Kerry Mansfield: Expired
“We must take time to celebrate the swiftly disappearing communal experience offered by library books as they are being replaced by downloads, finger swipes, and plastic newness. If you listen carefully, you can hear the aching poetry — the burden of the years that calls from their tattered pages.” -Kerry Mansfield
In world of kindles, ipads, and audio books, the book as object is becoming a historical artifact. Photographer Kerry Mansfied’s project, Expired, takes a loving look at cherished children’s library books, chosen “for specific characteristics that best display the love poured into library books over their years on the stacks.” She photographed over 180 ex-library books, after culling through thousands of editions, for her self-published monograph, Expired. On October 25th, at 7pm Kerry will be having a book signing at The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles, and her book can be purchased on her site or through photo-eye books.
Expired, the book, is beautifully designed and executed, hearkening to the exquisite linen bound books of the literary past. With a red ribbon page marker and a physical library check-out card that is signed by the artist mounted on the inside of the back cover, the book stands ready for the next generation of loving wear and tear.
Kerry Mansfield is a San Francisco based photographer whose work explores the movement of time and how it affects our perceptions of what we see. Born in New Jersey in 1974, Kerry graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Photography from UC Berkeley and did further studies at CCA (California College of the Arts) to refine her sense of space and architecture. Her work has been exhibited globally and garnered numerous honors including LensCulture’s Single Image Award, multiple World Photography Organization and IPA Awards, and as a repeated Critical Mass Finalist. A host of press and publications, ranging from the PDN Photo Annual to the New York Times LensBlog, have featured several of her bodies of work, including the Expired series. Kerry’s Expired series monograph has just been released for fall 2017 and will be accompanied by artist talks and solo exhibitions in several major U.S. Cities.
In elementary school I spent many lost afternoons hiding in the library nook reading while settled deeply into a green vinyl beanbag chair surrounded by the scent of musty paper. The first rite of passage upon learning how to write one’s name was to inscribe it on a library checkout card promising the book’s safe journey and return. I remember reading the list of names that had come before me and cradling the feeling that I was a part of this book’s history and it’s shared, communal experience exposed by curly-Q handwritten names and room assignments revealing repeat customers devouring the book beyond it’s deadline. An act of declaration that’s dissolving faster than we can see as cards are removed permanently and bar codes take their place.
The Japanese term “wabi-sabi” is described as the art of finding beauty in imperfection and of accepting the natural cycle of growth, decay and death. But unlike the American culture focused on spectacle, wabi-sabi is underplayed and modest, the kind of undeclared beauty that waits patiently to be discovered. It’s found in time-worn faces of expired library books that have traveled through many hands, and across county lines until they have reached their final resting place at ex-library warehouses where safe harbors are found in Costco-sized rows of “discards” and “withdrawns” rising within inches of the ceiling.
The volumes documented in “Expired” serve as specimens akin to post-mortem photography in the Victorian Era when family members only received the honor of documentation upon their demise. Each picture serves as an homage calling out palpable echoes etched into the pages by a margin-scrawled note, a yellowed coffee splatter or sticky peanut butter and jelly fingerprints. It’s easy to feel a sense of abuse and loss, but they say much more. They show the evidence of everyone that has touched them, because they were well read, and often well loved. They were not left on shelves, untouched. Now they have a new life, as portraits of the unique shared experience found only in a library book. We must take time to celebrate the swiftly disappearing, unique communal experience offered by library books as it’s quickly replaced by downloads, finger screen-swipes and plastic newness. If you listen carefully you can hear the aching poetry calling from tattered pages that carry the burden of their years with dignity and grace. – Kerry Mansfield
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