A little tent allowed to play for sea anemone on dry land, its four legs perky in the air. Actors having a cup of tea and a game of cards. It all looks very innocent. What begins as a wonderful picture novel gradually grows into a rebus of considerable length. "My Private Himalaya" is akin to a walking exhibition, with a wind machine in the role of the great 'curator'. Father Time eventually blows all the images into one big, desolate and indifferent h...
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