I mentioned here a few weeks ago how there's this tiny little space that recently went up for rent in my neighborhood this summer, a weird little leftover space in a building mostly taken up by a popular neighborhood pub; that's it you're seeing above, which if you want to get an idea of cost-wise in terms of your relative local economy, probably rents for the same price as the high-end two-bedroom private apartment located next-door. (This is about four blocks from an el station, one block from a major bus line. And don't forget, you then start tacking on several hundred dollars for every specific little license you want to have too; one to sell liquor there, one to hold live events there, one that allows you to have outdoor seating on the public sidewalk, etc.) You'll want to read that original entry, of course, for my first thoughts concerning this recurring fantasy I'm having these days, whenever I pass by the space (which is often; this is literally two blocks from my apartment); how great it'd be if I had the money and resources right now to take over this lease, and turn it into a dual space for CCLaP's first live events and the burgeoning rare-book service I've been thinking more and more about opening in the future, as well as to serve as my office during the day when things are slow. And of course I've been thinking just even more about it since the last time we talked, and of course have more thoughts to share, so thought I'd do so today.

Because, see, through a complicated set of circumstances, I've actually gone on a tour of this space in the past, back when it was being molded into a business that never actually opened, what would've been an incredibly cool little wine shop and tasting place, that could snugly seat parties of maybe up to thirty inside if they didn't mind scooting in. That's actually a three-room complex you're seeing there, which then opens in the back to an outdoor patio on the edge of a private courtyard parking lot, with the whole thing probably the same size as a convenience store altogether; but it's cut into three very distinct rooms, see, all with small doorways, making it difficult for this to serve as a traditional retail space, but more like three parlor-esque spaces instead. And in fact, this is a good term to use (which is why I used it), because I've been thinking about how if I did have the chance to put all this in motion this second, I would transform that inner middle room into not just a parlor but a space I would nickname "The Parlour," English spelling and all, because my idea is to decorate the space like a private Victorian library, and have it serve as my main showroom for the rare-book service. (More on the size of collection I'm picturing in these theoretical perfect-world plans, and what kinds of books they are, in just a bit.)

See, that's the whole tricky thing about me starting up just a few live events through CCLaP, or trying to maintain a daily retail space for a rare-book service, or shelling out money for me to have a professional office away from my living space (something I would love); none of these things would generate enough revenue on their own to justify an entire commercial lease, no matter how low it is relative to other commercial spaces. Ah, but if you combine them all, then maybe you have a shot; then suddenly you have at least one thing that most online booksellers don't have, which is a permanent physical retail space in the third-largest city in the US, while you also have something most online arts organizations don't, a private physical space in the evening to do with whatever the hell you want, whenever you want, provided you get the right licenses and all. It gives me an excuse to start up, say, just three or four regular live events through CCLaP and still justify the cost of the space, to have just a select roster of clientele for the book service and barely any walk-in traffic; it gives me a justification to make a private office out of the whole thing too, given that I envision large periods of time during the day with no one there besides myself and maybe an intern, plus an excuse to turn the back room into a factory for the art-book service I plan on starting up (but more on that in a bit too), plus of course have the whole space available for a whole series of incredibly kick-ass expensive parties (but as always, more on that in a bit as well).

As I was mentioning in my last entry on this subject, I see the key in a rare-book service like the one I'm envisioning to be impeccable service, exactly what the old boutiques of the big cities lost as they started turning into conglomerate outlets, total consumerist environments for tourists, etc. I envision the center rock of this dedication to service, for example, to be the shop's headquarters, this Parlour space that's open to both the public and for private appointments; I just love the idea of really doing up the middle room of such a space right, building these stained wooden shelves wrapping all four walls, floor to ceiling, with differing heights and widths of shelves all the way around to allow for knickknacks, slanting easels, computers, etc etc. After all, you couldn't use the front room for this anyway; you don't want all those rare old books exposed to direct sunlight for such a long time each day like that. The Parlour, then, would be a little haven, a little urbane oasis in the middle of a busy urban environment, where a client or new customer or simply a CCLaP reader who's in town as a tourist can stop by and get whisked in and be taken immaculate care of. I envision just a few luxurious leather chairs and an antique table in the middle of the room, lit easels along the walls so that various volumes can be pulled out and displayed for discerning customers, tea and coffee and cocktails always at the ready. What a lovely idea, right? Right? I'm just drooling already, thinking of the nerdy Harry-Potteresque sumptuousness of such a room and discrete inner-city sophisticated retail service held within, which I can realistically fantasize about because it'd be such a small space, and not ludicrous to think that I could maybe one day afford to pull off in such a manner.

Anyway, so what would I fill this room with, then? Even if padded out, after all, you'd still need...oh, what, 200 books to make this room look full, to really have a shot of first starting to make serious money on such a service on a regular basis. This is such a tricky business, this one of being a rare-bookseller, because there is no proscribed path to success whatsoever, and a lot of room for dramatic improvement in an industry that despises change. For example, for fun I've recently been quickly reading through a bunch of book-collecting beginner's guides I've been getting from my library, which has had me thinking about a lot of things concerning the subject I've literally never thought about before in my life; for example, almost all of them say that you must start out as a passionate collector first before ever thinking that you'll be able to make a profit, never the other way around because that way never works. The most useful one I've read so far, Robert Wilson's 1980 Modern Book Collecting, suggests that you start simply by thinking about what gets you excited, to pick some fairly specific subjects or time periods or whatnot, and to really concentrate on those at first and try to build as "complete" a collection as possible. And what is complete? Well, that's a different answer for every collector, isn't it, which is what makes it so fun and intriguing, so goes the argument, which is what will then draw admirers to your collection, questions about it, advice concerning it, and finally offers to buy some or all of it. And that's how you become a dealer yourself, not any other way at all, so sayeth the purists who actually write these big 300-page beginner's guides to the subject.

So here's a very good hypothetical situation for me, for example, someone who maybe (hopefully, god forbid, fingers crossed), six or seven years from now might have enough revenue coming into my life, have a credit card and PayPal account and trusted profile at eBay and Amazon, so that I can devote, say, $5,000 or so over the course of a year to first build a serious collection, or in other words about as little money as possible and still have a 200-book collection at the end that others will be impressed by. I could then concentrate, say, on novels from the Victorian and Early Modernist ages, since those periods are of such intense interest to me these days; most of my money, then, would be spent on lesser-known writers from the periods, lesser-known works by major writers, and on trying to complete obscure bibliographies of prolific genre writers from the period (Jules Verne and the like; you see what I mean). To round out the year, then, say maybe I get to pick up one truly outstanding rare book (a signed first-edition Mark Twain, for example); one special limited-edition work (say, the Museum of Modern Art in the 1930s sponsors a thousand-print run of a Hemingway story illustrated with Picasso drawings, originally as gifts to high-end members); one oversized Victorian book of exquisite lithographs, owned purely to have something visually stunning to show off (think Audabon bird guide from the 1870s, for example); and then maybe five or ten boxes of books that are pretty much worthless from a financial standpoint but cool nonetheless, picked up for a dollar a box at book fairs and the like, all of them at least 75 years old, consisting of weird titles and cool shapes and bizarre illustrations, I imagine many of them in pretty bad shape too.

That way, then, you have a little bit of a bunch of different things to show off to anyone who stops by, a lot of memorable ways for you to stick in their brains; let's not forget, there are already 1,500 freaking rare-booksellers in Chicago alone, tens of thousands more scattered around the nation, geographical distance no longer really a factor because of eCommerce sites, with Amazon and eBay and the ABAA keeping all those sellers honest. Like I said, I believe the real key to success with something like this (if I were to open it tomorrow, that is) is not actually the books themselves, the size or breadth of your collection, what postal service you use, blah blah blah; it's all about the personal relationships you build with each and every person you come across on a professional basis, of worming your way into their overtaxed mind and sticking in there, so that the one time a year (or maybe ten if you're lucky) they just happen to decide to buy a book that's hard to get ahold of, as a gift or for collecting purposes or whatever, it's automatically you their brain turns to.

Oh, and let's not forget, this space will be doubling as CCLaP's official space (my arts center, that is); I would turn that front room, for example, into a teeny-tiny photography gallery, essentially a blank modern-looking space where I could also hold 30-person literary events too. (This particular space, in fact, already has a new hardwood floor; all it would essentially need at this point is a new paint job to be ready as a mini-gallery.) That means not only wealthy regular clients for the book service coming in and out occasionally, but drunk young broke artists constantly wanting tours of the Parlour too; I can imagine this becoming part of my life if I were to open such a space tomorrow, of constantly holding a series of private "soirees" (salons? after-parties?) in the Parlour late in the evenings after live events, little bull sessions with artists and thinkers and collectors and patrons who have all stuck around, which of course would fulfill a major goal of CCLaP's since the beginning, to get broke artists and wealthy patrons introduced and directly hanging out with each other as much as possible. I can imagine some late night after the weekly slam or author reading or art-book party or whatever, with a hodge-podge of broke young artists and middle-aged middle-class collectors, sipping brandy or maybe malt liquor and paling around the Parlour and asking for a tour of everything I have; I admit, as a nerdy intellectual I relish the idea of holding my own regular late-night private salons full of brilliant thinkers, and would consider such a thing part of my non-monetary "payment" for running such a space. (But of course, more on these evening CCLaP events I'm envisioning in a bit...or, probably tomorrow, actually, in that today's entry is already getting so long. I'll wrap up today soon, I promise.)

I could start, then, with these boxes of financially worthless books I mentioned, taking up what I expect will be the majority of shelf space and making things in the Parlour look all full and cool, all those bizarre outdated medical guides and waterlogged whaling novels; I could give them all a flat price of ten dollars, say, so that even broke drunk contemporary poets could walk out that night with something cool, or of course have incredibly memorable things to donate to local raffles, poetry slams, fundraisers, etc etc. (Oh, and yet another fucking digression, I'm sorry; I should mention, as part of this six- or seven-year gap between now and the point I envision being able to open such a space, I plan on taking a series of bookbinding classes down at Columbia College's Center for the Book and Paper Arts; they're an internationally respected organization that just happens to offer inexpensive powerful classes to the general public. So I imagine, then, that some of these books from the "boxes o' crap" are ones I would use to test my burgeoning book-restoration skills; since they would only cost me a nickel apiece in bulk or whatever, there's not much at stake with each one while I'm a student and making a lot of mistakes, leading either to a success and me turning that nickel book into a ten-dollar one, or a failure at which point I take the book apart, remove the title page and illustrations and whatever else cool is in there, put the sheets in a big box at the store and sell any loose page in there for a quarter apiece, or give them out as door prizes at parties or whatever. Whew, digression over!)

So everyone at my private little soiree has fun for 20 or 30 minutes just looking through the 150 or so ten-dollar specials lining the room, and listening to me tell them bizarre stories about them I've discovered online, under the warm glow of antique stained-glass lamps while mingling and drinking and smoking and flirting. Then when I get around to showing the mid-priced books, the so-called "Core Collection," the 30 to 40 I'm envisioning owning the first year that would sell for anywhere from $50 to $200 apiece, I have suddenly the very best thing as possible at my disposal, which is a great story; my collection of 30 to 40 core pieces are not just random acquisitions, but tell a grander story about a time in history, or about a particular author from that time. Imagine our little menagerie mentioned before, for example, now nearing midnight and everyone drunk and stoned and whatnot; imagine the magic of me suddenly pulling out ten Jules Verne first editions at once, in a dramatic wooden box, laying them out one at a time for the assembled group on the middle table, encouraging all to pick them up and handle them and feel like big-shots, all of the books minor titles from the more obscure side of his bibliography but mightily impressive when all yanked out at once, when all of them are in very-fine condition. Believe it or not, you can get many such books at places like eBay, Amazon's ABEbooks and the like for sometimes $50, $60, just not very much at all; even someone with a basic office job could afford one book every week like this, and be able through online means to put together a formidable collection merely by the end of one year.

As the retail reseller, then, I could turn those books around in such an awed, late-night environment for a hundred dollars apiece, I'm sure of it, or maybe even convince an impressed middle-aged middle-classer just starting to get into collecting seriously to take the entire thing home right then, wooden case and all, for a cool thousand. If it was the right kind of customer, someone say my age and seriously getting into it all for the first time, using me as a friend and guide and regularly accepting free advice, coming by the Parlour every two weeks for a martini and to look at new books; yeah, that kind of customer, on a very special night, I could see myself successfully convincing him to ring up a thousand on his credit card in the heat of that moment, and walking home with an exquisite boxed set of ten Jules Verne first-editions, all from the 1860s to '90s, something that would look absolutely astounding on a condo coffeetable or new corporate office. That's what loyal customers of a detail-oriented seller do; they occasionally say 'fuck it' and lay an extra thousand on their credit card in a single moment on a very special Friday night.

And then finally, of course, as the climax to your salon and excuse to kick everyone out about ten minutes later, you pull out the three jewels of your collection: in my case, as mentioned, the signed first-edition Mark Twain, the Hemingway/Picasso MoMA limited-edition, and the oversized 1872 Audabon Member Guide to British Birds lithograph album and accompanying box. I picked them up for $500 apiece, which none of them know; I sell them retail for $750, maybe even a thousand if I feel the mood is right. And see, this is exactly what I'm talking about, when I say that a business like this depends so much more than usual in my opinion on setting a mood, building an atmosphere, educating your customers as much as possible, creating a community and environment and movement instead of just an always-bigger collection and always-prettier website, as 1,400 of Chicago's 1,500 current rare-booksellers are currently doing it. You gotta add some drama to it all, really sell it, here at this climatic moment exactly 90 minutes after this private drunken late-night salon began; you need to bring out the books in a hushed silence, ask for special care from your guests, for drinks to not be set down near the specimens. You bring your wooden book easels from the walls and set them on the center table in a triangle; open each of your three jewels so they face outwards to the room, let the assembled awed crowd gather around and mill and rotate, flip through pages with hesitant fingers, knowing they are touching history as they sit there in a dark, warm, smoky private library in the middle of Uptown, drunk and high and feeling like they're part of something special, something bigger than themselves.

And then suddenly it's two hours after the soiree began, and you're collecting glasses and printing up receipts and digging out provenance statements, tying up purchases in cool antique wrapping paper and loose-leaf gold ribbon (tsk, no pedestrian shopping bags for you here, no no, my dear sir, not even if you're buying a ten-dollar nothing book -- that's a big part of its charm, after all, and yet another reason my place sticks in your mind long afterwards), shaking hands and clapping backs and whistling for cabs and sending people on their way. And in a two-hour spiel, among a private salon of ten interested parties, you make total sales of 2,000 bucks (one gem, the Jules Verne collection, another two from the core collection, and a dozen junker books). And that, my friend, is how you sell rare books. Er, in a perfect world, i.e. the world I like fantasizing about every time I walk by this tiny little space for rent in my neighborhood. Sigh.

Okay, so this has already taken up a hella lotta space today, so I'll wait until Monday to post part 2 of all these recent thoughts; of the contemporary art-book publishing service I would also want to run through this space, a joint project between my bookseller service and CCLaP, convincing mid-level slightly famous authors to do something weird and special and exclusive, pair them up with astounding illustrators and a decent budget, to make just a limited run of 100 or 200 or whatever extremely delicate and exquisite works of book-art, assembled and dried and bound in the back factory/workshop of this space I've been talking about, on sale for $100 apiece, all of them with fancy-pants investor-worthy signature pages and provenance sheets and publishing history, etc etc. And not only that, but plan on selling half of them on one single night, by holding an ultra-cool ultra-ritzy ultra-exclusive party at this three-room (and back-porch and front-sidewalk) space, for a fixed ticket price of $150 which includes a copy of the book to take home, plus all kinds of fabulous perks there at the party like gourmet food and liquor, impressive entertainment, the chance to hob-nob with Chicago's artistically elite, performances from the book by a series of local talent, i.e. your slam regulars who come every Thursday anyway, etc. That's $15,000 in revenue in a single night, with a hundred copies of the art-book left over to continually sell at the store and online; that's enough to justify flying the author in just for the party, no matter where they are, making it even more special if they're coming in from a long way in that case. But again, more on all this on Monday!

P.S. And just to make it clear one more time, I understand that these are nothing more than pipe dreams right now, and that a whole series of other complicated steps need to happen in my life before such a vision could even theoretically become possible: I need to first get my credit rating back in order, have a regular amount of income steadily coming in, get a bank account and credit card set up, establish accounts at eBay and Amazon and FedEx and PayPal and the ABAA, along with all the work of actually starting up a legitimate eCommerce company. Then after my collection finally grows to a value of maybe $10,000 or so, I'm hoping that would be enough collateral for, say, a $25,000 small-business loan; that then would finally be enough to sign the lease of a space like seen today, get the construction work done inside that I've been talking about, and have enough left over to keep things running for maybe six months. Even better, all the things mentioned would only need to raise half the rent; you could justify paying the other half out-of-pocket each month, as rent on a private office, resting comfortably knowing you can deduct the entire thing off your taxes at the end of the year. I'm years away from this, people, I'm years away; just that it's been a particularly shitty year for me this year, and I've found it difficult to remain optimistic regarding just about anything, so to walk by this space each day and have all these perky little thoughts suddenly about a future that one day might be is a rare enough occurrence to justify having it be specially noted. Sigh!