We talk a lot about Ed Ruscha’s Every Building on the Sunset Strip—the photographs, the accordion-fold construction, the concept, and its place among the great artist’s books of the twentieth century.
What we don’t talk about much is the silver slipcase it came in. My book remains remarkably clean. My slipcase is a mess. The adhesive has failed, the silver-wrapped construction is coming apart, and apparently I’m not alone. It’s simply one of those peculiar realities of owning a nearly sixty-year-old book—and something you rarely see in the beautiful photographs of it.
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