Old things are exiting because they are old. These things where made because it was possible, with the aim of perfection. carefully created with perfect skill. looking at beautiful things makes me smile. In the old days, rich people acquired these artifacts, because they could. To show off, and to create a visible distance from the people who couldn’t afford the decadent lifestyle they represented. A similar trend is still present today.  Nowadays they buy overpriced modern design or old and rare stuff, but the concept is the same. Being able to surround my self with beautiful things, of which the design has no practical function, is a privilege, that I enjoy very much. Even if it is just for the time I am hanging out in a museum, or in  a fancy place of someone else. I am fascinated by old things because they are old and rare. They come from another world. One that I can never become a part of.

items from the collection of the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam

Because I was thinking why I always chose small books, this time I a took a bigger book. But it was thin.. I don´t even look at big books. The cover was grey and it looked so boring. Boring in the way that no one will take that book. The books that get forgotten. I wonder sometimes what if books could only talk, what would they say. I think this one will be the strange one. The older book and I think he would have white hair. I´m thinking this because on the cover there are Greek pillars. A wise old white hairy man. Would some books just scream like in Harry Potter: PICK ME! Or hide because they are so old and a lot of people already read them. I think the new books would be the one that scream pick me and appreciate what is inside of me. The date on which someone rented my book was in 1994. I´m wondering why she or he would have taken that book. That is such a mystery about books in the library. Who took them and where did the books travel to? I think if you take a book on holiday, they will hate the beach. Because there will be sand in it and they will be wet. I think they would prefer old people. Who still really appreciate a book and cares about how you threat them. That don´t use Wikipedia but look their information up in an encyclopedia. I think if books could speak they would feel much lonelier than 20 years ago.

The size of the indexed World Wide Web is 15.66 billion pages (http://www.worldwidewebsize.com).

The year is 1924. That’s a long time ago. That’s why this book smells of old grandpa.

The title is intriguing. “Woodcuts, and some words”. An honest title. Plain simple. As if the phrase “what you see is what you get” was authored for this book only. It doesn’t have a fancy wordplay. Someone once upon a time spilled coffee on it. Maybe also dropped a cigarette on it. Drank coffee and smoked cigarettes, while glancing to it’s precious content. This book I’m holding in my hand is some book. Extraordinary. Classic. Both fragile and pretentious at the same time. The thick papers, the fine composition on each page. So elegant and authentic. So anti-industrial, so handmade. This book can teach you how to make woodcuts…

– It’s like an old school version of one of the many ‘how-to’ videos on YouTube. I’m actually holding an offline version of a ‘how-to’ video. It makes me think of information, and how we approach and handle the nonstop floating information on the WWW.

What is the actual difference between information in a book and information on the internet, besides the limited/unlimited amount? I recall my teacher saying something like: “I will recommend you all to buy the book and not make scans and read them on your computer… because… it’s nicer, you know”. What makes us grab a book instead of browsing the web?

What is the fuss about a book in general? Is it because it’s capable of generating a certain feeling or a certain “vibe” which will never be generated from the most awesome and well-made webpage? Is it the typography on the paper, the quality of the paper, the fact that you can touch it and that it isn’t ongoing?

There’s an enormous difference between getting information from a book and getting information from the internet. I, myself, is having a hard time keeping track on the endless amount of available information on the internet. It’s interesting that the information about any subject on the internet is unlimited. It’s like having unlimited access to ‘knowledge’. There’s always more. You’re never finished. It’s ongoing. It will always follow time, never become obsolete.

The information in a book is not developing. There’s a last page. A period. It’s printed and can’t be changed in a sec. No further links. No sudden brand new pages. No updates. No hidden information. What you see is what you get. And *that* somehow puts the whole ‘info on the internet’ in perspective. You never see what you get, until it’s there. Always floating, constantly changing. Eternal information.

Rietveld > lib. cat. no: 755.1

In media res. Irma Boom. Can’t believe she worked on a book for 4 years. 4 years. That’s a lot of time, a lot of energy. A lot of passion. I guess one can easily sense the passion and effort that she puts in the books she makes. I admire her.

But then, there, amongst the passion and well-trimmed books, I find a piece of wood. The book seems hard on the surface. It’s like you can count the growth rings in it. Hard and mushy at the same time. A paradox. It has a story to tell. Kinda like this old grandpa full of wisdom, full of mystery, full of everything you can imagine. Yet it kind of reminds me of those big pieces of cheese. They have also wholes in them, as the book has scratches and bruises here and there. And I guess they, too, have some sorta history. A cheese history, I guess.

I find myself deadly curious about that book. It is enormeous. I wonder how thick the papers are, I wonder how many hands have touched it. I wonder how large the typography is, I wonder how it smells. I wonder if it’s one long story. Oh my, it sure is mysterious. I find myself wondering if it really has pages in it. Or maybe it’s one of those fake-books with a whole inside. No. It is a real book. A modest book. A proud book. A book with a story. I guess that’s kind of ‘meta’. A story that has a story.

The end.