People in a landscape. Joelle, Claudine, Marcus, Roy Henry. Isolate moments, significant more because they are here signified than for any actual event recounted, any epiphany experienced by them, or the usual expository duty to be fulfilled. Landscapes, names, words skirting sense in order to evoke—an action, mainly in-consequent, in the face of logic: stuffing olives with chicken livers, playing music, rollerskating, smoking, sweeping up broken glass. The things of art. People in a landscape, reasons deferred to the viewer; as if we ourselves were responsible for the world.
Seems like we are—responsible for the world—whenever we're not speaking. To put all of those instances into an aesthetic chain: logical only if we call it a re-definition of logic, which narrative itself once was—or even the original. Perhaps logic was invented to supplement narrative as a means of understanding our (all-too) human experiences—predicting the future more like.
Art has a way of doing that, of re-organizing the minutia into certain patterns that the brain prefers over other, perhaps more mathematically inclined arrangements. Flowers get put into vases and exposed.
Entropy is just as valid as a means of arrangement as constructivism: why do we overvalue the dramatic climax, the resolution, closure? After all, there's hardly ever an end in sight—more likely a running out of breath, an exhaustion, a collapsing into a heap—and its reflection in the mirror. Before we regroup and get up again.
eBook I Can Hear Me Fine