The red dot has been called the defining visual motif of our age, usually by those who have been chasing it. I find it a deeply unoriginal work. It goes left. It goes right. It stops, which is the closest the piece comes to a thesis, and then it goes left again. There is no character arc and no catharsis, since the dot cannot be caught, and I note that this is also true of most careers.
Still, I watched it for forty minutes in the hallway of a Mr. Desmond Pratchley, and I chased it for thirty nine of them. Criticism requires distance, I told myself, tumbling over an ottoman. Two paws. Four, if you add the ottoman.
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