1000 Miles (Dual Folio Edition)
SPECIFICATIONS
- 5.5" X 8.5"
- 2 FOLIOS; 24 PAGES EACH
- DUAL RUBBER BAND & TRIPLE STAPLE BINDING
- TRANSLUCENT HEAVY-WEIGHT VELLUM COVER WITH EMBOSSED EMBELLISHMENTS ON FRONT AND BACK
- 10 TEXTWORKS PRINTED ON TRANSLUCENT VELLUM USING A UNIQUE UN-SEALED LASER TONER PROCESS
- 11 NORITSU DIGITAL DRY PRINTS PRINTED ON FUJI CRYSTAL ARCHIVE PAPER HELD TO THE PAGE WITH ARCHIVAL CANSON PHOTO-SQUARES
- SIGNED, STAMPED AND NUMBERED BY THE ARTIST
- FIRST EDITION OF 50 + 5 APs ; SECOND EDITION OF 100 + 2APs
DESCRIPTION
1000 Miles is the culmination of a 100 day performance project Jason Jaworski created in collaboration with MOCAtv where every day he threw a dart at a map of Los Angeles, traced a 10 mile shape and proceeded to traverse its geometry. Dressed in a uniform of all white, each 10 mile journey was documented in a series of images, texts and line paintings.
Published in 2014, this dual folio edition of Jaworski's 1000 Miles project combines images and artist texts from the original ten volume zine set produced by the artist in 2013. Consisting of two separate folios, the first is a collection of digital dry prints hand placed onto each page with an embossed vellum cover. The second folio is a collection of 10 artist texts created throughout the project, each one representing a 100 miles of the 1,000 mile journey. Printed on a translucent vellum paper, the textwork folio is signed and numbered by the artist on the back and is printed using a unique un-sealed laser toner process whose ink dissolves over time with use, mimicking the project’s investigation into dissolved and comminuted substances.
The original ten volume zine set was featured in the 2015 edition of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) New Photography exhibition as part of Lele Saveri's The Newsstand installation, as well as being highlighted in the Skira Rizzoli book of the same name.
All editions of the book and series have sold out from SSK Press.
The last remaining copies of this dual folio edition are available at Dashwood Books here.
ARTIST TEXT
I was living nowhere at the time.
On planes I used to watch cities turn to stars, lights dwindling and winding down into small spheres, each building blinking back at me through some shroud of cloud.
And memories long like shadows running their way from gnarled lampposts hanging in Fukushima, wandering through parts of a person that I didn’t know I had inside me and those skies seen from an airplane so long ago, every two weeks on a different flight, in a different car, a different train. Running as slow as I could from everything and everyone around me. Through lenses like mine, blue as an infant, brown in those years, and with water walking around their rims so often too often when remembering what it was that was to me and those things that I had left to leave to myself for later. Time and its ever encroaching constraints coming through like winds working on themselves and people that I’ve seen now and then are always and too often far from me and the people I’ve seen from there and then on have faces far uglier in places where yours once was. There’s no memory you can outrun.
My mind always there and the lakes like fires burning images of sky in front of me while landscapes nearby blur by as the train goes on and on and every face from here to there, around this elastic band which splits each and every hemisphere here, each face has hands as if touched by yours and yours walking wondering and moving forward and forth and all those people - strangers, friends, friends now strangers - everything running itself around as if the world were nothing to negate but a place to relate and come together, to hone in home and to have that focus I once had when I had what I once had when I had you and those nights lightless listless move on through papers in my mind, cabinets held up with others and the wings of those women running through fiction finding in shadows memories more moving than any images on any screen.
Why is it that the world wants what it does, that no matter what we try to leave we can’t forget what we want to, can’t remember what we want to; that I have to remind myself to remember to forget and forget to remember? You can’t burn away a memory. Prisms and pyramids of thought with tombs and rooms long forgotten but always able to be explored in faces of another reminding me of yours.
And days wandering later, my mind having run and ran and run and ran from as many people as it could, as many things as it could, that forever state of something, like waking up and feeling someone or something pulling the ribbons of a dream from your mind to where the images are no longer there, like Niépce staring into a glass plate watching images disappear into ether before creating fixer: running wandering wondering and waiting for forever to appear, now here: nowhere.
And to everyone that I’ve ever left and to anyone that I’ve ever followed and failed- those people, strangers, and so many things; one August morning while walking: a bird running along a wire before jumping into traffic, catching passing inertia and turning it into flight. Waiting for the bus in rains that normally don’t fall but for whatever reasons on cloudless days they drip like so many grains of sand from a cliff. Rain, is it not the erosion of clouds, the granules of its drops the comminuted forms of the vapor solids floating and flowing in huge masses en masse above us? And what is the weight of a cloud? Whose form does it take on and have when with eyes marred and scarred from things seen around me I am staring neverending into that pale blue watching those tufts drift by in bluffs of vapor vaulting vaunting imagery of animals and other things to me while next to me a child is screaming to his mother the names of shapes and extending his arm and fingers upwards in attempts to grasp those things far off in the distance that one can never hold but will someday smell, feel and taste in the form of various phrases of rain: weather.
Time and memory enfolding everything and the weight of this word, that word word, being nothing, it being so small that if it were an object it wouldn’t even have atoms, it wouldn’t measure in any microscope. That is how we are, who we are; and our emotions, though sometimes all encompassing, matter just as much as that word word exists- they matter just as little as that that.
How fast a hummingbird must move its wings in order to stay still.
- Jason Jaworski
2013