelf space in galleries and bookshops.
Given that books have a certain furtive longevity, one is inclined to ask what these books will say to future generations? The answer: Unchecked optimism has its limitations.
“In my view, most of the books published locally are just so-so design wise,” remarks Durban-based designer Garth Walker. “I think we are world class on production values, but content and design are a bit iffy.”
A well-established design figure, Walker is the founder of the cult design e-zine Ijusi. He recently completed a commission designing a new typeface for the Constitutional Court. When quizzed on the subject of art books, Walker simply avers that art books should look like art books.
“It would seem that plenty is spent on the actual print, but proper and sensitive design is generally not considered within this mix,” he says.
Walker points to the Taxi art book series, a publishing initiative aimed at offering mid-career artists the benefit of a monograph. He says: “The Taxi series is an admirable attempt to promote local art, but looks a bit ‘low rent’.”
This comment tends to articulate a widely held view, one that is characteristically privately voiced — and not exclusively pitted against the Taxi series. The essence of the critique tends to focus on the troublesome nature of design underpinning a whole range of in-house gallery catalogues and once-off art publications.
A sympathetic view would immediately argue that the independent art book publishers sponsoring these are still pre-teen, that the clumsiness of their publications is amply offset by the value inherent in them. Given the overwhelming paucity of such print artefacts one cannot but take a partisan view.
Nonetheless, Walker’s comments do point to an intractable problem inherent in the production of books with a heavy visual content — the latent tension between form and content. The problem is epitomised in the (sometimes) epic stand-offs that animate the relationship between the guys in white suits (that is designers) and hapless sponsors and originators of books.
Walker is the first to admit the need for a sensitive approach. “The book design should never overwhelm the content,” he comments. “Many books today are over designed. I often find the book outer way better than the inner. Even worse are those with a flashy cover and crap in between.”
Two recent publishing projects demonstrate that it is possible to achieve a happy synthesis of form and content, thereby marrying desire with intellect. The first is the Fresh compendium of near pocket-sized artist monographs.
Funded by a gift from artist Marlene Dumas, the Fresh project gave seven emerging artists a one-month residency at the South African National Gallery. In addition to their public activities, each of the participants selected authors to critically engage their work. All seven of these snack-sized books have been boxed, and are now available as a packed lunch.
“The reason for producing small books, instead of a big book, was to provide those artists with a small monograph [a minigraph?] with which to promote themselves,” explains Emma Bedford, the Fresh project curator.
According to Bedford, the maverick performance artist Robin Rhode credits Fresh with his meteoric rise internationally. “It’s no coincidence that all the South Africans featured in the Walker Art Center’s How Latitudes Become Forms: Art in a Global Age exhibition were Fresh artists,” she adds.
That the individual books were cheap (R30 each) might also account for their local success.
Cut-price, inexpensive, economical; David Goldblatt’s new book Particulars certainly bears out none of these words. Available in a limited edition run of 100 deluxe copies (R8 000) and 400 unnumbered editions (R1 600), Particulars establishes a benchmark by which many future art books will be judged.
Comprising a series of intimate studies, Goldblatt’s photographs of a cross-section of people eschew a panoramic focus in favour of private minutiae. Designed jointly by Francois Smit and Goldblatt, the book exemplifies the photographer’s uncompromising approach to book design and production.
“We have gone for production standards that have never been seen in this country,” he says, stating that the book is the outcome of his insistent involvement, “right through to the last” — even in the print and book binding process.
“A book is quite monumental in the sense that it sticks around,” Goldblatt adds. “It will be there long after you’re dead. You had better make sure it represents what you feel closely.”