Cynthia Hopkins traverses time and space — and the extremes of success and failure — to reach the sublime
"This is a funeral pyre," she tells us, "and onto it I'm going to toss this method of turning truth into grotesque fiction." The end comes in a blaze of passion and pain and conjecture, frenetic and quasi-poetic reenactments of past mania, and almost sacramental bursts of quirky, moving song. But, through "a magical ritual called forgiveness," from those ashes something else rises, mushroom-like, at the scene of disaster. The universe collapses even further — down from the distance of galaxies and tongue-in-cheek fantasy, the pretense of art and performance, and the nostalgia for the loss of it all — onto a single face, captured in a tight beam of slowly fading light, as above her own unamplified guitar a bare crystalline voice muses in song on the wonder of the sun.
As a close encounter, it was one of a kind.