1000 Miles Vol. III

SPECIFICATIONS

  • 5.5" X 8.5"
  • 44 PAGES
  • TRIPLE-STAPLE BINDING
  • LASER PRINTED ON HIGH-QUALITY 32lb PREMIUM PAPER
  • TRANSLUCENT HEAVY-WEIGHT VELLUM COVER WITH EMBOSSED EMBELLISHMENTS ON FRONT AND BACK
  • 21 IMAGE PHOTO-STORY EXCLUSIVE TO THIS ZINE
  • 1 LOOSELEAF GATEFOLD INSERT WITH PROJECT TEXTWORK
  • 1 LOOSELEAF GATEFOLD INSERT WITH ROUTE-MAPS EXCLUSIVE TO THIS ZINE PRINTED IN HIGH-QUALITY COLOR
  • 1 FUJI NORITSU COLOR PRINT EXCLUSIVE TO THIS VOLUME PRINTED ON FUJICOLOR CRYSTAL ARCHIVE PAPER HELD TO THE PAGE WITH ARCHIVAL CANSON PHOTO-SQUARES
  • SIGNED, STAMPED AND NUMBERED BY THE ARTIST
  • FIRST EDITION OF 100 + 5 APs ; SPECIAL EDITION OF 10 (DETAILS HERE)

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. This publication is the third of 10 the artist made during the project. Each book represents 100 miles of the 1,000 mile journey.

A ten volume zine set, as well as a dual folio publication involving the project was put out by SSK Press in 2013 and 2014. The original zines themselves were 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. 
However, the dual folio edition is still available at Dashwood Books in limited quantities here.

ARTIST TEXT

I left just as the sun was falling. Sky golden just as the hour, and every cloud coughing out its small part in the pastel that seemed to glimmer before me.

By the time I reached the start of my route the sun was gone completely. The color in the sky changed to a deep navy blue, so close to black that it took awhile to catch the pigment. I headed down Vermont, straddling the sidewalk and smiling at every person on every corner as eyes met with mine and a wandering step pushed me forward.

A few miles further and I was down on 3rd Street passing by old haunts and buildings of memory. The unseen triangle of movement we would always perform from Monte Carlo, to the taco truck and eventually the donut shop. “Whatever just came out” were always the words to use at that final window. I see their faces now, Bobby with his hot dog croissant and Dave with his medley of various forms of dough and sugar. And with each step I thought of every other person close to me, rippling out small poems of performance on their own. 

Pearls of dew started to form on the leaves on Normandie. I traced a shape on one, and with the damp air caught on my finger, pushed it further around and into my skin. There is something about finding nature on a city street- to encounter its whisper. A curious complexity: small portions of green reaching out through corners of sidewalk or walls of concrete, their shape having the form of a child’s scrawl or drawing where even the smallest breath or breeze can cause their stems to dance. 

After a repeated undulation of movement, I stopped on a bridge overlooking the 101 Freeway, watching all the cars slowly wade around and pass each other. How many stories are there, within each person, slowly moving through these metal objects on wheels, passing by at a near or exceeded 70 miles per hour? I couldn’t help but smile at the minutiae of profundity in front of me. It was like getting out of a bath in a hotel room alone and staring up at the ceiling - this happened to me in Atlanta - and hearing every voice from every room make its way through the small walls and popcorn stubble ceiling. And now, on a bridge above a freeway, I was trying to hear those voices again. Strangers talking: A mother waiting with her child at a bus-stop / Two women coming up the stairs to the left of me laughing / A kaleidoscopic group of adolescents flying down the street on their bikes, lights flashing and each formation of their group another shape and symbol to be seen from above as they change from rhombus to rectangle at a stoplight / A man sitting underneath a lamppost, his face covered and coughing / Two planes flying overhead, one landing and another heading to some further, farther destination. 

Sometimes I feel as though my mind is a large sheet of glass that has been dropped from a great height- shattered and recollected. The fragmentary nature of my associations with persons, emotion, feeling and every other sort of sort is something I’ve learned is not unique, though not entirely normal either. Thoughts and feeling overlap one another so much that it is hard to decipher and discern between what any other can be or mean- as if my thoughts, vision, memory and feeling were woven together in some unseen intricacy. A blessing to feel and see so many things at once, but a blessing which holds in it a deep melancholy as well. I am like a dog, being pushed on from moment to moment through my unbridled excitement to experience the same street on the same walk, to mark something here and to smell whatever fragrances that any strangers may leave behind. The melancholy comes from that impermanence of being; that my state is always one of wanting to discover, and never to settle down. It is the unattainable glass of water, for there is no liquid to assuage the thirst for wander, wonder and leaving. And what life is there to be left behind when it is a life lived leaving? For the near impossibility to have and hold each and every other moment forever- for there are always other corners, other intersections and other streets with their own magic and murmur.

I continued to cross the bridge, eventually joining the other side of the street, and continuing to walk, foot by foot, while meandering through the corridors of city around me, passing other intersections where strangers talk with friends, mothers wait with their children and men cough alone underneath lampposts while planes fly overhead to places their passengers have yet to arrive at.

- Jason Jaworski
2013