Happy Tuesday, folks. Recently, I had a conversation with someone who was shocked that I sometimes (errr, often) buy books purely for their colour. ‘You mean you buy books and never READ them?!?’ he said. ‘But that’s sacrilege!!’ In truth, I feel no guilt, shame or inferiority for doing this. I love books and I have even been known to read at times. But to me it’s not just about the content, it’s also about their pure physicality and analogue wondrousness: their smell, their size and feel as you hold them and, of course, their colours. I told this person that for me, buying a book for its colour is no different to buying a vase for its colour. Except I probably love my coloured book collection more than I love any of my other assorted colourful objects. So here are just some of them, looking delightful and not worrying in the slightest that they’ve been repurposed and might not be read for the foreseeable future. I’m convinced they know how much they’re loved.
Martha, The Colour File x