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The Work of Art In the museum garden, Katrina climbs Heizer’s “Eight-part Circle.” It’s rough and sparkled granite,— her salted fingers, smear these monumental questions onto her just-washed face. Her father yells, “No. That’s art.” This—likely— not the first betrayal: her stubby hands and toes pulled from her mouth . . . A circle and its order disassembled, stacked in blocks. Her crawling reconstruction. That’s what I’m talking about. |
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