In a show at Stampa’s suite of rooms, you always experience everything twice: once on your way in, and again on your way out, your journey usually interrupted by a side trip to the bookstore that sends you off on further jaunts of the imagination. I’ll begin this tale in the gallery’s back room, as one might run a film backward: A red parasol, set in a white plastic stand and adorned with a glowing lightbulb dangling on a long cord, cheerfully arched above a loose assemblage of found and artist-made objects arranged on the pale wood floor, as if the sun were shining indoors. Scattered elements