The LA Art Book Fair was aesthetic, unapologetic and expensive

Echo Park is always an exciting place to be on a Saturday morning. It’s filled with people and dogs; it smells like summer, like sunscreen and lake water. The lake has a smattering of bright-faced paddle boaters gliding across its glittering surface.

This Saturday, however, it was even more exciting, and the line for paddle boat rentals was three times as long as usual. This is because this weekend, in the middle of the lake is a library. On a wooden barge, about four square feet in size, are glorious plastic bins and elementary school-style racks around its rim full of zines, chapbooks, and other local publications.

This floating library is put on by Machine Project, a creative space in LA that offers readings and other creative outlets for artists to come together. The floating library is meant to be a space for writers, the indie, the up and coming and the experimental, to show their work. Machine Project members crouched atop the small barge handing boaters small colorful books of poetry, prose, and essays with titles like “Texts I Shouldn’t Have Sent” to be perused at their floaty leisure.

The library was set up in conjunction with the LA Art Book Fair that was put on  by Printed Matter at the Geffen Contemporary at MOCA, which ran from Thursday, Feb. 11 to Sunday, Feb. 14. Printed Matter is a non-profit bookstore and gallery in LA.

Unlike the quiet and quaint serenity of the floating library, the Art Book Fair was something else entirely. I got lost walking around the maze of convention-style stalls and booths set up in MOCA’s clean and industrial white wear house. The fair was a labyrinth of artists and indie book publishers selling their work in forms ranging from zines, books, posters, t-shirts and anything in between.

One booth was selling a “box of books,” 20 screen printed zines created and curated by LA artists. Another, boasted the newest edition of a book of prose poetry by a German writer, or a book of drawings of famous people who live in New York.

I bought pins that said “Foreplay in the foyer fucked my Warhol” and “Jeff Koons balloons make me want to throw up,” as well as a book on the history and cultural impact of postmodern contemporary poetry. In the spirit of full disclosure, I spent two hours and quite a bit of my hard-earned minimum wage there.

Such an expansive array of both art and books was like a dream for me. The outside of the event was set up like a street fair with food trucks and live music. The inside was congested with people, all well-dressed and trendy in that very Los Angeles way.

Yet, one thing I noticed while watching everyone was that it was not an event saved for young Angelenos. The bonding factor of all of the people there was that they were bright, vibrant, and engaged with all of the art they saw, admiring prints or pawing at tote bags. Everyone seemed to find some relatable aspect of all of the art and literature, even though it seemed externally standoffish and abstract.

Post-modern and wonderful, there is no line drawn between what is plastic art, art like drawings and paintings, and what is literature. There’s only expression. Sometimes that expression is political, like the tote bag that proclaimed in upper-case letters, “YOU ARE NOTHING WITHOUT FEMINIST ART.” Sometimes it’s sexual, like the book of photography focusing mostly on genitalia titled “Glory Hole.” Sometimes it’s neon, sometimes it’s minimal black and white. Sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it’s art prints.

Sometimes it’s poetry printed on art prints or in patterns that become indecipherable. And sometimes it’s none of these things. But it’s all honest. It’s art that is conceptual and meaningful to the people who make it. The fair was an unabashed presentation of art by people of all ages, races, genders, and sexual orientations who just felt like they wanted their stories to be heard no matter how messy, zany, or brash.  Above all else, the Art Book Fair was aesthetic, unapologetic, and expensive, just like the city we all know and love.