An Anonymous Patron wants us to read a brief piece about an exhibition of the work of artist Steve Wolfe, who creates three-dimensional replicas of the real books he owns and has read multiple times:
The Abrams monograph on Mondrian is slightly off-kilter (too much time spent leaning on the shelf); Raymond Chandler’s Farewell My Lovely appears so well thumbed that it’s falling apart. The Vintage paperbacks of Proust, faded in Wolfe’s fake sun, bear the imprint of years passing. How long did it take to re-create them? Would the time have been better spent reading them? Not at all—for like Proust’s oeuvre, these sculptures acknowledge, with a deep melancholy, that life is short and culture infinite.
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