After thinking and thinking about the task, and through, considering the profound sadness
that acts of vandalism evoked for me, I removed each page of the book. I considered the
lovely blue color of the hard cover of the book and thought of building a collage with
text and the dust jacket. Or of making a box of some sort with the book covers and a
drawer that might slide in and out. But what, if anything, to put in it? I struggled with not
exotifying the content (African people, homosexualities) and finally cut the dust jacket into
strips, with which I bound sections of the text. These I then re-inserted into the cover,
using the remaining pieces of the dust jacket to bind the entire book. Finally, I taped the
plastic cover that had been placed over the dust jacket over the book and taped it all
closed. I considered dipping the whole thing into paint, disappearing it, making it into
any book, a symbol, but felt that that was too easy, and only further plays into the
destruction of the book as book. The book can now be read. Or not. It is protected; it’s
more difficult to access, but the full text has been preserved, and, by cutting through the
tape, can be taken apart to be put together once again. And read. Is it art? Is it not? I
don’t know. The experience of considering a way to make art out of the object, of the
power of words, of the potential power of visual image and physical object all came into
play. In the end, maybe I was paralyzed; maybe I saved the book. I’m not sure. Thank
you for the opportunity to consider and live with all of the above.
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