Dear Amanda Palmer,
Congratulations on your solo success. I very much enjoyed your work when you teamed with Brian Viglione as The Dresden Dolls, and I am equally if not more excited about your emergence as a solo artist. I have been to shows. I've drawn on some strange mimes. I've bought shirts. I've put money in the hat. I've put money in the boot. I've put money directly in the hands of the Australian bunch you toured with recently, standing in the chilly air just outside of Paradise Rock Club. We've even met.
I say these things to evidence and establish my appreciation, and I think that's been done.
That all said, please push your book elsewhere. Why on Earth you think I would shell out thirty-five bucks plus tax on a book containing one hundred twenty-eight photographs of you -- "dead" -- is completely vexing. It strikes me that we may have wandered away from artful positing of universal truths and diverse collaboration for the sake of true creativity. It strikes me as the overly self-indulgent pet project of a goth chick with too much time on her hands and too many artsy friends who think she's just amazing.
As much as I enjoy the vast majority of what you churn out, I have my limits. I simply have no wish to consume photographs of you pretending to be dead in a shopping cart, pretending to be dead in an outfit you like, pretending to be dead on your bathroom floor, pretending to be dead in some shallow water, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
What I'm trying to say is, I don't give a shit about your coffee table picture book and it's disenfranchising.
Try to keep in mind that I rant because I care.
That guy who drew you a picture of an onion wearing Jack Skellington's coat one night on a little piece of paper during a performance of The Onion Cellar, and traded it to you for a flower -- a far fairer exchange than thirty or forty bucks for hundreds of photos of you playing opossum, in my humble opinion.