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I'll admit it: I mostly bought this book because I loved the graphics on the cover--the purple woodgrain, the 50s-looking font, the yellow circle that seems to suggest a sun. I was also swept up in an early college years penchant for existential literature, and this seemed to fit snugly in with the likes of Camus and Sartre. But unlike classic works like The Stranger and No Exit, I can't remember a thing about this book.
I've always harbored a bit of nostalgia for the New York City subway and its varied history—the different styles of subway cars, the long lost abandoned stations, and of course the spectacular graffiti that has since been wiped clean.
So when I saw this small hardcover book on a table at the Strand, I decided I needed it. The photos might not be on a par with the likes of, say, Bruce Davidson's Subway, but they are still lovely (I'm a sucker for old color photos), and there is something appealing about the snapshot-like quality, especially paired with the subject matter. Taken by a Chilean-born writer, photographer, and documentarian (referred to as "the Jacob Riis of our time" for his documentation of American slums), they span the course of several decades, as early as 1970. They work very well as a collection, portraying Vergera's unique perspective.
The lighting in this one is so beautiful.
I love the kids looking out the back window at the tracks disappearing behind them.
Some of the photos span across both pages, printed right to the edge.
There's something wondrous about these rusting subway cars (or at least that's what I think they are) piled up and decaying--like slain monsters. Or something.
And what is up with that guy's outfit?
A collection of writings by the legendary rock critic Lester Bangs, on the likes of The Stooges, the Velvet Underground, Slade, Peter Laughner, the Count 5, and so on. I can't even begin to describe its greatness--sometimes sloppy, sometimes drug-addled rambling, sometimes spot-on, always genius. Whether writing reviews of nonexistent albums (see the title essay) or demythologizing so-called rock gods*, Lester Bangs changed the face of music criticism. Who else could have worked Idi Amin into a review of Metal Machine Music?** *
"John Lennon at his best despised cheap sentiment and had to learn the hard way that once you've made your mark on history those who can't will be so grateful they'll turn it into a cage for you. Those who choose to falsify their memories--to pine for a neverland 1960s that never really happened that way in the first place--insult the retroactive Eden they enshrine." --from "Thinking the Unthinkable About John Lennon"
**"I played it for President Idi "Big Daddy" Amin of Uganda when he flew me and Lisa Robinson over there to interview him for upcoming cover articles in Creem and Hit Parader, and he absolutely loved it. I gave him a copy, and now by special edict he has it piped through the Muzak vents of every supermarket (all thirty-five of them) and doctor's waiting room (all eight) in his great nation, so that the citizens there may be inspired to ever fiercer heights of patriotism for his regime and all that it stands for." --from "The Greatest Album Ever Made"
For Christmas last year Dave gave me this new zine by Raymond Pettibon, made for the Los Angeles store Ooga Booga. It feels very handmade, with a color xeroxed cover and black and white photocopied interior pages, stapled down the spine. You get the feeling these were put together the old school way, on an all night trip to Kinko's. No slick production here--you can even see lines going through some of the pages, like the copier had seen better days. Such is its charm.
Pettibon started out drawing flyers and album covers for the early 70s L.A. punk scene, particularly for Black Flag, which included his brother Greg Ginn on guitar. He designed their iconic bars logo, as well as most of their album covers (the above scissors appeared on the Everything Went Black album). He has since garnered international acclaim as a fine artist, with works exhibited in major museums such as the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney, and so on. 
I will always associate him first with the punk flyers (his early zines are incredible) but his work, while evolving and developing, has always retained the same style and essence. 
Ed Brubaker, now a writer for mainstream comics like Batman and Daredevil, started out writing and drawing this series of autobiographical comics in the early 90s. 
Raw and honest, the stories have an almost confessional tone, the artist showing himself at his most vulnerable, his lowest. From petty theft to drug use to girl problems, the life of Brubaker's alter ego Tommy--his Henry Chinaski, you might say--is kind of pathetic, right down to the maggots in the trash can: "The crackling sound was their crawling on the plastic...my stomach turned...I hope James takes out that trash soon." 
And yet, he looks on those days with fondness and nostalgia. In the last story, an older Tommy comes across a box of Lowlife comics (a bit of postmodernism for you): "The characters in it reminded him of his old friends and lovers, all so far away...lost in time. He thought of his days with them all, days when they hadn't realized how happy they really were." Though Tommy's fate is a little less auspicious than Brubaker's, I imagine the sentiment is the same.
This short book tells the story of a houseguest at Miller's home in Big Sur who has long outworn his welcome. It has the most conventional narrative of Miller's books that I've read, but is enormously entertaining. I like how someone has colored in some of the letters on this cover.
Originally published in one slender volume like this, A Devil in Paradise was later published as part of Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymous Bosch. I've never read the latter book, but I might just have to now, especially after having visited the Henry Miller Memorial Library while driving through Big Sur--possibly the most beautiful place I've ever seen (I mean Big Sur, not the library, though the library is a nice place to stop for a coffee and a book)--a couple of years ago.
I'll admit it: I mostly bought this book because I loved the graphics on the cover--the purple woodgrain, the 50s-looking font, the yellow circle that seems to suggest a sun. I was also swept up in an early college years penchant for existential literature, and this seemed to fit snugly in with the likes of Camus and Sartre. But unlike classic works like The Stranger and No Exit, I can't remember a thing about this book.
So when I saw this small hardcover book on a table at the Strand, I decided I needed it. The photos might not be on a par with the likes of, say, Bruce Davidson's Subway, but they are still lovely (I'm a sucker for old color photos), and there is something appealing about the snapshot-like quality, especially paired with the subject matter. Taken by a Chilean-born writer, photographer, and documentarian (referred to as "the Jacob Riis of our time" for his documentation of American slums), they span the course of several decades, as early as 1970. They work very well as a collection, portraying Vergera's unique perspective. 
The lighting in this one is so beautiful.
I love the kids looking out the back window at the tracks disappearing behind them.
Some of the photos span across both pages, printed right to the edge. 
There's something wondrous about these rusting subway cars (or at least that's what I think they are) piled up and decaying--like slain monsters. Or something.
And what is up with that guy's outfit?
A collection of writings by the legendary rock critic Lester Bangs, on the likes of The Stooges, the Velvet Underground, Slade, Peter Laughner, the Count 5, and so on. I can't even begin to describe its greatness--sometimes sloppy, sometimes drug-addled rambling, sometimes spot-on, always genius. Whether writing reviews of nonexistent albums (see the title essay) or demythologizing so-called rock gods*, Lester Bangs changed the face of music criticism. Who else could have worked Idi Amin into a review of Metal Machine Music?** 
My sophomore year of college my writing teacher distributed a packet of handouts consisting of xeroxed pages from various books. Among those were several poems by Russell Edson. I'm not the biggest reader of poetry but I was quite taken by his work.
His prose poems fuse bizarre with banal, subtly taking the reader into a strange alternate world, where it is not uncommon to paddle a canoe up the stairs,
or cultivate sheep in a test tube.
For Christmas last year Dave gave me this new zine by Raymond Pettibon, made for the Los Angeles store Ooga Booga. It feels very handmade, with a color xeroxed cover and black and white photocopied interior pages, stapled down the spine. You get the feeling these were put together the old school way, on an all night trip to Kinko's. No slick production here--you can even see lines going through some of the pages, like the copier had seen better days. Such is its charm.
Pettibon started out drawing flyers and album covers for the early 70s L.A. punk scene, particularly for Black Flag, which included his brother Greg Ginn on guitar. He designed their iconic bars logo, as well as most of their album covers (the above scissors appeared on the Everything Went Black album). He has since garnered international acclaim as a fine artist, with works exhibited in major museums such as the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney, and so on. 
I will always associate him first with the punk flyers (his early zines are incredible) but his work, while evolving and developing, has always retained the same style and essence. 
Ed Brubaker, now a writer for mainstream comics like Batman and Daredevil, started out writing and drawing this series of autobiographical comics in the early 90s. 
Raw and honest, the stories have an almost confessional tone, the artist showing himself at his most vulnerable, his lowest. From petty theft to drug use to girl problems, the life of Brubaker's alter ego Tommy--his Henry Chinaski, you might say--is kind of pathetic, right down to the maggots in the trash can: "The crackling sound was their crawling on the plastic...my stomach turned...I hope James takes out that trash soon." 
And yet, he looks on those days with fondness and nostalgia. In the last story, an older Tommy comes across a box of Lowlife comics (a bit of postmodernism for you): "The characters in it reminded him of his old friends and lovers, all so far away...lost in time. He thought of his days with them all, days when they hadn't realized how happy they really were." Though Tommy's fate is a little less auspicious than Brubaker's, I imagine the sentiment is the same.
This short book tells the story of a houseguest at Miller's home in Big Sur who has long outworn his welcome. It has the most conventional narrative of Miller's books that I've read, but is enormously entertaining. I like how someone has colored in some of the letters on this cover.
Originally published in one slender volume like this, A Devil in Paradise was later published as part of Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymous Bosch. I've never read the latter book, but I might just have to now, especially after having visited the Henry Miller Memorial Library while driving through Big Sur--possibly the most beautiful place I've ever seen (I mean Big Sur, not the library, though the library is a nice place to stop for a coffee and a book)--a couple of years ago.
