L.A. Holiday

Now that it's past, I realize that most of December and November careened by, leaving me with motion-blurred image memories and whatever I managed to get down in words here, or elsewhere. Work promised, was completed and delivered, deals initiated were signed and sealed, and obligations met just under the wire to avoid penalties. A sigh of relief, privately marked with long-overdue phone and underwear upgrades, readied me for the Christmas celebration with family and friends.

Since the 23rd, I haven't done much of anything; by that I mean in the sense of producing. And I've missed that tangible proof of accomplishment that comes with holding an object aloft and declaring: "I made this!" I have, however run a gamut of emotions relating to this past year and just now am beginning to reflect on 2009 and mentally organize myself for the coming year. A trip to Watts Towers on Christmas Day put me on an unexpected Train of Thought, and I'm still taking that ride.

Michael Levine Made Me Cry

Took a field trip downtown today to the LA Fashion District with my friend Donna. We'd been planning this trip for several weeks, beginning in October when by a fluke I'd successfully made a hat and decided that millinery was my new calling. We had to postpone that trip and by November, I was obsessed with designing and making handbags and hoped to travel uptown to discover new sources of material and inspiration. November came and went and our trip was delayed further. Finally, this week, we set our date in stone as Donna's mission to put together a set of pattern-maker's tools for a friend living in the Solomon Islands could wait no longer. I, having stashed my sewing stuff to make way for Thanksgiving company, had taken the opportunity of an unoccupied dining/cutting table to sort out my jewelry-making stash after the holiday, looked forward to hunting down some fresh findings in the adjacent Jewelry District once Donna had accomplihsed her task.


It turned out that Donna's original destination had relocated just last week to Baldwin Park, so our plans changed a bit. We tracked down another designer supplier downtown and she was able to get most of what she needed. I marveled at the array of Santa-hatted dress forms and acquired a few small sewing tools -- thread clipper, replacement rotary blade, pin-cushion in the shape of a dress form -- not that I needed them, but because I tend to want to support retail environments that delight and inspire me by giving them some of my money. My justifications for such spontaneous acts of acquisition run the gamut of reasons from "completing the set" to "I know I'll need this someday (soon)". This parallels my justification for adding books to my library: anything that earns a place on my shelves must have "reference value". There are of course no hard and fast rules for the "R.V." designation.


After the supply house, I figured I was done shopping for the day, as it was clear we'd not have time for the jewelry district and still hit the road home before Friday rush traffic. Donna had another errand, this time to the heart of the Fashion Fabric in Santee Alley. We parked on a roof-top lot and descended into a sensory surprise I was not prepared for.


It's been 20 years since my sister's wedding, the one I sewed the bride's maid's dresses for which were very chic 1940's retro-inspired two-piece numbers with that big '80's shoulder accentuation, in this case giant round lapels framing deep decolatage. And it had been that long since I'd been to "the District". It was my sister's idea at time to let her maids wear something they might actually wear again (didn't happen, at least not for me), she had a neutral palette in mind and the three of us had identical suits of fabulous light cream on cream embroidered taffeta with taupe moire collars.


So Donna and I emerged from the parking lot stairwell into a sea of fancy wedding fabric, shiny, gossamer, sequin and pearl studded, rainbow colors..... one shop after another. We ducked into a small decorator fabric shop which was devoid of customers, but welcoming in its warmth and designer home appeal. I remembered my living room sofa. It took me years and about 1/2 a dozen tries to get a sofa I liked in form and comfort but from the beginning it's needed new upholstery. Since then I've used the Victorian Drape technique to disguise its shabbiness. Now, today, this small shop offered the potential of solving that problem. As his first customer of the day, the proprietor made me an offer I couldn't refuse on 12 yards of exquisitely elegant and almost luminous ultra-marine blue fabric with a small golden diamond pattern. Umm. I hadn't planned this project, but it might be interesting for a future blog post.

After trotting my yardage upstairs and stowing it in the trunk, we continued to Donna's chosen destination, the famous yardage & trim mecca of L.A., Michael Levine's. As if 360 days of sunshine each year were not enough, if you love fabric like I do, this store is another reason to love L.A. A huge selection of fine designer and imported silks, brocades, velvets, over-the-top costume stuff of every description along with standard and unusual suiting, shirting and canvas. I was on sensory overload and had to avoid the store-long trim counter all together, though I did linger awhile around the leather rack and almost succumbed to the temptation of a 50% off selection before I was reminded that I have a sizeable stash of non-bookbinding skins purchased on spec several years ago and still unused.

As I wandered the store, I reminded myself of my current fabric purchase rule: If it's not a marked-down remant, or a garage or estate sale find, and I don't have a specific project in mind, I am not allowed to buy any more fabric. Cupboards and drawers of my home are bursting with fabric of every description, I told myself again in a confession to Donna. Just about then, we'd arrived at the fine fabric department, where many bolts reside in locked, glass cabinets, and we immediately spyed the silk remant rack and proceeded to examine each cut. Donna could not resist an incredibly beautiful burn-out silk swath at half price, and I found a yard of feather-light creamy silk printed with an architectural theme very reminiscent of Ludwig Bemelman's drawings in his Madeline series, and other books. For $10, it was mine, and I remained within my purchase parameter. But then, I had to get away from there and my attention was diverted to .... Blue Velvet, the Fabric of My Dreams.

There is a particular shade of blue that is only achieved with a fine silk velvet. It's deep, rich, like a pigment ground of Lapis Lazuli and applied by the brush of Vermeer or a handfull of Italian Masters. Seeing this on a bolt on the velvet shelf, I can't recall my feet touching the floor before I reached to it and felt the coolness and fluidity of its hand. Uncontrollably, I began to weep. My friend looked at me, perplexed, then looked away. I felt I should attempt some explanation, but what?

Did I weep for its beauty? Yes, but Beauty is not so simple. In those tear-filled moments, my fingers stroking the cloth, it was a symbol of the loftiest human potential in craft and art to the end of exhaulting one's surroundings as one's spirit might be lifted to Heaven. Simoultaneously was the awareness of the incredible bargain I'd gotten on the upholstry fabric, probably less than cost, from the hurting merchant a block away and just a few blocks further, the cardboard condos on the sidewalk that lean against the chain-link fence of a parking lot. Not so simple at all.

Black Friday & Back to Work

To the left is a book without it's cover, some spine lining or "mull" cloth, and a card of headband tape that I'll use for this project. The red pipe is the base of one of my finishing presses, made for me by a friend years ago. In the background is a small part of my collection of artistic rubber stamps.... oh, that's another story.....

Had a great Thanksgiving celebration chez moi with family and friends sharing food, stories and laughs. After spending the last week cleaning and prepping for the big event, I was very happy to get back out to the VHB Studio Shed and get a little work done. With my faithful WorkShed companion by my feet, I picked up where I left off with the restoration of the last four volumes of an antique leather-bound encyclopedia set.

My Library - First Dispatch

The arrival of November chill and the immanent arrival of holiday guests compelled me to do some draught-proofing in the library/guest room. Specifically, I decided to replace an old, ciold and ugly window with something more sensible. By Grace, the local Habitat for Humanity ReStore had exactly what I needed: a fine double-glazed, double-hung casement that fit the frame perfectly. With the help of my Dad and my friend Debbie, we installed the new window successfully and it was one of the most satisfying home-improvement projects I've ever undertaken.

What this has to do with books: the walls of the room are lined with bookshelves and some of them had to be unloaded and moved to do the installation. The process reminded me of the Libraries of My Life, their varied configurations, contents and how each collection and arrangement has been a reflection of different periods of my life. What kind of books are transient, and which volumes do I hang on to and move around with (some have been overseas and back with me) and why? My relationship with my books is complex and dynamic, so characteristic of all enduring love affairs.

The beginning of my affair began before I can remember. As a kid, I recall specific titles in my Dad's library, Profiles in Courage comes to mind immediately, as well as several very exotic and delightful Japanese books, written in English for the purpose of introducing Japanese culture, bound in the Japanese stab-binding style, and wrapped in silk-covered slipcases fastened with clever loop and bone toggles.

My grandfather had a small, but exceeding interesting personal library of theosophical literature alongside his Reader's Digests. He gave me a copy of Ocean of Theosophy before I was ten, and I especially loved to read A.P. Sinnett's details of Mme. Blavatsky's seances with mysterious Ascended Masters Somewhere in the Himalyas, as well as her adventures trekking in exotic lands. He gave me much of his library while he was still alive, and I treasure it today. My sister and I were given books as gifts, especially from our "Aunt Zoe" - a friend of our parents' who adopted us as her family and bestowed lavish, interesting and always educational presents at Christmas. From her I received my first dictionary, Webster's Seventh, and a Columbia Encyclopedia, and several wonderfully illustrated fairy tale books, all of which I still have.

The Library of My Youth was completed and in a way, my fate sealed, at the age of twelve, with the arrival of a box of books from Mrs. C, our urbane neighbor and fellow book lover. There was a lot of good stuff in that crate - Mrs. C belonged to the Book of the Month Club and had all the Classics of Western European Literature in cheap, but attractive cloth covers. There was a big, shiny dust jacket titled The Fan Club which was withdrawn from the box at the final moment, having been deemed inappropriate for my tender years. The Decameron of Boccaccio remained, as it does to this day, simply clad in innocent navy boards. I was intrigued by its device, delighted by its humor and I recognize now that my adolescence was deeply impressed by the influence of its humanity.

Inner Workings

The end of year scramble is on - clients would like to have their gifts of new and refurbished books in time for giving and displaying and I want to finish up lingering projects and start fresh in the new year. The Vinegar Hill WorkShed is packed with materials, tools and works in progress. Seems like no matter what brilliant organizational scheme I come up with, there's never enough room for all the stuff.

The state of the WorkShed is embarrassing when I think about inviting a customer or friend inside. No horizonal surface is unoccupied-including the couch and chair-and there are cobwebs. Tools and materials all over the place, and scraps, stuff that tidy folk would throw away, but I retain for some fantastic future project yet undreamed. Fact is, the WorkShed is an intensely private place. If pressed to tell, I couldn't say where to find that No. 2 bone folder, but in my own work-rhythm, I'd surely locate it by touch be it under or between a stack of torn leaves on the bench or balanced on the edge of the finishing press.

When I ride my bicycle, I feel the machine becomes a part, an extension of my body. When I'm in my Shed, I sense that I become a part of it, intimately related to the history and potential of all of its other contents. Paper, tools, scrap and all.

Calla Lilly

Sculpted

seduction

Flower of

decadence and sorrow

Flowing opal in

the wind of silence

Bride of your own kind

Heroine for the light fall

that rests with simplicity of

a child's whispered prayer on

that alabaster bell of your long stem

Prophecy of sorrow

you greet the dying

Passion in the hand of God,

your bend in the wind

is a flame for the living.

from the chapbook, Pink & Naked in the Ultra-Violet Life, poems by Donna Gebron published by Vinegar Hill Press, 1996


Donna left this life last week at her home in Lake Elsinore. She was a great Romantic, a beautiful soul and a delightful friend.


A beautiful portrait of Donna Gebron may be found at photographer Mark Savage's website, Souls and Passions: Portraits of L.A. Poets .

After a long hiatus

Lamenting the recent passing of Acres of Books in Long Beach, I surfed the web one day a few weeks ago, frantic to find a local used bookstore still in business. I came across an article from last July's Easy Reader that featured several of the last remaining used bookstores in the South Bay. The article's author, Bondo Wypolski, is a well-read fellow and a writer I know and admire as he'd written years ago about Vinegar Hill, the Bookstore back when I had that retail storefront. It occurred to me while reading his piece that the four booksellers profiled had all opened their used bookstores more or less around the same time I opened Vinegar Hill Books in 1992. Reading the interviews took me back. I closed my shop in 1998, rented a work studio and made my living bookbinding and selling books online. These people, made of stronger stuff than I, persevered on the retail front and, well, you can read Bondo's article for more on that.

That afternoon, I went to visit Sandpiper Books - I'd never been there, though I'd conversed with proprietor Christine a few times over the years. I found a few good ones to add to my astrology library and introduced myself to Christine at the cash register. She asked if I still did book binding and repair. I decided to tell her that yes, I do. She took my number and within a week I had a couple of calls, one of which resulted in a job. Around the same time a very patient book client of mine called to discuss his encyclopedia set....and the single volume I had still in my possession. A couple of other events happened, clearly directing me back to work bench. So after a few years of bookbinding hiatus, I have re-entered the Workshed.