I've returned, bleary-eyed and spent, from an afternoon of zine/small press/DIY overload. Today was a day I look forward to each year with mounting anticipation. A countdown of days as the weeks draw closer. 10 more sleeps... 7 more sleeps... 3 more sleeps... 'til that eventful morning I wake up bright and giddy as a kid on Christmas morn' -- CANZINE DAY!!! YessSSSS!!! -- as I jump around and scissor kick and arm pump in my pyjamas, eyes wide with glee.I am a veteran attendee of Canzine. A die hard. I know what to expect. Load up on brunch or a snack beforehand. Wear a light jacket or layers of clothes that can be stripped down and easily tucked away in to backpacks, bags or under armpits -- out of the way. Never assume that the couple bucks you took out at the ATM will carry you through. Make smaller change. Don't make eye contact with the vendors unless you want them to grip on to your gaze and break you with their humble artist wizardry -- their awkwardly lovable mannerisms and witty banter... You will break a hundred hearts while you are there if you do engage. You'll only end up buying some weirdo surrealist computer art or hand printed day-of-the-week toilet paper or militant vegan anarchist patch or other randomness not quite ever within your usual character.
And then there is The Heaving Masses... The elbows and arms and bums and knees brushing past you on all sides. At some point or another, you will grope or be groped, though not necessarily intentional. You'll get swished along in the tide, and you'll have to come back round again to get to where you wanted to go.
This year... This year... This year -- I had a lovely panic attack -- in the midst of it all. Not even 5 feet in the door. Funny thing is, I don't even think it was the crowd that triggered it. It just happened -- just minutes before -- on the way to the Gladstone. But there, just barely in the door of the buzzing Gladstone 1st floor, I felt the anxiety swell. The sounds around me fuzzed out & echoed -- like when you're at an indoor public pool & you can hear the voices and laughter and splashing of the swimmers blending in soundscape -- bouncing off the walls & the surface of the pool. You can't make sense of any of it. It's just noise... My hands were shaking like crazy. Hot & red.
What the hell?.. What the hell?.. Okay... breathing... breathing... Fuck.
Eventually (and only after one Bloody Caesar was consumed STAT), I cooled back to my normal self & was able to enjoy the rest of the afternoon -- shuffling past table after table of print-y goodness. And, occasionally, stopping for a yap about a particular artist's work. But there is one artist who I am always on the lookout for at these kind of events... and today, I swallowed my shy geek pride to say hullo to him whilst I bought up almost one of everything he had on the table... Aaron Costain (see picture above). Really, do, check out his stuff. Something in his illustration style always catches my eye -- from miles away. Which is quite the feat, since many of his comics are on the mini size and, well... small.
I only managed to squeak out a couple of comments & questions while I stood there, watching him sign the fistful of comics I'd purchased. I blushed a little as I heard the typical "I'm a huge fan" line bounce off my lips... Oh, gawd. I'm a dork... But I did ask him about one particular book I was buying: Calamity Coach ("A Non-Narrative Pictorial Sequence of Imaginary Events Designed to Discourage Even the Bravest of Souls from Vehicular Travel") . A series of illustrations of motor coaches in some serious accident situations. There are little two-lined rhymes underneath each one. Morbid as it was, it made me giggle, and I had to know why he decided to produce such an odd little thing.
There is a story, but I'm going to be a jackass and not post it here. Find out for yourself! What I will disclose is that the book was inspired by overwhelming dread & anxiety & cancelled vacation plans.
Anxiety? You don't say...
As an overall critique of the event, I would have to say that I think Canzine has outgrown the artsy expanse of the creaky Gladstone Hotel. No matter how many nooks & crannies or floors or rooms the thing occupies each year, it's a tight fit. And I think this is starting to work against the annual do. It's just too packed. There isn't enough time or space to lag back or dawdle through the line. No time to stop and finger through pages and portfolios, without causing serious traffic jams. And there were a lot of poor sods that got their tables stuck in the worst spots -- intersections and hidden corners. This one dude was almost half on half off a set of stairs. It was madness.
And can this not be a TWO day event?! A weekend thing? Pay your admission and be allowed to come back on any one of the days, at leisure? That might thin out the crowd a little. Free up some space & time to absorb and think. Rotate the tables a bit. Spread out the readings & workshops.
But I still love you, Canzine... Only how many more sleeps?..
No comments:
Post a Comment