book one redone - Coldbacon

theendofanera.html
You may have noticed the web has pictures. Some have objected. How
can the web think of itself as a serious literary medium with so many
pictures? Ah, but does an author not paint a picture with his words?
Herman Melville made some of the finest sketches of sperm whales
known to man. James Joyce drafted blueprints for city planners in Dublin.
Not a single detail was lacking, no manhole missing, no soft, brown liver
unrewarded for a lifetime of abuse. And J.K. Rowling does bas-relief for
the masses. So let the web have its pictures, in particular the little white
kitty that pirouettes or the fire hydrant that wiggles. Let’s see your
precious “illustrations” do that. Oh, and the mailbox that opens to let in
the floating letter. Sensational. Nothing wrong with animated GIF’s.
And what about sounds? Perhaps the author (web artist) has carefully
chosen some music to enhance the browsing experience. (Children will
learn to browse at an early age.) I once saw a mostly photography exhibit
by Nic Nicosia. He had lots of quality snaps on the wall, but he also had
some looping videos as part of the exhibit. (Contemporary art has been
making people think for at least twenty years.) The music leaking from
the video installations made for effective (if accidental) soundtracks to the
nearby pictures. Even now it’s hard to remember those photographs
without remembering that music, or at least the way it made me feel.
Later, I had a similar experience at a Viktor Schreckengost exhibit at the
Cleveland Museum of Fine Art. The famous Jazz Bowl (which I had
never heard of) made so much more sense with Duke Ellington
percolating from unseen speakers. Me, the Duke, and that bowl shared
something that day, which most people cannot even imagine (unless they
click here).
So I walked out of the exhibit to find, of all things, one Viktor
Schreckengost, age ninety-four, sitting at a table with his daughter. In
front of the table was a line of people who had all been waiting—a lot
longer than I—to meet him. So I did what any reasonable person would
have done: I bought a one-dollar post card of a Jazz Bowl and got in line.
When my turn came, I pushed my card in front of him, and politely asked
if he would sign it. He signed it. But then, without warning, he looked up
at me and smiled, “Did you like the exhibit?” [internal scream sponsored
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