{It's the Dusty Hour, a zine made in collaboration with Hila Shachar.}
It seems fitting that as the late afternoon tickles the shoulder, I should introduce you to a new zine recently made with Hila Shachar and Louise Jennison. Night is preparing to glide in and resume its place; I'd best be quick about my tappity-tap-tapping at the keys. No time to second-guess. It also feels right to introduce to you this brand new fancy on the back of a recent film festival holiday greatly enjoyed. It’s all about transformation, isn’t it? There's the link. One heads into the cinema, sits down, becomes wrapped in a story, perhaps wears it as a cloak, and emerges soon after the credits have rolled out onto the street by way of the fire escape stairway, bewildered as to location. Thoughts as to what took place dance and jump and move quick, in and out of focus, or shadow, if you prefer. The day is gone, night is here, and where once I was in Denmark in autumn, now I am in Melbourne in winter. Day transformed into night, one story rolling into another and something new appearing. Therefore, without further delay, here for you, It's the Dusty Hour. It features Hila's beguilingly atmospheric Evening Postcard and Louise and my collage series The Glorious Night Descends in a twelve-page glossy zine, hand-stitched by the ever-meticulous Louise with a long golden thread. This zine, you should know, sprang into being following a challenge delicious, an idea intriguing. As André Breton and Philippe Soupault wrote, at night "a glance disperses the most wonderful meetings" (The Magnetic Fields, 1920).
We trust you will enjoy, friends.
+ It is available through our online store and Hila's online store. This zine is a limited edition of 90. A copy can be all yours for $9 (AUD).
(Dear Louise, dear Hila, I so enjoyed working on this with you. XO)
{A zine in hand.}
It’s the dusty hour, when the neat corners of day disperse like moths flitting against the window in aimless patterns. They dance with the stars, creating their silvery shapes in the deep void of a black canvas that knows no frame, but speaks through the sensory awareness of what lies beyond light.
(Hila Shachar, (but a taste of) Evening Postcard)
