WINNER OF THE 2013 SO TO SPEAK HYBRID BOOK CONTEST!
Doug Rice wrote words on paper with ink and desire/longing. He took photographs, some of which were developed. Stephanie Sauer took hold of these. They stained her hands when she laid them down onto pages, let the contours of each letter take shape amid the fibers, made sure they received just the right saturation. She formed these pages into a book that could only be read through touch. Doug opened this book, rubbed his fingers across each sheet and named it Dream Memoirs of a Fabulist.
Stephanie (and Jon and another Stephanie) bound copies of this book by hand inside a cover that fell away, exposing Doug’s breath, his bodies. People touched this book. Other people read Doug’s bodies. Then Stephanie found a mirror. She looked into it and found Doug’s syntax where there should have been a body, her body. She began typing. She unwrote Doug’s entire syntax upon her, unraveled its ink upon sewing pattern tissue. She stitched the pieces into a dress, a gift for Doug’s child body. Stephanie’s own flesh began to reappear.
Listen to Stephanie Sauer speak to the making of there is no grammar here,
recorded by the Center for Contemporary Art, Sacramento
Doug Rice wrote words on paper with ink and desire/longing. He took photographs, some of which were developed. Stephanie Sauer took hold of these. They stained her hands when she laid them down onto pages, let the contours of each letter take shape amid the fibers, made sure they received just the right saturation. She formed these pages into a book that could only be read through touch. Doug opened this book, rubbed his fingers across each sheet and named it Dream Memoirs of a Fabulist.
Stephanie (and Jon and another Stephanie) bound copies of this book by hand inside a cover that fell away, exposing Doug’s breath, his bodies. People touched this book. Other people read Doug’s bodies. Then Stephanie found a mirror. She looked into it and found Doug’s syntax where there should have been a body, her body. She began typing. She unwrote Doug’s entire syntax upon her, unraveled its ink upon sewing pattern tissue. She stitched the pieces into a dress, a gift for Doug’s child body. Stephanie’s own flesh began to reappear.
Listen to Stephanie Sauer speak to the making of there is no grammar here,
recorded by the Center for Contemporary Art, Sacramento
