Play it again, please play it again. Rarely am I as inspired to enter the flow of images and movement and score as I am when viewing Barbara Meter's A Touch. It's an intimate tour along the nerves, memories, distillations, creations, and the mood of reflection charting where we've been and perhaps where we'd like to go on going. I'm so thankful people make this grande stuff.
The middle panel of an extempore tryptich, flanked by Cornell’s Gnir Rednow and Lehmann’s Birds by the Sea, Meter’s ensnaring little sparkler engages viewers by a timbre so intimate, it seems there is a second seat near the author, reserved for whomever cares to share the contemplation of a heartily proffered, calligraphic diary extract. 'Cinema as solitary voyeurism' notion fails to coagulate round this; one rather