1000 Miles Vol. VII
- 5.5" X 8.5"
- 52 PAGES
- TRIPLE-STAPLE BINDING
- LASER PRINTED ON HIGH-QUALITY 32lb PREMIUM PAPER
- TRANSLUCENT HEAVY-WEIGHT VELLUM COVER WITH EMBOSSED EMBELLISHMENTS ON FRONT AND BACK
- 33 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)
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 seventh 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.
I couldn’t sleep. Too excited for the road in front of me, I sat up from the floor, turning on a light before shutting it off, having realized the sun had already risen.
I pull a book from beside my bedside, open to a page at random, and begin to read for a few minutes. A few minutes flows into a few hours and soon I’m nearly finished with the book. A slim volume, and one which I’ve read countless times, Robert Walser’s Selected Stories is one of those books whose layers only reveal themselves to someone upon a second glance. And on this Nth time of reading the book, after a time and awhile, I began to further realize and comprehend all the succinct proportions of his prose; how, in describing Cézanne, he was describing himself and all those other, fluttering, machinations of divination that the world and nature so nonchalantly exude and throw at us- the petals of a flower, spheres of dew, drops of rain, or those smallest and still most unique spindles of snow whose name we have whittled down into two two-syllable compound words: snowfall & snowflake. The morse code of a season undulating within that most burdensome yet intangible object: time.
And I think of time;
6:26AM in Los Angeles as I write this,
9:26AM in New York as people are waking,
3:26PM in Paris as someone is dying,
2:26PM in London, someone has just found love,
3:26PM in Berlin someone is walking,
9:26PM in Beijing someone is working,
4:26PM in Ankara someone is praying,
4:26PM someone falls asleep in Helsinki,
6:26PM in San Francisco someone is bleeding,
10:26PM in Tokyo someone is laughing,
In San Diego: 6:26AM where my mother and sister are sleeping, and in San Ysidro, my hometown, the same: 6:26AM, countless people dreaming. Everything happening together like a mass choral fugue of simultaneously occurring moments, actions and consequences.
A circle, the same shape that adorns the face of a common clock, a circle that brings me back to the beginning.
To sort through the debris of thoughts collected over the past ten miles completed as the sky outside my window rises, hued rose and blue. And in those thoughts I think of Angela Hewitt, of François Couperin- his Les Barricades Mystérieuses, and I sit here in Los Angeles, listening to Angela’s hands and wonder of the wonder that I once had and have been trying to walk back to.
Traditionally, the act of walking is classified in the European sense as an act of recovery, whereas in America, walking is seen more as an act of discovery. When I walked in Germany or in France, the question normally posed immediately afterward by either strangers or friends was: how do you feel? Here, in Los Angeles, the question has changed to the much more curious and less caring: what did you see? And with that question, a memory: Alexandra Stewart’s voice reading the letters of Chris Marker’s alias Sandor Krasna in Sans Soleil where he muses, “I wonder how people remember things who don’t film, don’t photograph, don’t tape.” He then likens his images as a substitution of his memory before outlining them in absolute: “They are my memory,” Stewart reads, while on screen an old women finishes an act that three other younger women behind her begin: a prayer. With this remembrance the original question changes from “what did you see?” to the more poignant “what do you remember?”
To remember, I must go back- flipping through the images and photographs created during the day; a small rolodex of memories, each image a small rectangle, either captured through code or silver, they remain memories and moments no longer held by time but rather by that immutable non-time that a photograph has, that space between reality and memory- time stopped. Leafing through the numerous printouts, negatives and images I can’t help but remember a moment from years ago:
I had just landed in Fort Lauderdale. 80 degrees in December. Stepping out onto the curb, I awaited the moment when I could see those people that, although we had given the name of friendship for our relationship, it was and is much more- love isn’t even an adjective apt enough for what we all seem to share.
Several hugs, forty minutes and a few dances later and we’re all in a car, driving down the I-95 parallel to the Atlantic Ocean… and I wished that that short drive would never come to an end, that we could just go on forever, down an unmade nameless road stretching onward towards a horizon endless and as far reaching as those intangible quantities of memory I have in me, and above all the emotion- love, longing and that forever feeling one has when staring out a window with a landscape moving by in a blur of several miles per hour in combined multiples of ten.
And I think of those small glimpses of land, houses stretching far off into the distance creating their own horizon of roofs, chimneys, glass and the small squares and openings in which people enter, exit or stare out of in order to wonder, and I too begin to wonder- staring off into those drifting plumes of vapor which my friend once wrote a book about, those pustules of rain and air looking like and having a similar syllable to the objects they remind me of- a shroud, covering that endless valley of blue billowing behind that we liken into a small word of three letters: sky.
I put down my pen. Lines of light are cast on the paper in front of me as the sun no longer rises but stays steady. The Walser book rests calmly on my desk as people in my building start to wake and move themselves around their rooms. The sound of far off automobiles can be heard on the street as well as the sprinklers from behind the house next door. Beyond everything I can hear a muffled sound which becomes more decipherable and discernible as it approaches my ear- the vibration of moving feet: footsteps: a person walking.
- Jason Jaworski