Letters, as the least efficient, least practical, and least used, are also my favorite form of communication. There is something deeply personal and deeply pleasing about opening an envelope addressed to you, sort of like opening a present, or a very small, flat treasure chest. (OK, fine, maybe not like a treasure chest...) Thus, I decided to compile a book of letters: love letters, to be precise.
The letters were in envelopes, which I sealed, so that the first person, at least, would have to tear open the envelopes to read them. (In an artist statement for this book, I suppose I might have said something about the act of opening a letter intended for someone else. This is an idea I... er... blatantly ripped off of a project my art teacher in eighth grade told me about.)
(I also added my own little love letter at the end of the book.)


As a first-year student, I have not yet furnished my dorm room with book-making supplies, which means I had to improvise a bit. There was no tape or glue, so I bound the book by hand (using a needle--technically two, because I broke one of them--and thread). I also had to, er, scrounge a little bit to find paper to write the letters on.

One is on a bit of paper bag, one on a page from my journal, one from the back of a jumbo-sized envelope, one on water-color paper, one on paper from my geology notebook. (The one I wrote was on legal pad paper, but there is not a picture of it here.)

Our school library is large and generally accessible, but I hid my book in the nearby public library.

The book itself looks very home-made, so I have my doubts as to whether or not anyone will actually mistake it for part of the collection, but they might find it, at least, which make me just as happy.


So--er--there's my first attempt at completing a task. Acceptable?