Celia Brayfield, long-crowned the enfant terrible of the reviewing world, and scourge of the bourgoisie, has, through her latest ontological oeuvre, transformed understanding of the art of art review into something self-referential, stochastic, and yet at the same time universal, undoubtedly a normative paradigmatic shift of our hermeneutical age. There are those who will view her work as a didactic polemic, little more than a bete noire, still others who will see it as replete with a fertile aesthetic, and others will want to burn themselves into a fiery crisp on national television, imitating (perhaps) the Buddhist monks of yesteryear, whose saffron-colored robes are mirrored by the sky blue of this work's cover, in all their evanescent autarky.
I would equate the experience of reading Brayfield's prise with passing through the birth canal and suggest that those who hate her work do so because they despise their own existence. Her words are a representation of society's inner dialectic, juxtaposing saffron spirituality and utilitarian steel in a compromised landscape, and bring up the penultimate question: Ou les neiges de temps jadis sont?
If we know anything, we know this: Art is neither object nor subject, but the phenomenological intertwining of both so that `appreciation' (in all its varied and multi- meanings) is born from the simple realization of perception. This recognition allows for art that is neither here nor there, but everywhere. And nowhere.