[...] Sans aucunement contester la qualité du travail présenté, la récente visite de la très belle exposition de Sophie Calle à la B.N.F m’avait rempli de questions auxquelles je n’ai pas toujours trouvé de réponses satisfaisantes. Et si certes je ne puis qualifier Sophie Calle de photographe mais bien d’artiste complète, de merveilleuse conteuse, détonnante, surprenante et que sais-je encore, mes réflexions ne m’ont jamais entraîné aussi loin que cette curieuse et radicale position lue ici. [...]

But what then, makes Calle’s work compelling to that very audience? Is it merely her provocation of the female object as death drive that sucks us into her quasi-conceptual shit? Or might her extraordinary cleverness actually have attuned to a sphere of which she’s not aware, or perhaps even capable of fully realizing? For me, the most tantalizing loose thread of your essay occurs after Robert Storr’s clever quotation in your assessment of her lack of content and love affair with generality. Perhaps generality, blur, or even solipsism, a la Wittgenstein, might gesture to an overlooked, less bourgeois aesthetics order.

My orange cat just failed to jump on the bed! One day, she will be dead, and I will only have her photograph to haunt me. Make a piece about that, Sophie!