My friend Nancy informed me Sunday that I have not
written a blog post in a MONTH. I feel terrible about it too, but this is book
fair season and I am on the publicity committee for the Akron book fair which
is just two scary weeks away. In addition to doing more things than you want to read
about, I have been trying to bring the dormant NOBS Facebook page back to life.
I did make some moderate gains fairly quickly and we’re now at a point where it’s
starting to breathe on its own. But here’s the kicker – I’ve been performing
CPR for three weeks and have more “likes”
on it than I have on my own page which I’ve
been babying for two YEARS. But let’s
not go there, okay? It’s too depressing.
I’ve been thinking of you guys (if any of you remain)
because of something that happened last weekend. I’ve told you many tales of
various estate sales, but never have I even brushed up against this topic which
was brought to my attention by a sale I’ll still be talking about when I’m in the home for dotty booksellers.The ad in the paper did not mention books, but did state that there would be a
lot of vintage prints. I’m not really a print dealer, but I have sold some in
the past, have some in inventory, and figured a selection of nice botanicals would be excellent for the antiques mall.
Not much good book stock has come my way of late, so I felt compelled to give
it a go.
Immediately inside
the door I spotted tables full of prints all packed in banker’s boxes,
but with enough room to easily flip through them. Since there were so many I
took a detour over to a side table where I found and bought two turn-of-the-century
photo albums, one a gorgeous celluloid and the other velvet with raised metal
grapes, vines and leaves on the cover. Both had shiny gilt edges, working clasps,
and lots of photographs, both cabinet size and carte de visite. Just as I finished
getting those written up and began seriously browsing the botanicals one of the
estate sale women came over and asked if I’d seen the books yet.
I told her I didn’t know there were any books whereupon she lead
me into a room which at first glance dazzled me -- and I am not using that word
lightly. Antiquarian books of uncommon beauty graced every one of the tables
against the wall, many lined up in a row, others lying down face out.
“Oh, these are beautiful!” I exclaimed. “Perfect!” What was also
perfect was the fact that only one other person was in the room looking at
them.
But as soon as the worker departed the one other person turned
to me and said, “Every one of these books is compromised. All those prints out
there …”
Came from the books on the table. I knew it before he finished
the thought. Their owner had been a
breaker who bought the books with the idea that the individual plates were
worth more than the book as a whole. There they were – The Apples of New York, The
Pears of New York, a fine binding book
about butterflies, others about birds and flowers … Terrible. Truly, truly terrible.
Every books was in shambles. The guy who alerted me turned out to be a seller with
whom I spent a lovely sale sharing the bounty of a great home library last fall.
We recognized each other and suddenly were
two mourners keening at the grave.
“There must be three thousand dollars worth of books here
if they were whole,” he said.
I agreed.
“He probably sold the best of the prints and what’s out
there is what he couldn’t get rid of.”
I agreed with that too. Certainly not all plates in the same
book have equal value. In fact, later when I finally looked at them it was
clear that most didn’t pack the graphic punch I’d seen in other copies of some
of those books. My seller friend had nailed it – the guy sold the best and this
was the rest. So. Was it worth the desecration? Financially I don’t know. Ethically?
I would say not. Of course it can and, will be, argued that if you buy a book
it’s yours to do with whatever you like. True enough. But this is also the point
where I trip over the notion of absolute ownership. To me a finely made book is a living thing. It’s the heart and
soul of the author, illustrator, designer and publisher as well as of the
continuum of people who read it, loved it, gave it to someone, treasured it for
years, hoped someone else would enjoy it too. So, no, from that perspective it doesn't even skirt ethical. If the books were badly damaged it would be an entirely
different matter. In that case to salvage the plates would actually be heroic.
But I can find no saving grace in tearing
up exquisite books for personal gain.
Later, while I flipped through the boxes of prints I
thought of something that happened years ago when I was a fairly new seller. I
had a modern reprint – a very nice one –
of Peirre Redoute’s The Most Beautiful
Flowers. A guy called on the phone one afternoon and ordered it. While I was taking
his information he casually remarked that he intended to break the binding and
sell the plates.
“Did you just tell me you’re a breaker?” Of course he did
which is why I put my pen down. “Because if so I am not selling this book.”
“Guess I shouldn’t have told you then.”
“Guess you shouldn’t have,” I replied. “But I’m glad you
did.”
A hundred dollar
sale bit the dust that day, but only temporarily. Eventually the book found
another buyer who appreciated it for what it was. And yet to be totally honest,
while l was thinking about this I spotted a couple nice fashion plates in one
of the boxes. It crossed my mind that
since the deed was already done somebody might as well enjoy the spoils. I’m
not sure I really believe that though. Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but somehow I
couldn’t bring myself to directly reward
the breaker.
So, in the end, I passed.
P.S. The photo above is of a portfolio of prints designed for framing.
