Robin Rimbaud – Scanner
Much of my life is spent in transit, slipping from place to place, on trains, buses, planes and most recently even by camel in Gran Canaria. My work and lifestyle necessitates a strict adherence to minimal luggage and a certain discipline in consumption, which is consistently challenged by frequent visits to Lower East Side’s St Mark’s Bookshop. For the last fifteen years I’ve visited this store as my first point of connection with the city, my credit card aching in anticipation as I cross the threshold.
On my last visit in April I struggled through Biblically dramatic storms to browse their comprehensively inspiring selection of literary delights and spend 250 dollars in less than 15 minutes. A new Bukowski collection, Mark Ryden drawings, Muriel Barbery, Black Mountain Poets, Marcel Dzama, Marshall McLuhan, Cabinet Magazine, David Foster Wallace, all irresistibly drawn into my embrace. No bookshop can match their diverse selection of books across the canon of publishing, from classic tomes, graphic arts, philosophy, poetry, arts, film and drama. I can trace the topography of the world through my books, and memories of NYC now permanently reside in my London bookshelves. As Groucho Marx acutely declared “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read. “