Taking the list of seven deadly sins, personifying them, and setting them in a contemporary city could be a conceit very easy to get wrong, and so it is to Imogen Stirling’s great credit that this collection sings – it is really a single piece rather than a collection, a narrative of encounter.
It ends like this…
Sloth bathes in ancestral knowledge and sees that, cast from the mind of a Greek, all seven are kintsugi creations, crafted of golden scar and candid despondency. They drive their stories through a city that dangles acceptance just out of reach, like distance moons. Earnest and futile. She sees the seven stand as fallen angels with their halos at an angle. She sees them guilelessly become the story of all people. After all, this was a story of you and me. Of we. Sloth sees us laden with the weight of innocence and guilt that always has existed and understands that we are myth and we are modern. We are legend and we are human. Story and truthful. And sinful? Oh yes. Fallible and beautiful.
No comments:
Post a Comment