Selling to Collections: Librarians Live in a Real World Too. When you are creating, doing your work, I don't think you should think about this. I'm starry-eyed enough to think that the work has its own insistent demands that should be satisfied first. After that's done, assuming that you want your work out in the world, you – or someone acting in your stead – has to put on another hat and consider who might buy your work.
Because we find ourselves serving primarily the institutional market, I'm going to restrict comments to that market. Most librarians are asked to do too much in too little time with too few resources. They must justify, they must shelve, they must explain. For many, Book Arts represents only a minute part of what they are responsible for. All are limited to 24-hour days, and most have lives outside their libraries/institutions. You'll be more successful, we think, if you can get inside their reality before you approach them.
I can't write this as a librarian. For a librarian's point-of-view, I recommend you study the witty and wise closing address given at last summer's excellent Wellesley Artists' Book Conference by Mark Dimunation, Director of the Library of Congress. Available on-line at http://www.jennypress.com. Or contact the jenny-press, PO Box 207057, New Haven, CT 06520. You want Book Arts Essay 2, ABC: The Artists' Books Conference Keynote Addresses, which packages the opening address by Betty Bright and Dimunation's closing address. At $15 postpaid in the US, it's a bargain.
Also, as a guess, I think you'll get better information by talking to colleagues who have been doing this for years, because what we can tell you is experiential and therefore limited to the librarians who will let us in. Some librarians see dealers as a way to best use their limited time. We can show them the work of 20 artists in a session; 20 separate sessions might take several weeks, and several bushels full of stress. On the other hand, there are librarians who prefer to buy from individual artists. Getting to know the artist is a chute to getting to know the work, which makes their job of representing its best face to the world easier.
Whoever it is who approaches the institution, she should be prepared to talk about the work. And not just in technical terms. I am suspect when I feel as if I'm being overloaded with technical jargon. Fellow artists (and some cataloguers who are having difficulty relating to a book) may be vitally interested in fonts, type sizes, the serial number of your Vandercook, and such, but I want to know why the work was made and how I can have a richer experience with it. And that's what we find most librarians want. If Vamp & Tramp is doing it, give me clues to enter the world of the work. As Mr. Dimunation points out, a rose may be a rose, but your rose might seem a not-rose to others. Help us appreciate your garden.
In the same vein, stories help people connect. We always ask our printers and artists for stories about their work. Muriel Rukeyser has a line that goes something like, The world is not made of atoms, it's made of stories. That rings true in our world. Stories about your work give people something to hang on to, a way of approaching what may seem mysterious or formidable. Why did you choose this format? What decisions did you have to make? What were some of the bottom burps in the life of the work? If the paper contains the foreskin of your first son, is it important that we know it?
Shelving is a concern: Most institutions house books, even artists' books, on shelves. The book on Piercing Problems with the cover pierced by knives might not be a good neighbor on the shelf.
As a general rule, I think boxes or enclosures are a good idea. The best boxes/enclosures like Julie Chen's not only protect the work and allow the book to be shelved safely and easily on shelves – library or otherwise – but they also are part of the total experience. And if at all possible, why not put an identifying label on the spine. One important dissenting note, Sandra Kroupa, Special Collections, University of Washington, maintains that much damage is done getting books into and out of slipcases. She catalogues and shelves slipcases separate from the books.
Prospectuses work for many presses and book artists. They don't work for us because we are willing victims of how we choose to do business. Our customers expect us to bring work to show them. When we send a prospectus, the reply is apt to be, "Make sure you bring that when you come." If our artists choose to do a prospectus or announcement, we like to have one to send with each work we place. Librarians and cataloguers seem to like them.
One other caution about prospectuses. An established and successful press told us a tale that went something like this: 'When we started printing, we spent a lot of time and money printing an elaborate prospectus for each book, sending them out to an increasing mailing list. Then, we paid a first-time visit to a large university, and were surprised when the head of Special Collections told us that they already collected our work, had in fact quite a collection. Our printers protested, having no record of having sold this place anything. But to prove his was telling the truth, the proud librarian produced a folder — that overflowed with every prospectus.'
First impressions count. Time is always a factor. First, we are allotted a certain amount of time. Second, there is a limit to what can be absorbed in one sitting. Each librarian, each group of curators has a different capacity. After a certain point, everyone's eyes glaze over. We are, I feel certain, guilty of putting too much work on the table, of blunting the effect. There are reasons for this, if no absolute justification. At any rate, the point is that you have a limited amount of time to grab a prospective buyer. With a lot of work out on the table, anything that takes a long time to explain may get overlooked.
