We approach Alec Soth not as an American road mythologist but as a maker of fragile sequences—books that hesitate between confession and inventory. His drift along rivers and motels folds back into our preoccupation with itineraries: the staged sincerity of underworld Americana, the porous line between document and performance. Near to Japanese diarists in restraint; far from spectacle. We privilege the book, not the legend.
