Friday, February 20, 2015

HOOD (Bloomsbury, Object Lessons Series, Jan. 2016)

My book of cultural history, HOOD, will be published by Bloomsbury's Object Lessons series in January 2016! 

"We all wear hoods: the Grim Reaper, Red Riding Hood, torturers, executioners and the executed, athletes, laborers, anarchists, rappers, babies in onesies, and anyone who's ever grabbed a hoodie on a chilly day. Alison Kinney's Hood explores the material and symbolic vibrancy of this everyday garment and political semaphore, which often protects the powerful at the expense of the powerless--with deadly results. Kinney considers medieval clerics and the Klan, anti-hoodie campaigns and the Hooded Man of Abu Ghraib, the Inquisition and the murder of Trayvon Martin, uncovering both the hooded perpetrators of violence and the hooded victims in their sights."

Stay tuned for pre-ordering info.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Essaying and Storifying: a handy guide to my short pieces!

Art by Ayun Halliday,
The Leading Lady v. The Loser

" piano teacher made me watch the horror movie Amadeus, based on Peter Shaffer's play. Then I knew myself. The third-rate composer Antonio Salieri, railing at God for depriving him of genius, was my kind of people, the patron saint of mediocrities: yearbook deputy editors, marching band auxiliary percussionists, Salieri partisans.... And I knew my Mozart. Highlander had taught me that there could be only one. I couldn't behead Rosalie, so I snubbed her in the cafeteria."

Cielo & Mar, my 3rd-prize travel writing piece for the Iceland Writers Retreat (as dear Gertrude says, "alas a dirty third, alas a dirty bird")
"Languages and forms, clouds and shorelines overlap, and I'm magically traveling to the nineteenth, then the seventeenth centuries, holding The Rough Guide to Iceland in my hands. Then, refreshed by unheard melodies--by contrast, cunning, and art--I look again, to see the cold, gray clouds and waves before me, busy with whale watches, commercial ships, and gulls, more clearly than before."

photo by Pete Checchia/Carnegie Hall

Disinter & Reconfigure: A Conversation With Composer Philip Miller
The Mantle

"Working with William [Kentridge] has allowed me to know that while there are processes I think could be interesting, I seldom know the outcome. I have to trust the process, trust that some things don't work, but you shouldn't fear that, just say, 'Let's see what happens.' An element of chance or risk, because you're not aware where it'll end. It's not like some compositions, where you know where every note will land, soft or loud. With none of this work did I have an idea, when I started, what I'd end up with. Not one in the Paper Music Suite."

Illustration by Eric Palma
Lessons From a "Local Food" Scam Artist

They wanted to know where I came from, originally, and how selling them melons fulfilled my American Dreams... To some of them, my provenance was far more suspect than that of the produce.... The idea that I might know something about vegetables that they, with their sophisticated-yet-earthy palates and vaunted vegetable-selecting skills, didn't, was a disruption to their foodie performance. They never even learned that, if you hector a nonwhite teenager about displacing white people's jobs, she's going to hide rotten tomatoes in the bottom of your bag.

Der Animatograph: Odins Parsipark
Christoph Schlingensief: Blood, Blackface, and the Total Works of Wagner
The Mantle
MoMA PS1’s retrospective “Christoph Schlingensief” documented the late German director and performance artist’s anti-authoritarian, anti-racist, and anti-colonial work. Schlingensief devoted much of his professional life to engaging with, or assaulting, the operas of an even more provocative artist, the composer Richard Wagner. Although many Wagner fans, like me, try to separate our abhorrence for the man from our helpless adoration of the music, Schlingensief sought better solutions, revealing the complicity of the audience every time we clamor for simple, easy beauty.

Daniel Berset, Broken Chair (photo: MHM-com/Wikimedia)
Philistine, or What Happens When You Break A Sculpture in a Gallery
"I was a philistine. I had broken the pact that art-lovers make with artists, to see art as art. Not to walk past it, or be one of those people who gaze at it and see only a void, garbage, scams, hipsterism, things that their kids or cats or the past 50 years of praxis have done better. People who are so trying to see through art that they don't see it at all, much less with curiosity, openness, or understanding.... But I can truly say that I will never think harder about a work's quiddity, the space it occupies in a room and in time, the fragility of it, the thought and labor the artist put into it. I will never forget it."

Vicks VapoRub and Me
The Atlantic, Object Lessons Series

"'Breathe life in,' the Vicks website exhorts me, and I do: microbes, pollen, skin mites, spit, gnats, fumes, gas leaks, street nuts, farts. I exhale bits of me into the air; I inhale bits of everything else. Even while those things enter, lodge in, or even bind to me, Vicks makes me less aware of the mingling, the breakdown of boundaries--a
s unaware as I am of the constant multiplying or destruction of my own cells, and as personally involved. I'm huffing Vicks and feeling none of it; I am virtually veneered; I am dissolving and rebuilding myself in the world."

photo © Minjas Zugik 2015
23 Questions for Jonas Kaufmann, a comic fantasia
Madcap Review, republished by Operagasm
"Q: Werther: a young man who kills himself for love of a married woman. The Act III aria, 'Porquoi me réveiller?"--
that's what I ask the cat every morning. You sing it like you have a cat, too: 'Why awaken me, o breath of spring,' a lilacs-out-of-the-dead-land lament for one's meaningless existence, fed and then blighted by vain hope, ringing the rafters with agony, then whispering, beseechingly, for it to desist. There's no way you don't have a cat."

"A filthy process in which I was engaged": Revising Frankenstein
Avidly (a channel of L.A. Review of Books)

"Terror, nausea, and the solitary slog of patching together cold, dead bodies in the workshop: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus created a fantastical, searing metaphor for the horrors of revision, that process by which writers try, fail, and try again to animate the corpses of their ideas."

Breasts: Suffrage, Suffering and Cecily McMillan
New Criticals

"Once a social justice movement, like women's suffrage, has succeeded in enshrining its goals in law and social acceptance, it is all too easy to dismiss the state violence against it as a relic of less enlightened times. But such violence often looks the same with each recurrence: wildly disproportionate; reifying racial, gender, class, and other biases; and trampling civil liberties... The word 'violent' has a sneaky way of attaching to protest even--perhaps especially--when the protesters are the ones being bloodied; state violence, on the other hand, is supposed to be hygienic, orderly, responsible, sane, and necessary."

Fifty Shades of Brontë
The Hairpin

"Jane's choice of a manipulative, predatory, married boss as her soul mate; the seething sexual provocation and coy submission; and Rochester's domination of Jane all look darker, scarier, and more complicated to me. But also happier: a different kind of self-determination and feminism is going on. Now that we impressionable 10-year-olds have grown up, and some of us have bookworm daughters of our own, it's time that we talk frankly about Jane Eyre's sadomasochistic overtones within a literary culture that popularizes but confuses issues of violence, love, and, above all, consent and coercion."

Jon Stewart cursed me out

"[T]he writing team aimed always to satirize the powerful, rather than bullying their victims; to mock voluntary shenanigans, and not circumstances outside people's control. That is how ethical comedy works. And if somebody raises a criticism about the content, the ethical way to respond is not to automatically silence the critics.... Death and rape threats are being made against an Asian woman and her supporters, many of them women of color, to punish them for supposedly misunderstanding anti-racist rhetoric. To punish them for not having a sense of humor."

Gene Therapy
The Inquisitive Eater
"Whatever genetic inclinations I may have once had were now mingled with memories, the exhilaration of a new relationship, and a palate that had been shocked against its will into expanding. The disgust I'd felt at that church supper was real, based on the incontestable evidence of my senses, and visceral in the most literal way.... But one of the privileges of growing up is to be given the chance to re-feel, re-sense, reinterpret out reactions, and discover pleasure where we'd previously only known bleh. Our gut reactions can change."

Gastronomica (available with JSTOR access)

"Maybe kieflies are religiously neutral; maybe they used to be our Rosh Hashanah treat; maybe we converted to them with Catholicism.... But I'm not threatened by the shifting of origins, of either patisserie or grandfathers, because my origins have never been stable: I'm Korean, more or less, I'm adopted, and I've adopted the role of last kieflie baker to the family."

Term (link to buy the print version)
The 2005 Robert Olen Butler Prize Stories; first published by The Literary Review (Charles Angoff Award)

"He thought of the rice, beans, applesauce, and milk; the blood, water, and oxygen; the flesh, the genes, the tests charts thermometers tubes locks swabs frustration fear fucking love--everything that had gone into the making of these vibrations under his hand. He felt the kicking and knew it was only a reflex, a neural glitch produced by the spinal cord, like suckling, like blinking, like everything else that babies were supposed to do. All these things--the growth, the anticipation, the kicking, the rooting in deeper--were their child's portion in life, its personal best."

Blue Mesa Review (unavailable online, sorry!)

"Straining her eyes one last time over the Ceiling, she saw, in the upper right corner of the Deluge, a large white hole. During the 1797 Castel Sant'Angelo explosion, the plaster had crumbled off, leaving a blank that the restorers couldn't fill. When she rested her eyes in the emptiness, blurred colors swirled in her peripheral vision. But she knew what the blank had contained, knew about the discovery of an eighteenth century engraving that had reproduced the missing image: a bolt of lightning, the wrath of God, destroying his great work in order to create it anew."

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Read read read

I'm working on a nonfiction book project! So I've been reading different stuff from the usual.

  • Robert Mills, Suspended Animation: Pain, Pleasure and Punishment in Medieval Culture
  • Louis P. Masur, Rites of Execution: Capital Punishment and hte Transformation of American Culture, 1776-1865
  • Robert Johnson, Death Work: A Study of the Modern Execution Process
  • Pieter Spierenburg, The Spectacle of Suffering: Executions and the evolution of repression: from a preindustrial metropolis to the European experience
  • Enrico De Pascale, Death and Resurrection in Art
  • Michel Foucault, Discipline & Punish
  • Romanic Review, special double issue on "Examining Heretical Thought"
  • a bunch of essays and articles on anti-Semitism, Richard Wagner, Theodor Adorno, and the Ku Klux Klan.
  • Rereading: Helen Prejean, Dead Man Walking
  • Rereading: Umberto Eco: The Name of the Rose

It would be fair to say that my promise to deliver a "jaunty" book is looking increasingly insane.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

My most popular book report evah: ILIAD

Get yer filthy hands off my krater.
Homer, The Iliad
Trans. Robert Fagles, 1998

Read May 2008
I'm often kept up at night brooding on my troubles, wishing I could find some solace that would help me sleep. But now I know that the best way to keep insomnia at bay is to get out of bed, hitch up my chariot, tie the corpse of my mortal enemy to the back, and drive around for a few hours, dragging him, until I cheer up and can go back to sleep. The Iliad is unmatched, in my reading, for works that describe the bloody, ridiculous, selfish lengths people will go in order to feel better. The sticks and stones fly (and gouge out eyes, smash skulls, slash livers and veins until the blood sprays--this poem is definitely not for the squeamish), but the real weapons of the Trojan War are name-calling, cheating at games, and stealing your best buddy's girlfriend or mixing bowl or ox. Most of the action occurs when somebody gets his feelings hurt, the baddie won't apologize, and the sensitive one throws a fit, which can involve letting all of his friends die while he gets an olive-oil massage, or else razing a city, raping the women, and joyriding over other men's bones. The Iliad suggests that even at its most glorious, war can be advocated only by people with the emotional lives of spoiled four-year-olds. 

Indeed, most people are like spoiled four-year-olds, and truisms like that have resulted in some very tedious books and movies, but the Iliad is never tedious, or rather, only ever horrifically tedious (more on that below), first because it's good art, and secondly because, while many artists have stated, "My emotional life is a shambles," Achilles' emotional life results in the destruction of the rules of engagement, of "civilized" warfare, and of a civilization itself: babies thrown from ramparts, old men cut down at their altars, generations murdered, while Zeus snickers. The Iliad demands that the individual reflect on his or her engagement with the world at large, and the world is not a comfort zone: is it okay to decimate a town, in retaliation for your best friend's death? (Yes.) When you're kidnapped from home and thrown to the soldiers for sexual sport, are you supposed to be grateful? (Yes, and cook them some cheese to show it.) When a man murders your son and desecrates his corpse, what will the gods, to whom you and your son have given many, many sacrifices, do to help you out? (Send you groveling to kiss the murderer's hands, give him some fancy shirts, and have him treat you to some barbecue.) 

What else does The Iliad say? That every life matters, and every death. The poem is a rolling casualty list, in which every man who dies has a name, a home, friends, and family who love or mourn or curse or disown him, sometimes a specified quantity of livestock who wonder where he is at milking time. Characters are introduced only to be killed, but their deaths are unique, and nobody dies without causing a change in the fortunes of his comrades or enemies, mostly by precipitating their own deaths. This is where the tedium comes in, but it's a harrowing kind of tedium: gruesome deaths, piled on, can cease to move Achilles, Agamemnon, or us, but they don't stop happening just because we've ceased to pay attention.

And what else? That war can make for great poetry. Fagles' translation is awesome (apart from a couple infelicities--the first "So help me" was hilarious. The fourth one was a little old). The verse is crisp, lucid, immediate, and very, very violent: the accessibility of the syntax and vocabulary make you read faster and faster, so the terrible scenes come upon you like an onslaught, entrails flying, chariots mowing people down, goddesses getting punched in the boobs, and behind it all the ever-present weeping. Egad.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain

Gao Xingjian
Soul Mountain
(Mabel Lee translation published 1990)
Read in May 2010

I'd like to start with a view that dissents with those of some other Goodreads reviewers, who (in praise, often) claim that this book works outside the rules of fiction, or is unlike all other books, or isn't even a novel. Of course it is a novel, and a hyperliterary one at that--and it operates within structures of fictional form that are common (even commonplace) in the twentieth century, not to mention in earlier works that share some of its more astonishing features (such as Don Quixote). And Gao got a degree in French literature and appears to have been well acquainted with modernism. So there's that, to start. 

I am not a huge, huge reader of nonlinear and/or nontraditional narrative myself, but the events surrounding this book's composition in the wake of the Cultural Revolution gave it a fresh interest for me. So to place this book within a literary context is hardly to denigrate it or to take away from what makes it wonderful (on the contrary, I think that that enriches it).  Also, if you don't know where Guizhou or Anhui are, look at a map. I promise that being able to follow the narrator's travels will increase your reading pleasure.

With all that said, there is probably something here to delight everybody, but that doesn't mean the work will be uniformly delightful for anybody except huge fans of the aforementioned types of narrative. And I for one am wholly uninterested in material having to do with either 1. spirituality, or 2. stories of middle-aged men getting it on with young women, and there's lots of both here. But I got sucked in by the travelogue, and the pandas, and the meetings with strangers, and the Miao Flying Songs....and I found myself, almost despite myself, getting interested in the cultural artifact that was Gao's attempt to map the narrator's self (and how those mappings must also relate to spirituality and younger women). I'm not too keen on selfhood, in general, but Gao turned me around with the varied attempts he made on it--he made it new for me.

Ernest Hemingway, The Complete Short Stories

Ernest Hemingway
The Complete Short Stories (first published 1987)

read in August 2010

This book contains some marvelous stories, including, in The First Forty-nine, a run of several that, by themselves, earn the collection four stars and support all the claims about Hemingway's mastery of the short story form. Among these stellar stories are "In Another Country" (a physical therapy story!), the much-anthologized "Hills Like White Elephants," "Che Ti Dice La Patria?" (a story about La Spezia, where we started our Italian vacation in 2010!), and the lovely "Big Two-Hearted River." 

And then in Parts II and III of the collection, there are a couple stories that are so good, with such complexity and grace and beauty, that they kind of reach out past the form itself and give you the satisfaction you get from reading perfect novels. These include the heartbreaking "The Last Good Country," the even more heartbreaking "An African Story," which is perhaps the best story about loneliness EVER, and, to a lesser extent, but differently, the grimly comic "Landscape with Figures." Over the course of his career, Hemingway wrote about a great many interesting things, but (almost) always, and more importantly, with the painstaking craft that he believed he owed to the subjects which had aroused his own interest.

Any complete collection will contain some dross. And in Hemingway's case, you get a serious dose of misogyny, colonialism, and macho shoot-or-stab-anything-that-moves attitude, in some of the best stories, too. You also get some Hemingway Sex Scenes, which are the last things anybody wants to read: all the ladies are talkers, and ye gods. And in the very last story, chapters from an unfinished novel later changed and turned into a different novel, you get some seriously oogie material that make you not want to finish the book, even though you've come 630 pages so far. But...Hemingway's stories at their very best are so surpassingly good that it's worth getting through even the worst moments.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Nancy Mitford, The Pursuit of Love, and Love in a Cold Climate

Fantastic Jessica, herein reviewed Nancy, evil Diana,
evil Unity, and poor Pam.  Where's Debo?
Nancy Mitford
The Pursuit of Love & Love in a Cold Climate:  Two Novels
(published together in 1974; first published in 1945 and 1949)
Read by me in 2010, I think.

It's hard to go into these novels already knowing rather a lot about the Mitfords, and especially as a worshiper of all things Jessica. Nancy Mitford mined her family and friends for characters and plots--the novels contain quite a bit of autobiographical fictioneering. But, while there are a number of felicitous, funny moments (the child hunt; anything said by Jassy--the Jessica stand-in--or Victoria; Lady Montdore going once in the morning and not needing to be let out all day like a dog; Uncle Matthew shaking Cedric like a rat), one can't help feeling (um, knowing) that there's a more interesting story not being told, and wonder why Nancy chose to relate or to suppress what she did. 

After a brief lunchtime chat with Karl about psychoanalytic crit theory, I wonder why Nancy chose the pink champagney, fey view of these aristocratic families in Cold Climate, the country eccentric version of them in Pursuit of Love--and omitted all the things that disrupted the light, humorous mood of both--but then chose to narrate both stories from the pov of an outsider by wealth, education, and disposition (the shy, dowdy cousin Fanny, daughter of the disreputable Bolter), whose own story occurs only in fits and starts, interrupted and upstaged by the lives of the characters she narrates. Mitford practically invites you to wonder about the concealments, the lives not guessed at--to read her novels as facades. She makes you wonder what narrative, personal, or political aims can be served by such extremely elided accounts of her own family life--and why, if she chose to elide them, she wrote about her family in the first place, and why she made it *fiction*. 

Moreover, one has to consider that Nancy was only too aware that she was writing for an audience that already knew what she wasn't saying--not just the Bright Young Things and the people she'd danced or dined with, but anybody who could pick up a newspaper, because the intimate lives of her siblings had started appearing in the scandal sheets when she was in her twenties. She was a celebrity from a notorious celebrity family. So, when she combined the antics of her sisters Diana, Jessica, and Deborah (notably, the other three writers of the family!!!) with her own, to make the character of Linda, what was she trying to tell us about family, representation, truth, public knowledge, and fiction? I don't know! While I didn't love these novels, and they're not the kind of thing I'd want to read by anybody else, the cleverness and the secrecy do stick and will make me think for a long time.