“A house without books is like a room without windows”
-Heinrich Mann
I can’t remember a time when books were not part of my life. I come from a family of readers. We had books. Everyone read books. They were a constant part of daily life – entertainment and retreat; knowledge and escape; shared experience and solitude. So it is no surprise that I’ve continued to read throughout my life. But, somewhere along the way, books became a collection as well as an activity. I love the way they look. Gathered together on shelves, in piles, on ledges, on the floor. The multiple colours of their bindings combining into a patchwork quilt of ideas. Their paper of varying qualities, soft and tactile. Their pages full of every font one can imagine, pictures of things and places near and far, ideas beyond anything I might come up with on my own. Books are indeed windows. To the world. To others’ perspectives and creativity. To our histories, shared or unknown.
Books have always opened up the world to me. Allowing me the opportunity to discover what I wouldn’t have otherwise considered. I don’t know what my first book was, but I have two from childhood that I remember reading over and over again. Both of them represent so much of what has filled my life; introductions to more than what I could find in the reality of daily life.
The first is simply titled ‘Mozart’. This small picture book, is dense with words. It covers the life of Mozart, from child prodigy right up to his death at 35, and burial in a pauper’s grave. I loved it. The pictures, the story, the wigs, the dresses, the concert halls, the music and, most importantly, his sister’s nickname, Nannerl. This book had everything. It’s in relatively good shape for something published in 1968, and I claim it as a prized possession, despite my brother having scrawled his name inside the front cover. It is among the cluster of things that lead me into the world of music, a world I inhabit every day in my working life. I thank you, little Mozart.
The second book is quite amusing. An old decorating book put out by Doubleday in 1965. It is a comprehensive guide to home decoration and good taste in 200 or so pages. It has a very helpful glossary of decorating terms, because every kid needs to know what festoon, damask, parquetry and terrazzo mean. The pictures are everything you would expect of early 1960s decorating – from faux French provincial to what we now refer to as mid-century modern. Wood panelling, bright colours, olive green and orange abound. This design goldmine had examples of room layouts (that I repeatedly attempted to replicate in my very patient parents’ living room) and checklists to determine one’s taste preferences. Looking at it now, it is very dated, but I have to admit that it was a solid introduction to the design principles that have influenced me ever since. A few years at design school came from this, and a lifelong interest in art, architecture and design. Interests that have spawned many adventures visiting the masterpieces of these fields. Books open up our eyes to what this world is and who its inhabitants are - what they can, and do, create.
Books are also gifts. The kind that give you an experience you might not otherwise have; the kind that allow you to see what you might not otherwise have seen; the kind that take you places you might not otherwise have gone. But they are also sometimes physical gifts that we give or receive – to share all of this with those we care about. The very first gift my husband Bryan gave me, was a book. It was an overview of the Impressionist artists. Monet, Renoir, Pissaro, Manet, Degas, Sisley, Cezanne. This book was originally published in 1983, and has been republished a number of times since. It’s a good, basic introduction to this period of art. For us, it was also the start of 35 years of joint art appreciation. This book is not our best, nor is it our most valuable, probably not even a particular favourite, but it represents a lifelong passion that has been shared and enjoyed by us both. A window we opened together.
This book also opened a door to collecting a specific type of book – the almighty coffee table book. Now it should be stated at the outset, that if we piled all our coffee table books on our coffee table, it would crumble under the weight. We have many. And we continue to acquire them, because they are beautiful. These books are large and often filled with spectacular photography. They contain the work of artists, architects, historians, photographers of all genres and times periods. We have books on the old masters, the new masters, the elite, the common, the famous, the unknown, the refined and the ordinary. Those that challenged the ideas of their time, whether they knew they were doing so or not. Books representing ideas and visions from around the world – east, west, north, south. Thousands of pages of beauty. Thousands of pages of creativity. The human mind at work and in accomplishment. These books live with us. They fill our space with their inspiration. They remind us of what is possible.
I suppose we each have our favourite coffee table books. Or perhaps, our favourites in any given moment, changing from time to time as our eyes and minds are drawn from one thing to the next. But there is one book that has become the pinnacle of the collection. It was also a gift, in both senses of the word. When Bryan turned fifty, he received some money from his parents to purchase something special. He decided on a book. A very special book. When he was a teenager, he spent a summer at his Aunt Liz’s home in Penticton, British Columbia attending art camp. She was, and is, a remarkable artist. A huge influence on Bryan’s subsequent entry into a creative profession. He recalls that she had a book that he loved, that he looked at often. A very large, extremely beautiful collection containing colour plates of the watercolour paintings and wood-block prints of Walter J. Phillips. Phillips was an artist that moved to Canada from England in 1913. He and his wife decided to settle in Winnipeg – because it was in the middle of Canada (I imagine the weather and flatness was a bit of a shock once they got there!). As a kid from Winnipeg, this was meaningful to Bryan. Phillips’ work with watercolours and woodcuts is astounding. And so, this is the book purchased to commemorate this mid-century birthday. It was not easy to find, as it is out of print, and only had one printing in 1981. But, real collectors don’t give up easily, and a copy was found in Regina and arrived (insured) shortly after the birthday celebration. It is among our very favourite treasures. It speaks of where we are from, of family gifts and influence, of the landscape of our beautiful country, and of our childhood experiences’ ability to guide us towards our vocations. It’s just a book, but so much more can be found in these special pages.
Lest you think we spend all our time immersed in the galleries of our art books, I should take a moment to mention the category of literature. I am sometimes confounded by homes that contain few or no books to read. I understand there are often space issues, or people use libraries, or electronic devices, but I can’t imagine living without being surrounded by literature. The visual reminder of where I’ve been in the imaginations of so many authors. So we keep piling them up. Hundreds. Thousands? I don’t know. What may be clutter to some, is adventure to me; life and air to breathe. It is a way to experience more than can be realistically experienced in any one lifetime. A way to remember our past, learn from it; a way to gain insight into another’s walk through life, learn from it; a way to anticipate the future, and learn for it. We read to learn. We read to grow. We read to be entertained. We read to escape. We read to rest. We read to laugh. We read to feel. We read to be inspired.
Books also tell us where we’ve been. Literally. Over the years we seem to have taken to buying books as souvenirs. Museum guides and publications on specific exhibitions or photographic mementos of a place or garden. These books tweak memories of the places we’ve visited and remind us when our recollections are unclear. There is also a living collection emerging that is much more personal. Everyone takes photos when they travel. We are no exception. Actually, we may be on the excessive side of that category of travellers, taking thousands on each trip. It occurred to me some years ago, that if we do nothing with all these photos, they are simply a waste of time and energy (and a source of annoyance for some of us when waiting for others of us to take the picture…interpret that as you wish). So our photobook collection was begun. These are valueless to anyone but us. Books and books filled with our own experiences. No text to explain. Dangerous, I know. But these images will fill my days when I am old. I may not remember every detail, but I will immerse myself in the beauty, places, weather and curiosities of these many travels. I will remember that we went together. I will remember that we spent time doing what we loved. I will remember that seeing more than my own familiar neighbourhood was important enough to pursue enthusiastically. I will be thankful.
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