In this sparkling debut, a grown-up Auder tells those million stories with delicious prose, sharp satirical humor, and cheeky whimsy. As Viva gazes away from the camera toward some impossible-to-discern person or horizon, Auder implores us with an innocent yet piercing glance that tells a million stories without words. Equally loud is, sandwiched between the title, a tinted childhood photo of author Alexandra Auder at maybe all of 4 or 5 years old, steadying herself in the back seat of a car behind her mother, Viva Superstar, the artist, writer, and an actor in Andy Warhol’s Factory films. Against an acid yellow backdrop, the title Don’t Call Me Home in its neon pink font is practically audible in its vibrance.
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