A new review from a new viewer of The Naked Reading. It’s intricacy prompted me to post it here:
On Wednesday, February 21, 2018, 11:55:49 PM GMT, William Ford wrote:
From the opening moment to the last, a challenge to the animal within to silence it’s desire for sensual gratification to allow the intellect to receive and resolve in the minds eye the pictures and the personalities painted by the sometimes harsh but always intricate brush strokes of words.
The eye of the beholder at first overwhelms that of the mind because the ieye is taken by the unashamed presence, the boldness, the nerves of steel and fiercely defiant Naked Blonde Writer through her actions seeming to be saying “Well, here I am, look then, that’s what you’re here for isn’t it?” And look the eye does, the inner animal roused, then calmed by the incongruity of the scenario to the average dumb straight male gaze, that is a part of the spectrum of every dumb male observer, even those claiming to be capable of utterly separating the animal and intellectual response (ie liars or those ashamed to acknowledge their own dumb beast and it’s necessarily detached from conscious thought impulsive responses).
The distance between observer and observed created by video lets the viewer run the gamut of looking, excited, wondering whether he should be looking, should he feel ashamed, calming his societal programming that he should feel shame and having it dawn on him that the reader is not ashamed, nor does she tease, nor does she seem to care about the myriad of potential reactions she may be provoking, so whatever, observing voyeur or cowed boy, this really is about the words. Sensationalism too partly, for this is not ‘the done thing’ but with her past life acknowledged in the manner of the reading the sensationalism tramscends the ‘omg a naked woman reading!’ provocative concept and becomes a demonstration of the art in the words. There is no attempt to dress up or romanticise the lives described in Blackout.
Literally and figuratively exposing, exploring, unflinchingly observing humanity and opening herself up to being unflinchingly observed bodily while the words she reads pierce and puncture the popular myth of the welcome supposedly kept in the hillsides of Wales…where the spirit of the individual can and will be worn away like the once abundant natural resources deep underground, if the individual allows that. The spirit of the individual wanting more for him/herself than the preordained soul destruction all around them is the friction that creates the spark within. The desire to express, to show what one is, what one has about them. The reader shows herself, her art, her spirit but not all that she is for this is her show, her stage, her insight, her words, her Self, to reveal on whatever literal or artistic level she sees fit, and damn you or damn me, if we presume anything, even in the course of responding in an effusive, wordy splurge of outright admiration. Astonishing. Thank you.