Throughout much of 2005 and 2006, I was closely involved with the “Academy” project, an international series of exhibitions and discursive events in which the following institutions joined forces: Siemens Arts Program, Kunstverein in Hamburg, the Van Abbemuseum in Eindhoven, the Department of Visual Cultures at Goldsmiths College in London, and MuHKA, the museum of contemporary art in Antwerp where I co-curated the Antwerp leg of that project in close collaboration with Bart De Baere, Angelika Nollert and Grant Watson. In discussing the nature of MuHKA’s contribution to Academy, my colleague Grant Watson and I decided to bring the Martha Rosler Library (which I had seen just weeks before at the Frankfurter Kunstverein) to Antwerp, where it was subsequently housed in the new exhibition spaces of the NICC. Martha Rosler eventually came to Antwerp herself to talk about the library project, which originally started off in the e-flux “office” on Ludlow Street in New York’s Lower East Side. Using the library as a collective reading room on a number of occasions—most memorably for a close group reading of Walter Benjamin’s Theses on the Philosophy of History— we came to realize that, apart from a limited number of reviews in art magazines, no one had really cared to think about the library as an artistic project in itself, with a distinct position within the broader framework of Rosler’s work as an artist, intellectual, teacher and writer. This is when the idea first arose to conduct an in-depth interview with Martha Rosler on the subject of the library alone—and, inevitably, to use the library as a point of departure for a consideration of some of Rosler’s life-long intellectual interests and their bearing upon her work.

In December 2006, Martha Rosler led a series of seminars at United Nations Plaza, an exhibition as school in Berlin organized by Anton Vidokle, who initiated the library’s move to the e-flux office space back in 2005. The following interview took place during those seminars in Berlin.

Anton, seeing as the Martha Rosler Library is ultimately an e-flux project, maybe you should start out with recounting its short history and genesis.
It all came about as a bit of an accident: I was in residence at Artpace in Texas two summers ago and some friends took me to see Donald Judd’s Chinati Foundation in Marfa. Among many other things, Judd collected books throughout his life; as you know he wrote quite a bit himself. So at his house in Marfa he built a library. Of course it’s totally beautiful, obviously a Judd sculpture in itself. He had a really vast collection of books, maybe some twenty or thirty thousand volumes. But the strange thing is that his family made a kind of a rule for the estate that none of the objects in the house could be moved even a millimeter from where they were on the day he died. So nobody can touch the books! Even researchers or scholars who are working on Judd’s legacy are denied access to the books he read and collected all his life. Some of the books are still wrapped in plastic and can’t be opened, which means that they are rotting away. All this made me think of what is actually a library. Isn’t it about usage? If that would be the case (which I think it is), you really can’t call Judd’s library a library anymore. Shortly after my return from Marfa, I happened to have a lunch with Martha… I don’t remember the exact reason for this meeting, but I did tell her about Judd’s library, which is when she in turn told me she also has alot of books, and that she was getting fed up with the way in which they were slowly but surely taking over the house. I then asked her, almost in jest: “Well, why don’t you lend us your books and we’ll set up a small public library in our e-flux storefronton Ludlow Street?” Even though she said yes, I didn’t really take it that seriously at first. I mean, who is going to give away ten thousand books for public usage? This is her personal collection, after all, and one she’s been working on since the Sixties, if not earlier… At first I didn’t really think the library would actually happen as a public project, but then it did.

Another thing I had been thinking about after going to Marfa was that it feels so much like a spiritual shrine, particularly Judd’s house and studio, but somehow this feeling infects a lot of the town. A lot of the people who were visiting seemed to be on some sort of an art pilgrimage that was simultaneously very spa-like. There is something about this atmosphere that’s very alienating because it leaves no room for humor, irreverence or criticality, because the situation is set up in such a way that the only thing you can do is admire. The great thing about Martha’s work, however (and this obviously is especially true of the library), is that it’s so much more tied in with daily, ordinary life. The beauty of the Library project is that it’s being used so extensively, the exact opposite of Judd’s installation at Marfa. The aesthetics of the piece—which it obviously has —are in the actual sharing or its use value.

And, in its closeness to people, as opposed to the distancing effect that has become typical of Minimalist sculpture.
Exactly. Another thing that is unusual about the library is that it started out as a very modest local project, a project that was in some sense meant for the street or for the block we are located at, nothing more. In the beginning it was being confused for a used book store and several of our neighbors stopped by during the installation to wish us good luck with the new business, thinking that e-flux video rental (a project we did previously) went bankrupt and we are trying something new business venture… We never really thought about circulating this project internationally, partly because its so large but also because we could not imagine that Martha would allow the books to travel outside the city to places where she would not have easy access to them. But then it started to travel, first to the Frankfurter Kunstverein, then to the MuHKA in Antwerp where you brought it yourself. Next it’ll be presented in Berlin this summer and will travel to Paris in the fall of this year.

In New York, the library really worked super well: some people would come in and spend half a day reading, looking through the books. It was a great way of slowing things down, which is very very different from the speed with which one usually takes in an exhibition. It seems that most of the time people run in and out of galleries and museums thinking that they’ve understood or seen things, which of course isn’t necessarily the case. Books, on the other hand, are heavy—they slow you down. Which surely is a good thing…

It appears that this project addressed a very real need: where can people go to sit down and read and rummage through books all day in a city like New York? There’s only so much time you can spend in bookstores before you start feeling uncomfortable with the pressure of having to buy something; university libraries are basically off limits to people who are not students or a part of the faculty. The public library system—well, it’s just a little antiquated to say the least. Another problem is that very few museums have easily publicly accessible reading rooms or research libraries on contemporary art, so in a way the Martha Rosler Library addressed this very specific lack

Martha, is that more or less how it happened?
I don’t remember the exact context of that lunch meeting either, but the library project was Anton’s idea indeed. As he said, he came to visit me at home; I was complaining about my books—how they were really taking over the house… There were books and papers everywhere, literally marching down the steps: I was using the staircase as extra shelving!

That sounds like a dangerous proposition—imagine a fire breaking out!
Well, yeah. There were books in front of other books on top of other books still, and so on… At some point, after a long pause he just said, “Why don’t we just borrow all your books and take them to the e-flux gallery space?” There was another long pause and then I said: “Sure, why not? It sounds like a great idea.” And that was that.

One thing that greatly surprised me when you gave your talk in Antwerp in October is how you described the library, or referred to it, as an actual piece of art. I understand that, as a project, it is riddled with certain ambiguities—but I really had no idea that the library was meant to be looked at as a work of art as well as a library. To me, it always seemed to be quite detached from your artistic production as such.
It only becomes a work of art when it is encapsulated in a gallery space—and admittedly, that is something I really hadn’t thought about, but I think it would be a mistake to ignore the fact that it was received as a work of art. But for me it remains a library, my library—or rather, a reading room. When the library was presented at the e-flux gallery space in the Lower East Side I didn’t even realize there would be a title, or that there would be a need for a title—that just never occurred to me. I really hadn’t considered its reception. And I surely didn’t expect the first two words of its description to be “Martha Rosler”. This was Anton’s call—and as such, it is the exact opposite of my normal practice.

When I first saw the library in the Frankfurter Kunstverein I was indeed struck by its artistic aura—it resembled a piece of installation art, which seemed slightly unfortunate.
That was something we were slightly uncomfortable about, true. And that’s why we asked the curators at MuHKA to put it in a storefront again, away from the confines of the museum space. When we are going to install the library in Berlin next year, it’ll be in an apartment—the primary condition again being that people can just walk in, free of charge and so on.

So there is no real conflict between the work of art and its “use value”, which of course complicates and compromises the status of the work of art… Did you consciously seek out that ambiguity?
No, but that ambiguity just came along with it. That just goes to show that I’m impetuous: If the books are moving, then it just means that people can use them somewhere else. One always feels a little funny about sitting on so many books: who gets to use my books, other than me? This possessive relation is kind of stupid, don’t you think?

So it is essentially a project about sharing.
Well, why else would you put your books out for everyone to read?

This reminds me of one of my favorite stories and quotes concerning the culture of the book: how books really are, according to the tradition of German Romanticism, “long letters to friends”. In that way the library could be thought of as a big speech almost.
True. It is a complex utterance for sure!

Another thing that I thought was quite interesting was how different the response has been to the library in Europe as opposed to the States.
Oh yes, right away there was a great deal of institutional interest from Europe, and none from America.In fact, there was no interest whatsoever in the States, in terms of institutions’ wanting to show the piece, that is—but reviewers were interested in it—very much so. I didn’t expect it to be reviewed, but then it was! But so far no institution in America has asked to borrow it…

Do you think this is in part due to the current political climate?
I don’t think so. In the US, art is supposed to be flashy objects, nothing more. America is extremely conservative and unadventurous, wouldn’t you agree?

But then it has produced so many of the more adventurous artists of the last decades…
Yes, but they all have had their careers in Europe…

Wasn’t the “dematerialization of the art object“ an American invention?
It was, but it didn’t enter the institutions, except with great difficulty…and rather belatedly.

Speaking about de- and rematerialization, to what extent did you think of the library as a portrait?
A portrait?? I didn’t think of it like that at all. There is something really reifying about seeing it as a portrait, and it seems that this has become one of the ways in which people consider the project. Reviewers saw it that way for sure—American ones, that is. Of course, the library certainly bespeaks an intellectual history. But is that the same as a portrait of a person? A portrait of a person would have to say something beyond what they read, right?

Well, I would say that it is a singularly great contribution to the long and hallowed history of portraiture, one that implies absolutely no depiction of any kind.
But then again I have to warn you that the library you know is far from complete—for instance, the feminist science fiction stayed in New York after the e-flux tenure ended because Julieta Aranda and I thought we would do a project around that topic, based on the library holdings. The library that is currently on the road is missing a great many things that remained with me. But of course that doesn’t matter so much—portraits are always partial. But here’s what I was really worried about: that people would say, “Well, why doesn’t she have this book, and why doesn’t she have that book?” That’s precisely why I feared your very question back then in Antwerp…

I remember now: “what happened to your interest in Marxist literature, why does it stop in the Seventies? Is Marxist theory over and done with?”
Exactly what I was worried about—that people would find the library to be a period piece, of all things… But it is an interesting question of course, and of course the answer to that would have to be: First of all, yes indeed, it is heavily periodized, and second, I did keep a lot of books at home—because I’m still using them! And what I didn’t say quite clearly enough back then is that the history of Marxist theory, to name but one example, has migrated away from books and found its way back to journals. This largely happened after the fall of the Berlin Wall, because that’s when a lot of publishers no longer wanted to publish such books—and because people didn’t want to write them anymore either! Only very few of those books have been published since, and I do own some of them. Susan Buck-Morss wrote one, the name of which I can’t remember right now…

Dreamworld and Catastrophe? That’s a great book. But you did make a poignant remark with regards to this fairly new genre—that it’s all a little bit too nostalgic. That’s exactly what I would object to this type of writing: it’s a little bit too preoccupied with its own wallowing in melancholy.
How about Svetlana Boym’s The Future of Nostalgia then? I just bought that book – but I haven’t read it yet. It just arrived in the mail, the day before I left for Berlin.

Charity Scribner’s Requiem for Communism would be another example—it deals with contemporary art’s (obviously melancholic) response to the demise of socialist utopias… The problem with so much post-Marxist theory is that it has become so self-absorbed in its mourning over the failures of the past. I guess this is what makes the library a period piece at times.
Sure. But then again how could I be anything other than of my time?

OK, let’s take an imaginary stroll to the library. You won’t be surprised to hear me say that some sections baffled me a bit. “Transport,” for one, is something I couldn’t get my head around at first: books about train travel, about airports, about space exploration… But then of course I realised how much of a force it is in your work as an artist: the Rights of Passage book is one example, In the Place of the Public: Observations of a Frequent Flyer another one. Is this where certain reading habits started to inform the work?
Actually, it is the other way round. I started photographing places of transportation and transport hubs before I bought any books related to the subject matter. This interest of course started out with my spending so much time in these modes, hubs and nodal spots of various sorts. I was already fascinated with the subway as a child—and developed a love affair with electric trains. I had a full set of Lionel trains as a teenager, because I wasn’t allowed to have one as a girl child. And then when I got married—my husband insisted on getting rid of it and the huge train board I had… My uncle was in the Merchant Marine, so I had a romance of the seas, as well, especially since New York was still a great port in my childhood. I read all sorts of book about the ocean, sailed on a friend’s little sailboat, and sailed on ocean liners to and from Europe in the summer of my 15th birthday.
But the interest in transportation obviously seeped into my work through my constant travelling as an itinerant artist. The pictures of airports were the first body of work to come out of that. The pictures of roads and subways followed, as a logical move of sorts. And only then did I start reading about it all—ten years later is when I really started buying books about the subject, older ones at first.

I guess Marc Augé’s Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity is a fine example of that type of literature.
I’d already published In the Place of the Public before I even read Augé’s book. . Someone whom I have found more interesting was Wolfgang Schivelbusch, who wrote The Railway Journey: the Industrialization and Perception of Time and Space.

I only know his The Culture of Defeat: On National Trauma, Mourning, and Recovery, which I leafed through once.
He also wrote a wonderful book about electric light: Disenchanted Night: The Industrialization of Light in the Nineteenth Century. He wrote a book on the history of spices… Let’s say he is a cross between Benjamin and Sebald at his less burdened moments—they share that a Germanic sensibility…

Let’s talk about the science fiction—of which there is alot in the library. That is, if you ask me, but I’ll readily admit I’ve never read a science fiction book in my life.
Most of my science fiction books are still at home… When that section was put on the shelves back in Frankfurt and Antwerp, I thought: “Hey, where is everything?”I realize I sent some of the books home because I was afraid they’d be stolen! I started reading science fiction when I was a child; I read the books and magazines inherited from my scientist brother, who was ten years older. Then I quit because of the lousy writing, but more recently I have returned to reading it. It’s important to me because it’s utopian. And it’s about travel—it’salways about transport of one sort or another.

It’s shelved just next to the crime section.
Well, I guess that’s because you shelved them like that! But that’s the way it is done in bookstores as well. They are both “genre” fiction. One could say that, as a rule, crime fiction is the dystopian pendant to science fiction’s picture of utopia. But there is also a lot of dystopian science fiction—Philip K. Dick for instance… One could also argue that in general the utopianism of science fiction reflects a despairing prognosis for contemporary society.

What is it about the detective or crime novel that interests you? Or are those just innocent reading pleasures?
Surely you know there is no such thing as an “innocent” reading pleasure. But let me see…Because they are always about the place of an individual subject in a social web perhaps? The web of modernity, so to speak: crime novels deal with urban life, and the detective has to try to read the signs in that environment and find his or her way out or in.

That sounds like a quintessentially Benjaminian trope. Didn’t he call the detective novel the consummate example of nineteenth-century bourgeois literature?
Did he? Anyway, let me remind you that most of my detective novels were sold off in a Garage Sale… I had a huge number of detective novels by women authors in particular, and that was actually a section unto its own in the Garage Sale I organised at the New Museum in New York in 2000 as part of my retrospective (the first Garage Sale was held in 1973). I was interested in novels featuring a female detective specifically—a classic type of détournement, in which a female character is put into a typically male role, and in a modern setting to boot. I was never that interested in, say, Agatha Christie. Anyway her guy is Belgian, right? (laughs) I don’t find her work to be as interesting as the modern American effort—books written by feminists—to create and/or deflect a genre and grab it by the neck, so to speak. Take Sarah Paretsky: she is not only interested in presenting a female reader of the signs of urban space (and a lone operator at that, because that’s basically what a detective is), but also in corporate crime. You could think of her as the heir to Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo—her hero being V.I. Warshawski instead of Martin Beck; surely you have heard of her…

Yes I have… Would you say there is a parallel here with…
Me?

Well, with artisthood in general?
Oh yes, absolutely. And this is especially true of women artists…Because women artists are always positioned and stuck in alterity. What’s more, they usually also fly on their own, unlike most male artists who tend to have retinues, and, more importantly, wives who very often act are their full-time administrators. It makes a huge difference to have someone who’s always there as a buffer, taking care of every detail, telling you when and where to dine, and when to go back to the hotel because you have a jetlag… Women artists tend to be thrown onto their own wits and have to take care of everything themselves. No matter how many assistants they may have, it’s just not the same.

And as artist, they are forever locked inside the curse of alterity. They are always going to be “women artists”, never just “artists”.
Yes, they will always be in the wrong subject position.

This leads us on to another substantial chapter in the library—that of “labour history”. When I looked at the size of that section, I was inevitably reminded of the fact that “labour history” as such has almost completely vanished from even the most specialized bookshops…
What could be more important than the history of industrial and other paid wage-labour relationships, but also that of unpaid ones? Speaking as a feminist, I’d say that in order to understand how so much female labour is as a rule unpaid (at home), you also have to understand the terms in which labour gets paid outside the home, as well as the origin of wage labour as such. The history of wage relations is a matter not just of economic compensation but also of the relations of production and the structure of the workplace. It’s endlessly fascinating interesting to read the history of labour—I don’t know why more people aren’t interested in it. This also relates to my interest in the history of food—say the diet of ordinary people in Europe from the late Middle Ages onwards—and how this is in turn affected by (or actively affects) the transformation of feudalism into early capitalism, including the history of enclosures of the commons; and the French Revolution may have been precipitated by the preceding flour wars. Then there is the history of housing… Which is why the library has a large section on housing, architecture, and the built environment.

Is this what I would have called the “urban studies” section? Come to think of it, it is interesting to speak about urban studies as the history of housing, which it often isn’t considered to be. Though I would say that there seems to be a markedly growing interest in the history of food. Mark Kurlansky is the genre’s undisputed master, as he has written both a history of salt and one of the cod…
Yes, but you said it yourself—this type of writing is becoming a kind of cultural: a clever way to have a bestseller. I read several historiographies of coffee for the performance I did in Brussels back in 2000 [The Romances of the Meal, a performance piece involving coffee, chocolate, and Coca-Cola, and other global foods as well as references to BSE or “mad cow disease”; in this work Rosler further explored “the domestic as the vantage point for looking at relations in the world at large”, ed.], but one thing I noticed was that the more recent they were, the more they seemed to be just interested in writing a book instead of actually thinking about the book’s chosen subject.

What you mean to say is that someone will write a book about, say, the “image” of coffee in popular culture, but not about…
...the history of the slave trade that went into producing the coffee. Oh well, of course someone will write such a book, but few will pay attention. These books will be there for the reading, but not many will read them.

And this is exactly where the history of food is very easily derailed: we end up reading hedonistic pseudo-treatises about the “good life”, the hedonism of which almost actively obscures the reasons why this good life was allowed to come into being in the first place!
Which is why writers like Schivelbusch are so important: they don’t get derailed.

Well, he did write The Railway Journey, didn’t he? But let me get back to the labour issue… How do you think art, as the realm of the lone producer, relates to the question of labour and labour relations? In some sense, art seems naturally resistant to those exact types of movements that have made the history of labour legible. Isn’t the history of 20th century art the history of individuals, really?
You’re mistaking history for historiography perhaps…

Well, what I mean to say is that there is a definite obscuring of the importance of collective efforts in the writing of that history…
Yes, that’s true, and it also obscures the interest of artists in a) forming associations, whether of a formal or informal kind, and b) representing the history of collective efforts of various kinds…

Is art work or labour?
It depends on what you describe as waged labour, right? Artist’s assistants, for instance, are waged labourers, artist-labourers. The artist is a petty-bourgeois producer, wouldn’t you agree?

Do you mean this along the lines of the nineteenth-century craft tradition?
Well, it’s hard to say. The development of the factory system at the end of the 19th century destroyed the master-journeyman-apprentice system that had up till then continued even in major industries like steel production. New techniques of management accompanied this—something is now also encroaching upon academic labour in the US.

Well, not only in the US, and not only upon academic labour, but also upon cultural labour right here in Europe. I’m speaking from actual experience, mind you…
In America we are in the midst of the proletarianization of the professoriat. But to get back to your question: artists run ateliers. Perhaps individual painters of the modern canon did everything by themselves, but by and large, artists have formed loose associations with each other or have studios peopled with assistants, or both.But now artists are more often trying to developsome version of a utopian collective: usually young artists who produce collectively for a time, as equal participants. But the art world remains resistant to that development. Except that, every once in a while—as in the most recent Whitney and Berlin biennials—the art world will allot a certain amount of space to the collective, as a “genre”... in which case the collective becomes just another signature. I said something about this in a short review of the last Whitney Biennial. [Artforum, May 2006, ed.]

Let’s head back to the library for a minute. You don’t have many books on music, do you? I love to read about music.
Really? Well, it doesn’t make much sense to me. I do have Charles Rosen’s Classical Style though, and some books on jazz history, and some on American folk music. I was a piano player too…

It’s a little bit like my interest in film: I’m not a big moviegoer or film buff (I sometimes like to say I don’t like film even), but I love to read about it. The history of Hollywood makes for such great reading, don’t you find?
Yes indeed, and I do have a lot of film history and film theory books. But most of it is still at my office in Rutgers University… But I don’t know how I would be able to understand music better by reading about it… I probably should read more about it. Did you know I have a lot of books about gardening? I left almost all of them at home.

Do you have a garden?
Yes, two in fact, one in New Jersey and one in Brooklyn.

In Brooklyn?
That’s correct. I should’ve gotten a loft but instead I got a house. Because there was a garden in the back… It’s not very conducive to studio production, but well…the house had a garden and I had to have it. Dirt.

Actually, I’m very interested in gardening myself. Obviously I don’t do it, but I love to think about it. I wrote a couple of essays that speak about gardening in philosophical terms.
Really? I love looking at pictures of plants… Isn’t that stupid?

Do you have an animal section?
No.

Don’t you like animals?
Of course I do. But what’s the interest? Why would I want to look at pictures of animals in books?? They’re alive and they can move around—unlike plants.

I wanted to be a zoologist when I was about eleven years old.
I wanted to be a biologist.

I wanted to work in a zoo.
But that’s not what a zoologist does!! (Laughter)

Well, I wanted to travel to Kenya and look at lions in the savannah… But I guess I was too bad at math to pursue a career in science.
How can you be bad at math? You studied philosophy—how can you study philosophy if you don’t have a mathematical mind?

That’s a long story… It’s partly my father’s fault I think. He was an artist, you know…
Oh no!!

Let’s not go into this any further but go back to the library once again. I noticed there is also a large section of Native American history, especially of the peoples of the West. Could you talk a little more about that?
Well, I grew up in Brooklyn, and the Brooklyn Museum had (and still has) a fabulous array of Native American artefacts on display, which I got to see many times. Later on, I moved to upper Manhattan, just ten blocks from The [George Gustave] Heye Center of the National Museum of the American Indian… But what’s more, how could I be a Jew and not be interested in the history of oppressed peoples, especially those on my native continent? That is a recent part of the history of the Americas. Finally, the native peoples of America also embody the romance of Otherness: they are the other Other, aside from Jews and Blacks, an Other that does not have the same history of integration.
Also, how could I work in the field of photography without having a grasp of those exact histories? You can’t teach nineteenth-century photography without understanding the history of colonization and war against the native peoples of America. And of course when I moved to the West Coast, I found their presence there was quite palpable: Back in the seventies, the idyll of the echt tribal people was a big deal for the hippie culture. That’s when all of Edward Curtis’ books were republished and a lot of his pictures have been endlessly reprinted. San Diego, where I lived at the time, is a city that was near several reservations; and historically the Spanish missions were associated with native settlements. My partner at the time was a linguistics student who studied native languages.

Curtis’ work is a potent reminder of the entwinement of photography and the colonial enterprise—both are classic 19th century “inventions”.
Well, photography as a mode of possession fantastically interesting; as a rationalization of vision. In my recent essay on the Bowery piece, for instance [The Bowery in two inadequate descriptive systems, 1975, ed.], I have written about my interest in the transformation of the continuous field of vision into a grid, and about the modernist idea of cutting a piece out of the picture and all those things…

Let’s close off with a couple of thoughts on art books. Obviously there are much more critical theory and cultural studies books to be found in the library than art books.
Yes, but what do I need art books for? They’re like candy. I sold off a bunch of art books at the end of the Seventies when I moved back to the East Coast and moving them would be too expensive. I thought I could just as well buy other ones. Obviously this wasn’t the brightest idea… But I would still say that most art books are just “pleasure”. And even though the gardening books are too, they are innocent—at least they don’t make any transcendent claims; what’s more, they are also handbooks. Art books are also big and expensive; they take up lots of space… I’ll generally buy art books if they’re really hard to come by in the States, like the books I just bought in Turin on the work of Carlo Mollino in Turin.
But why would you want to buy art books anyhow? Sometimes the essays are useful, but more often they’re not; most interesting writing about artists is still going to be taking place in journals, or in collections of essays. I want books that I want to run to the shelf to consult, and I just can’t think about art books in those terms… It’s the same thing with journals: I tend not to read the art magazines that have too much of the “magazine look” about them, but I do read theory journals though—the ones that have binding I suppose… Because they’re concerned with the writing —they are like books, really.

You mean like A Prior Magazine?