She had become her own puppet – something to be posed and played with, something hanging from a doorway – life-sized, almost crucified.
While all the while Guibert arranged – in both photography and words – himself, making from himself a puppet for his sex and for his life, ventriloquizing Thomas Bernhard in what might have been his final book. He didn’t have too long to live, and he could no longer have sex, but he could write. He could always write. It was a way of moving himself about (and later, animating his corpse across a stage) across the page. A recurrent staging of one’s death, played out in the form of graphomania.
The way that Robert Anton would stage his tiny puppets for his friends. It was a little world that could always exist, even if one was already dead. A concentration of one’s life into one’s hands. His hands, animating at the end, what he could only dream might once have been his life.
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