The term 'artists book' from Wikipedia:

'Artists' books are works of art realized in the form of a book. They are often published in small editions, though sometimes they are produced as one-of-a-kind objects referred to as "uniques".

Artists' books have employed a wide range of forms, including scrolls, fold-outs, concertinas or loose items contained in a box as well as bound printed sheet. Artists have been active in printing and book production for centuries, but the artist's book is primarily a late 20th century form.'

I went, with a friend, to an artists book fair, (Glasgow International Book Fair) on Saturday. Held in the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow's city centre, it took place over the Friday and Saturday (16th & 17th April).
There was a great array of different artists and artists collectives and independent publishers working in a myriad of ways, for a great many reasons. Physically, the fair was a room full of tables, the visitors could investigate the work on display at each table; the exhibitors attended their own stands and were available to ask questions.
My initial impression left me feeling intimidated
Let me explain; not because of the exhibitors,who were, on the whole, very friendly and open (though some were weary and fed up, by Saturday pm!) but because I was asked to pick up and examine the works, which ranged from hand-cut pop-up images to photographs to illustrated writing to limited edition press to cartoons to sculpture from recycled books to fanzines to cards to knitted moustaches and badges. Stylistically, from clean, white concept to exercise book doodling, from precious to perverse and the ideas conveyed were similarly diverse; the exhibits were sometimes free, sometimes hundreds of pounds, or 12p.
The atmosphere glistened with creative possibilities and a hundred different skills were laid out-
The thought of picking up any examples of these unique and precious works was terrifying, and when I was invited to do so, I fought the urge to run away. All that early 'do not touch' training was showing itself; my 6 year old self shied away from the chance of touching the pretty things, in case they broke, in case she spoiled them.
Instead, I walked the room, making sure I visited each table; I fed my eyes till I felt I had permission to pick something up; start with something less challenging, a pamphlet, a postcard.
By the time i had made my second sweep, I was enthralled; one stand in particular, (whose name I've missed, because, in the ensuing excitement, I forgot to a card)saw me untying tiny books, bound in string and drawing little stories out of pockets, written on (a personal favourite of mine)cardboard labels. The artist had carved a forest from a book and written out mermaids tales. She cut out theatrical scenes and coloured fairy stories. my six year-old self jumped for joy.
I enjoyed (and bought from) the cut-outs of Sarah Morpeth (www.sarahmorpeth.com) and laughed out loud at the cartoons on Hole In My Pocket's stand (www.holeinmypocket.com). I bought a tiny publication 'Spot The Difference' from C. Herbert about her constantly dislocating joints. I agonised over zines and picked up articulate journals and keenly folded notebooks made with old envelopes, and pages from abandoned books.
Here is an acknowledgement list, as in my mind, the credits cannot match the images. Look for yourself:
www.susanmortimer.com
melanieperkins.blogspot.com
www.pennycuthbert.co.ukErinKSchmidt@gmail.com
forpub.com
www.giab.org.uk
Exhausted, I fell into a conveniently placed sofa and waited for my companion to emerge from the fray; it took some time, but that was fine, I had a crick in my neck from leaning over tables and my head was buzzing.
So many ideas, so much information. I left feeling I had been fed.
Many thanks

So, did anyone get snow today? Dull and drizzling here, no matter, the 'Cheviots' commission is done and the next one on it's way to finishing, as long as I don't dally (like, blogging, not painting?).
I've a couple of workshops to rehearse for the weekend and plenty busy till then.

I had to admit to a certain resistance in returning to work in the studio; I practised all manner of diversionary tactics and sketched outdoors, and in the kitchen; even in the car, before dealing with the elephant in the room (not that there was even room for a little one) that was, my farmyard of a studio.
I'm not doing farmyards down, either, I'm sure in some corners of the country there are neat and tidy models of rural industry, but, this time of year you'll be hard-pressed to find a farm that's not knee-deep in mire; and such was the state of my work space, so I have swept and ordered and turfed out and stacked and realise 10ft x 8ft is quite a respectable area to work with, and all the nicer when I can pin back the door and enjoy the spring sunshine.
This week sees me out to paint a final version of the 'Over Lyham' painting, and finishing a couple of workshops I'm delivering at a dance residential course.I've a big, mural-style painting to complete for the local Middle School, which is enormous fun- very vibrant, and, I'd like to post some fresh stuff on the 'Mama Maya' blog I've started, which is devoted more to dancing, and deal with the paper trail of receipts I appear to have been leaving, since last April.
Here's to a productive, contented week for one and all.

I still have to finish this painting, and will do so from the relative comfort of the house; it is a cold, but, lovely day, today (clouding over now). The clouds were just scraping the top of Cheviot and Hedgehope, a little blue sky peeking through and the occasional splash of sun on the snow; cold on the face and hands after an hour, though, and the wind blowing my paintbox over was enough to have me pack up and go home, for the time being.
What the paintnig needs is a little row of red roofed cottages in the lower left of the picture and some more fine definition of hedges and edges of fields. I am conscious of the skyline, which is not to scale, quite, and the great, arching wave of land that crests in front of the hills is not so defined as I'd like.
I need a couple of small, flat brushes that leave a clean line, (not-to-mention more stamina for staying outside) and the self-control to leave the painting alone when it tells me to.

Sketching at mo'; working towards a view of Cheviots, plus waiting for that nice, sunny day for photos at Seahouses, for another commission.
I'm contribution to an exhibition at Marjorybanks Gallery, Coldstream, called 'The Merse' though my paintings are coastal North-Northumberland so I'm clinging on to the title, tenuously.'the Merse' apparently is an ancient name for The Borders region. If Bamburgh doesn't quite count, it's on the, er, border, of it...

Sometimes I suffer from a kind of 'other-headedness' which can throw my work routine and put pay to creativity quicker than a boot up the self-esteem:
'Other-headedness' to me, is the onset of a cloud of 'should'; a feeling that, whatever task I'm performing that I should be doing something else.
When the kids were younger, it was fairly simple; I was with the kids, so felt the urgency of work pressing me, taking away my concentration and, more importantly, my appreciation. When I was painting I would suffer guilt at leaving my chicks too long, or pay the price for leaning on friends and family.
Now I deal with a three-way split- guess I'm so damn good now, I get a promotion? The writing I do, or don't do, bubbles away till I get ill and have to deal with it. Great dollops of prose then need clarified, made palatable for human consumption. Teaching dance needs a regular feed, and that could be as little as a spin or two round the front room, or a session picking apart a flavour combination to see what its component parts are.
The painting is the biggest deal; I suppose I identify with it most closely. It's something I've done for a long, long time and illustrates most vividly my life experience. I serve this craft most, for, when I'm not up to scratch, it just ain't there. I can put on some music and move my muscles, stretch out and feel a little taller; I can spill a ream of angst in ballpoint pen and empty my plate, but the painting? Still a mistress, for the most part, apart from the odd apology, oil-incident, frivilous sketch. It is the least playful area of my life, even though I have come to realise how important playing is. If I hear a voice dismissing 'play' as a child's indulgence, or someone's 'too busy' I know, for a fact, dagnabbit, they need it more than I do.
Don't get me wrong, I am a fortunate, appreciative person and I really don't have a concept of what I would be doing if I wasn't doing this, right now; I just look for what works better and see that if I have been dealt good cards I want to make the most of them, not throw them away simply because I feel someone else isn't getting as a good a deal, or because I feel unworthy.
I posted this because I know this feeling can strike other folk, too and I wanted to communicate my empathy.

Upxdate:
Got a rogue keyboard which refuses to print the letter betwexen z and c for me, but will spit it out, randomly, without my knowledge.
Recovering from a cold, which forced me to do some writing- fit for nothing else, apart from a little light cowering and Lemsip abuse.
Seeking respite from life's big questions this week.
I just want everything I ask for
Is that unreasonable?
Or do I really just think I want them?
You see?
No escapexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx