This weeks scintillating read is . . .
It has a nice cover don't you think? And there's potential it might be a little bit interesting in places, but mostly I'm reading it because . . . furtive glance side-to-side . . . I'm not sure I like frames. Something about them gnarls me slightly, so I'm reading the book to assess what I really think - whether it's not really a dislike of frames but just of certain frames, or whether I'm just an art knob in denial. I think I like frames in art galleries but maybe not in the home - bit too plinth-like for the home. Maybe I don't like what a frame does to a picture - seems like a half-hearted fanfare - maybe a picture should speak for itself. But then, heck, what is a frame? Maybe it's an act of framing if you stick something to the wall with a dirty blob of blu-tack, maybe just having something on show is an act of framing - maybe that's why I feel an actual frame, especially one with a tasteful mount, is just too much. I don't really know . . . Welcome to my head where the party never ends.