A week or so back, I got to thinking about this article and the joys of limited adventures. When I started the press, I could have went one of two ways--limited or open editions, and having felt the frustrations of being unable to obtain things once they ran out, I went with the latter. Still, there is a certain charm to smallness, to tiny editions, which is why I love issuing much of my work in editions under 100-whether visual or written.
Poetry sometimes, itself, seems so small in appeal--compared to other art forms--music, movies, pretty much anything else at all. So to be even tinier in that tiny sea seems appropriate. I think of legacies, what we leave in the world, and knowing that most poets vanish inevitably into the obscurity. Most poets live in obscurity. For all the submitting and scrambling, the hustle and po-biz, most of us, even if we have a brief glimmer of notoriety while alive, will be forgotten. We may live forever through our work, but it's afloat in a much bigger sea.
So really small endeavors seem inevitable and right. Even larger things are small drops in the water--unless you are a best-selling novelist, most trade paperbacks are really only moving into a limited number of hands. Unless you are maybe, like an instagram poets with weirdly large appeal, you're world is already a very limited one. We know this, and yet as artists there is always the struggle reach for more--more publications, more accolades, more audience. All well and good, but sometimes pursuits for those seems hollow sometimes, like a game that is rigged but we like to play regardless.
So how to go about creating the creative life, knowing the stakes are so very small? Knowing that even while we are alive, there will be more work and attention given to the things we create than will ever be given it after it releases out into the world? I guess then all we are left with is not quite legacy, but practice, the wonder that we created anything at all.
