[The Impression of Play] on Cici James's [The Book Proprietress]

Living life between the covers within other lives isn't a bad place to be; it's where the artist has existed for the last 40,000 years, when the primitive began to scribble hieroglyphics on the walls of caves. We must presume not too long following, there came an instance when one of those primitive scribes pierced himself fatally, utilizing his own blood to attain a posthumous honor of becoming the unnamed martyr to absorb the writer into artist.

We see a woman, a proprietor, a direct ancestor in this lengthy bloodline from the primitive artist yet unnamed, pose bare amongst her books, half her body indistinguishable from the many tomes aligned on the shelves, then we see the beauty of not just the woman but the woman who represents an indivisible bond between the artist and the endless published doctrines which keeps him a slave to art, which confirms that the triumph of the individual over art is and has always been a mythical feat.

Many years have been lost to us; when we were younger, we were free to allow them to pass unmolested and between the beginning and the now, there is space,a response, stimulus, obedience to the paradoxes not in the interest of others and not in the interest of ourselves. The way this feels in the severe flanking of hands is completely foreign, non-responsive to gorgeous words, the elder frequency frequently dissecting edges of creation, wilting characteristics, silent obscenities, first observed umbilical conflict, catapulting the remainder of a world left purposefully so that unbearable disruption just may situate itself on the perimeter of the inappropriate, where my eyes first obtained vision, and after three decades of a hiatus, regained a vital force to gain their distinctio
n to see all the beauty in Cici James's nude representation of a woman no longer belonging to herself, but to the sadomasochistic relationship of writer and reader, bondage of the bygone greats, the impression of play between the mind and the soul, as the body lies bare, exposed, authentic and true.

by Dontrell Lovet't