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Somewhere between Amelie von Wulffen vegetable soirées and Sophie von Hellerman washy lumpen, a coolness carved from retrograde contemporary, a sort of faux-naive crafted askew of out-of-fashion methods. (cooly naive to fashion) Like Martin Creed’s slaughtered portraiture, the "exaggerated literary forms," the having gotten it wrong, lends an Edenic earnestness as if unspoilt by social awareness, and reattempting it through the mistakes of a Forest Gump or incompetent detective still winning the hearts if not criminal with immaculate sincerity, which of course isn’t true, but the interest lay in ascertaining the discrepancy, the disorientation of its irony.
