Kikuji Kawada’s The Last Cosmology is the photography book I have long been obsessed with—the one I most wanted to touch with my own hands and slide onto my bookshelf. Since its release in 2015, its price has remained stubbornly high, and the signed edition is even harder to find: listed here and there, but almost never actually available.
Like many people who, on sleepless nights, repeatedly check their shopping carts, I discovered on Google that Printed Matter in Chelsea, New York actually had a copy in stock—and not just any copy, but a brand-new signed edition, priced at $850. It was a painful but still psychologically reachable price, which made me quietly happy. I thought I would decide after arriving in New York—if the weather was pleasant that day, maybe I would just pull the trigger.
When I arrived at the store, it was a bolt from the blue. The book sat neglected in the corner of a glass cabinet, but beneath it was a freshly printed price tag: $1,500.
What a powerless price. I looked at the photograph of the solar eclipse pasted onto the cover and suddenly felt the coldness and distance of the universe—or, more precisely, the tiny human factors of economics and politics, meaningless on a cosmic scale, that had separated me from it like an eclipse.
In any case, I still wanted to confirm the situation, so I asked a staff member to open the glass cabinet, at least so I could hold the massive book in my hands and feel its weight.
I brought the book to the counter and began checking its actual price. The two employees there, a man and a woman, took it from my hands and compared the price tag on the book with the one on the computer screen. I vaguely heard them muttering things like, “$1,500 should be the latest price,” and “the website probably hasn’t been updated,” like two doctors discussing the surgery behind a patient’s back. A chill ran down my spine, and even my skin began to prickle.
After a brief exchange, they started calling the manager, trying to figure out the price. Four or five calls were made in succession from three different devices, but no one answered. I stood there staring blankly at the ceiling like a frog praying for rain, unsure how much time had passed.
The moon slowly moved on, and the outline of the sun began to leak light again. An idea shone onto the top of my head. I said to the two of them, who were still trying to reach the manager: “What if I just place the order on the website and choose in-store pickup? What would you do then?”
The man first made an awkward face, but he did not seem annoyed—perhaps realizing that the price this book sold for had nothing to do with his salary. Then he laughed and turned to discuss it with his colleague.
After a few more tense minutes, he came around from behind the counter and quietly said to me, “Just buy it online. If the price is wrong, it’s on us.”
Joy split open across my face in an instant, but my hand placing the order moved even faster. And just like that, the book fell into my hands. I tucked it under my arm and strode out as if escaping.
By the time the wind blew my hat away, I was already two blocks from the store.