“She never took pictures of whole things, just fragments of objects or moments that caught her eye.”
There’s something about the dark arts of this book that are themselves hinky. Well, you can’t have one without the other. And although I recognised the intentional pretension or artificiality of this story, I relished its preternaturally divining dark arts, too. The same as my gestalt real-time reviewing, I hope, whereby I take photos, too, photos of ready-mades, found art, like the art installation in this story of clothes hangers doubling as divining-rods toward gestalt; I actually sometimes include them in the manipulation of the book review itself, this story being of a woman who takes photos and then makes them into a story: three pictures, hem, racist, apples, small breasts, doe, truck. A woman on a bus fancying the conductor, a woman who also thinks of MoMa and ends up seeing her Momma, her Mother of Stones who is almost a rival in Art’s gestalt-game, her own MoMA at the family home, a house falling down in slow Zeno motion amidst the wilds where nobody goes,…
“But she liked this wall, because she could read it like a script. ”
“Just keep telling the story, until you run out of words. Then go inside.”
Images of Rosetti’s Mnemosyne (one of those rare words containing ‘nemo’), Romeo and Juliet, the war in Sarajevo, Odysseus, an ever-living cricket as lodestone, ‘interactive art’ becoming a co-vivid dream, death by virus, her father’s ‘apple tobacco’ …
“Things got mixed up like that,…”
***
Context of this review:
The Des Lewis Gestalt Real-Time Reviews 
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