Boxed up parcels, hand written labels in old faded inks, bundles of slim book volumes held together with string to stop any escaping. The packaging alone is enough for me, I almost don't need to see what is inside them. Rows and rows of books, old and worn, faded colours, barely held together sometimes.Its a slightly surreal place to me, it feels like a secret place, even though appointments can be made to visit, the fact that I am alone makes me feel like a child - I can't believe my luck. This is similar to how I feel when I find a new objects to collect - that sense of being lucky to have been in the right place at the right time.
I am seduced by the books and boxes, the bindings, the labels, the wrappings, the fact they are encased makes them precious, fragile, almost out of reach, but not quite.
When I look at my found objects, I turn them over in my hands, feeling the surfaces, studying the marks on them, odd scribbles from past owners that often don't mean anything to me and yet I am still fascinated by them, I'm not sure why? I suppose I lose myself in them, they provide me with access to another world, another time - mini histories that I can explore.