The Joseph Riipi has written a most beautiful book, and we always find it interesting when we find ourselves talking beauty and death in the same moment or thought. On the face it, it should all be more contradictory than that. Of course, this is one of the many things art does for us, be it literature, paintings, movies, theater, or dance, it takes our tortured, at times unknowable feelings and reflects them back to us in ways that are beautiful if not still unsettling and confusing. It is in this reflection though, this funhouse mirror, and again the contradictions abound, where beauty is found, and it is in reflection that Riipi's A Cloth House resides. This is a book about making sense of death, but more than that it is about feeling and memory, and how these things intersect and morph into one another to form a narrative. It is touch and smell and missing pieces slowly fit together. Tragedy as confusion seeking to be understood. And fragmentary scenes from a life slowly piling on top of another as they build and sort themselves out into something that almost makes sense so many years later.
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