The SF Art Book Fair is an annual multi-day festival of artists’ publications, presented at San Francisco’s Minnesota Street Project, July 19–21, 2019. SFABF features artists’ books, art catalogs, monographs, periodicals, zines, printed ephemera, and artists’ multiples presented by over 100 exhibitors—independent publishers, antiquarian dealers, artists, collectors and enthusiasts. Over the weekend, the fair hosts a diverse range of talks, discussions, book launches, on and off-site special projects, exhibitions and signings. The mission of the fair is to foster the unique art publishing community of the Bay Area while providing a platform for national and international publishers to exhibit their work to a new audience.
Admission to the SFABF is FREE. All events are open to the public.
Full details on the SF Art Book fair available here.
For 2019, for the second year, San Francisco Cinematheque joins Canyon Cinema at SFABF to present an array of collectible publications (for perusal and purchase), including issues of Cinematograph, Cinematheque’s occasional journal; vintage and recent issues of the Canyon Cinema News; rare artist publications; ’zines; program note compendia; limited edition monographs; selections from Cinematheque’s online bookstore and more.
Please visit us at SFABF Table M5!
In addition (and at no extra charge!), Cinematheque and Canyon will present…
curated by Alix Blevins and Steve Polta
[presented in the SFABF Media Room]
NOTE: This screening also will occur at SFABF at 3pm on Sunday, July 21. Info here.
Missed Connections celebrates recent additions to Cinematheque’s online bookstore through the presentation of films by Stephanie Barber, Sky Hopinka and Jonathan Schwartz while also celebrating the release of Canyon Cinema’s Cinemazine #6: Missed Connections with a selection of work by Canyon filmmakers that interpolates the manifold themes of the new issue.
A missive to lives lost
A state of untranslatable interiority
The space between images and frames
A gaze once glimpsed, never to be seen again
An existence determined by chance and contingency
“You cannot step into the same river twice”
— Alix Blevins
Stephanie Barber: The Forest Is Offended (2017). A film poem thinking about the physics of sound, the need sound has to vibrate and bounce off a molecule or atom to return to our ears; thinking about this physical property as a metaphor for spirituality or love. (Stephanie Barber)
Sky Hopinka: I’ll Remember You as You Were, not as What You’ll Become (2016). An elegy to poet Diane Burns on the shapes of mortality, and being, and the forms the transcendent spirit takes while descending upon landscapes of life and death. (Sky Hopinka)
Jonathan Schwartz: The Crack-Up (2017). The ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise. (F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Crack-Up, 1936)
Robert Todd: Within (2012). Within lives in a state that seems to resist perspectival definition, hovering somewhere between what is “out there” and an internally defined image space that is at once shallow and deep, layered and reflective, barely there and yet very much alive. It is twilight. (Robert Todd)
Philip Hoffman: Kokoro is for Heart (1999). …features a sound composition and performance by poet Gerry Shikatani, and explores the relationships surrounding language, image and sound[…]. What is nature? What is natural? (Philip Hoffman)
Karen Holmes: Saving the Proof (1979). A complex transformation of an ordinary action: a woman walking… (Margaret Ganahl, Camera Obscura)
Josephine Massarella: One Woman Waiting (1984). …an enigmatic film of a symbolic encounter…
Lynne Sachs: Same Stream Twice (2012)
My daughter’s name is Maya. I’ve been told that the word maya means illusion in Hindu philosophy. In 2001, I photographed her at six years old, spinning like a top around me. Even then, I realized that her childhood was not something I could grasp but rather—like the wind—something I could feel tenderly brushing across my cheek. 11 years later, […] she allows me to film her—different but somehow the same. (Lynne Sachs)