Discipline

I'm always interested to find out how bookbinders and conservators I meet came to their field. I've never heard the same answer twice. Tonight, I was faced with the same question and the answer I heard come out of my mouth made more sense than I expected it to. It also helped me decide how to write this entry, which I've been toying with for a few weeks. Before I get to my answer, here's the set-up.

Whether creating a book from scratch or restoring an old one, bookbinding has thus far been a very personal pursuit for me. My hands, my eye, my decision. I'm not too worried about pleasing anyone else, unless the work is for the purpose of honing a particular technique, etc. Working at the bindery, however, is 180 from such an approach. Orders come in, product goes out.

Typical of most Americans, I tend to foster a romantic/nostalgic view of blue collar work. Not exactly Norman Rockwell, but close. Indeed, I bring my lunch to the shop and punch in on a clock and wear an grimy apron. My hands are often chapped, burned or bloodied when I leave. There are a lot of interpersonal dynamics at work. We chat and share our snacks and watch the clock together. Somehow, I've garnered the animosity of a coworker. I do have a nemesis, it's true, but not the crabby lady hunched over the bench. Oh, no. My enemy is a glue machine.

She growls and rumbles. She runs on a diet of hide glue and confidence-shredding frustration. She'll try to digest anything you pass through her sticky maw. She's The Beast. In case you have never smelled hide glue, imagine someone decides to binge on tootsie rolls and vodka all night, then upchucks the lot...that sickly sweet bile smell? Yep. That's about right. 

Working with a glue machine is art and science. When I asked my coworker how she managed to do ANYTHING with The Beast, she joked in broken english that she's a rocket scientist. I believe it. Moreover, I believe she is also a yogi. How anyone could tolerate that sound everyday for 14 years--it must require spiritual calm of great magnitude. The crackling blare of low reception top 40 radio hits only adds to the din. Like most lesser mortals, I usually rely on my iPod to drown it all out. 

When I'm at the LC, I track my progress my numbers: how many adjustable covers made or inspected, how many books surveyed, etc. Though I've often thought that I should do the same at the bindery, there just isn't the time. As soon as one batch of this or that is done, the next task has materialized on the bench. Sometimes I have the wherewithal to photograph what I've done.

Such as making boxes. Dozens and dozens of boxes. Or gluing paper backing to hundreds of cloth endpapers. That's what I was doing when I hurt my shoulder.

I felt it coming on. I knew by lunch that I should probably try to alternate with my left hand/arm. I'm not particularly ambidextrous, but I figured I should at least try. I debated with myself about it for a couple more hours before I couldn't not do it. Eight consecutive hours performing any repetitive motion is bad news. The lovely part, though, the part that carried me past my threshold was the out-of-body contemplation that overtook me during that day. I didn't have to think about the client or the workflow or the cost of labor and materials or anything in particular. All I had to do was glue. Align. Fold. Press. Repeat. 

One of my favorite sayings is "Laborare est orare" ["To labor is to pray"]. I tend to interpret prayer and meditations as variations on the same theme, and so it was that day. My mind was far from my body, on a journey of its own, while my body did work in the world. 

I thought about many things. One of which is why I do what I do and how I came to it. It wasn't until my friend asked me tonight that the answer I felt that day translated itself into words. I don't remember what specifically triggered my interest in bookbinding. It was, more likely, an accumulation of factors. The tradition of craft in my mother's family, the life-long obsession with the written word, the dawning appreciation of books as artifacts, and on and on. In my travels, I've witnessed artists at work in their workshops from the time I was little. I've always been fascinated at the way people who have made the same creative gesture over decades appear to be playing a little game with themselves, a little dance of directed motion that results in something elegant and complete. 

So here's my answer, brought to you, in part, by Wikipedia: "In its original sense, discipline referred to systematic instruction given to disciples to train them as students in a craft or trade, or to follow a particular code of conduct." It follows, then, that someone who intently studies a craft and its methods becomes a disciple of it. And it also follows that by pursuing a discipline, one might also become disciplined. 

I became a bookbinder not because of what I want to do, but because of who I want to be. I want to be a disciple. I want to be disciplined by my work. I want what I do to make me a better person.