Collaborations

Houseboat Press

Houseboat Press is Ryan Arthurs, Dan Boardman, Dylan James Nelson and Eric Ruby.

Since launching in 2012 in Boston, Massachusetts, Houseboat has produced over 20 titles, ranging from unique artist books to larger edition publications. Houseboat has exhibited at The Mills Gallery at the Boston Center for the Arts in Boston, Massachusetts and participated in art book fairs around the world. Select book fairs include; Aperture Foundation (New York, NY), Philadelphia Photo Arts Center (Philadelphia, PA), Silver Eye Center for Photography (Pittsburgh, PA), Yale Museum of Art (New Haven, CT), Visual Studies Workshop (Rochester, NY), Offprint Paris (Paris, France), Minnesota Street Projects (San Francisco, CA) and The LA Art Book Fair (Los Angeles, CA).

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Where We’ve Been, Where We’re Going, Why? (2016)

Dan Boardman + Aspen Mays / Designed by Elana Schlenker

Houseboat in collaboration with Conveyor Editions released Where We've Been, Where We're Going, Why? by Dan Boardman & Aspen Mays in 2016. This collaborative effort is the synthesis of many archives, both personal, and cultural that revolve around a cross country road-trip, Halley's comet, and the first teacher in space. The result is a unique book, in two parts joined together by a centerboard. The archives Boardman and Mays weave together share a chance intersection on the morning of January 28th 1986, the tragic explosion of the Challenger space shuttle. With this departure point, Boardman and Mays try to understand the personal and cultural affects of bearing witness.

Selected by Aperture Foundation for the 2016 PhotoBook Awards Shortlist in the First PhotoBook Award Category.

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Stop Private Property Keep Out Means You (2016)

Eric Ruby

All at once the darkest of nights came. Opening the rickety door, peering out, can’t see a thing. The whole world seems to be holding its breath. Nothing moved. The birds stopped singing, even the hens forgot contented scratching and clucking. Sitting there on the dirt floor for a long time, holding a handkerchief over your nose and mouth, and praying that this was not the end of the world. No distinguishable noise or roar, black as pitch outside. Putting hands in front of your face, ya can’t see ‘em. Just a black stillness. Can’t tell the time even if you have a watch. Then, finally, the wind! and boy! Whistling even inside the house! Only thing to do is to put your head between your knees and close your eyes. Ya can’t escape the incessant feeling of grit and grime everywhere.

Leaving the house with a debilitating stitch in your side, panting for breath, mixed with tears and fear. Crawling and crawling for what seems like an eternity. Can’t see nothing but static electricity flying from your hands. Someone yelling, “Don’t go. You can’t make it.” But creeping along; a turtle would have outrun ya. Feeling the way by listening by the squeak of the windmill. Scared—yes. Confused—yes. There had never been anything like this before.

Finally, water. Pushing the dirt aside, sipping a little of that glorious wet muck. A renewed ray of hope, a beacon, a tiny speck of light, similar to that of a lighted kitchen match. One instant, bright sunshine, devastation seen at every turn. Not even stubble in the fields remained.
The best part of the “good ole days” is that they are gone; all’s well that ends well, I guess.