He went on the internet again. Here, too, in this peculiar form of stop-motion collage, the most recent animation is taken from footage at least ten years old—in the space between each frame, he feels the weight of the moments he cannot remember. From beyond the window of his sizable Manhattan apartment, somewhere, David Bowie hears chimes. He remembers a song he wrote in 1972, and he knows that they ring for him.
As fast as he can, David Bowie begins snapping photos of himself on his laptop’s built-in webcam, one after another after another, sending them all to the high-definition printer in the living room, the printer they never use for such things. By the time his wife returns home—his wife, Somali supermodel Iman (for whom he has written songs, but no sons), who has borne him his only daughter—the walls of the apartment are covered in fading photos of her husband, captured at angles he could never see; the man who refused to stand still throughout an iconic, forty-plus year career, who now lies collapsed on the bed, swallowed by a Brechtian beast he cannot name, growing old hourly.