The surrealism was an unholy movement in french construction of culture. Tonns too much human (passed definition), tonns too much animal (current def) Francesca Woodman as any one of the (Rimbaud, Jean Pierre Duprey, Roger Gilbert-Leconte) brothers in arms involved in the GRAND JEU did not find the time to experience the quest further than its incarnation. Another group at the same time involved itself in the same quest as FW for the body and soul reconciliation through sensations and emotions. Roger Gilbert-Leconte, Rene Daumal, Joseph Sima more than the surrealists were FW's brothers in arms...

fun france I live with an as assumed as a modern woman can be clone of Francesca Woodman

This book is an excellent collection of the limited work of a young woman who would have dominated American Photography had it not been for her unfortunate demise. It is essential for all serious art photographers
I first saw a retrospective show of her work in Boulder Colorado after her death and it has never left my mind. I find it hard to believe that it has taken this long for a published collection like this to come along.
It is truly remarkable in every way.

However remarkable and achingly tender, Woodman images are as rare as a rhinoserous horn at an Asian bazaar. Some years ago a portfolio of Woodman photographs was reprinted. This small handfull of images was reproduced again and again. The group of "known" images grew somewhat as various small books or catalogs were published. The real strength of Woodman as an artist is evidenced by the fact that as every heretofore unseen image gets published, such as in this sizable book, the delicacy, richness, and complexity of Woodman's moltenly beautiful yet hauntingly tragic body of work grows exponentially. The original group of oft-reproduced images is revealed as random sampling of many images of the same captivating quality. There is so much that is not known about this work that each expanded treatment becomes a startling revelation. Gracious thanks to any book that begins to give this most underappreciated genuis suicide her due.

Pierre Froissart sends faxes signed Crebillon fils, cites Stendhal and Vivant Denon, and lounges in a secluded palazzo, watching his beautiful young lover swimming laps. He muses on art, philosophy, history, and even astronomy as he looks at slides of the stolen painting he has in his possession. Suave, cosmopolitan, immensely well read (as the dizzying range of citations demonstrates), the narrator of this droll, obscure, lyrical, and occasionally witty novel is a modern aristocrat, living a life of ease among the pastel colors of Venice. A kind of sinister boredem seems to afflict everyone but Froissart and his proches. An entertaining exercise in frivolity.