Editor’s note

To ‘read’ someone’s library is an intimate affair. It is a cupboard full of memories of life stages, travels, interests, seasons, projects, encounters, dreams and, in my case, exhibitions and studio visits, all arranged according to a personal (un)logic. I arrange my books neither alphabetically nor by colour, but vaguely by related themes, a mind map of my interests. Between the rows and stacks of books, I place treasured objects. In the ‘Europe’ section, for example, there is a retro (…)