November 24, 2020 Hue's Hue Verdigris: The Color of Oxidation, Statues, and Impermanence By Katy Kelleher Palais Paar, Vienna, Austria, ca. 1765–72 (Courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art) It’s hard to imagine now, but people once gathered together freely, shoulders rubbing against shoulders, breath exchanged between lungs, bodies open to one another—all this closeness, almost a million people standing in a crowd just to watch a statue get undressed. It was a rainy October day in 1886 and the Statue of Liberty was shrouded in a French flag. The weather was miserable and the ceremonial unveiling went poorly. The drapery was pulled off too soon (right in the middle of a speech), and the fireworks display had to be canceled and rescheduled. Still, over a million freezing New Yorkers came out (including a boat full of suffragettes, protesting the statue). While it’s hard for me to even imagine standing inside a crowd of that size, it’s harder still to imagine the Statue of Liberty herself, as she looked then. Before she was the verdigris icon, patron saint of many a bespoke paint color, she was copper-skinned. Brown, not green. It felt like a revelation to read that tiny detail in Ian Frazier’s New Yorker piece on Statue of Liberty green. When residents first beheld Lady Liberty, they saw not an otherworldly, aqua-skinned allegory holding her lit torch to the sky, but a metallic, regal woman stretching upward from a granite plinth. It’s a simple enough fact, and yet I have trouble wrapping my head around it. Brown, not green. Read More
November 23, 2020 Re-Covered The Feminine Pillar of Male Chauvinism By Lucy Scholes In her column, Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be. If the Australian writer and critic Thelma Forshaw is remembered for anything today, it’s most likely the hatchet job that she gave Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch in 1972. Of the many reviews the book received, Forshaw’s—published in the Age, a newspaper based in Greer’s own hometown of Melbourne—was by far the most disdainful: “King Kong is back. The exploits of the outsized gorilla may have been banned as too scary for kids, but who’s to shield us cowering adults? To increase the terror, the creature now rampaging is a kind of female—a female eunuch. It’s Germ Greer, with a tiny male in her hairy paw (no depilatories) who has been storming round the world knocking over the Empire State Building, scrunching up Big Ben and is now bent on ripping the Sydney Harbour Bridge from its pylons and drinking up the Yarra.” Understandably, Forshaw’s slam piece caused quite a stir, and it was reprinted in a number of papers across the country, often alongside carefully chosen photographs of Greer looking suitably unkempt. Forshaw’s summation of Greer’s feminist manifest as “a blood-curdling gorilla scream,” full of “over-the-back-fence grizzle,” was, by and large, seen for what it was: “a scurrilous personal attack masquerading as a book review,” as one of the Age’s readers, J. Morton, wrote to the paper to complain. Forshaw became briefly notorious, and the following week the Age ran an interview that allowed “this feminine pillar of male chauvinism”—as John Lewis jestingly described his colleague—to explain herself: I’m a housewife because I want to, I write because I want to, I love my husband who is a male, chauvinist pig and I love my two children—and it all adds up for me. Trying to learn more about the woman behind the misogyny, I fell down an internet rabbit hole, but then I found myself intrigued by Forshaw’s forthright, unrepentant voice. I’m a loner, I can’t take the group performances at all. I’d probably be an asset to the Women’s Lib. Movement, I suppose, but I don’t want to get caught up and be used just because I’m articulate. Had she not laid out her beliefs quite so clearly, one could be forgiven for pronouncing her unapologetic self-assuredness as downright feminist! I’m really a funny lady, a funny, bawdy lady. Read my book of short stories—An Affair of Clowns—you’ll see what I mean. I decided to do as she suggested and read her stories, so I tracked down a secondhand copy of An Affair of Clowns. Published in 1967, five years before the damning review, it’s a slim volume; twenty-two “short stories and sketches” in less than two hundred pages. “I’ve always been fascinated by people, to the point, sometimes, of being paralysed with fascination,” Forshaw told the pioneering oral historian Hazel de Berg in an interview conducted in 1969. “I can’t see scenery, I can’t see interiors, I can’t see where I am if there’s a person with me. I’m only aware of that person, almost entirely. And, I think this is the basis of my writing.” And indeed, all other detail is incidental; from setting to storyline. Plot is entirely by the by, and in this Forshaw’s work reminded me of the working-class Jewish American writer Bette Howland, whose own stories—which bring to life her fellow Chicagoans and were written mostly in the seventies and early eighties—have recently been republished to notable critical acclaim. But where Howland deals in grittiness, Forshaw was attracted to gaudiness. There’s something showy, almost carnivalesque about her characters, though they’re always eminently believable. The book is separated into three sections: “Some Customs of My Clan” consists of pieces about a working-class Irish Catholic family, as narrated by the young daughter, an aspiring writer; “The Melting Pot” takes a slightly broader view, encompassing Sydney’s midcentury, working-class international milieu; and finally, “Outsiders” then draws the collection to a close with a selection of stories about people living on various margins. Each individual is far too idiosyncratic to be termed archetypal, but An Affair of Clowns is a charismatic portrait of the mid-twentieth-century, urban, white Australian working class. “Thelma Forshaw sees human beings with a penetrating and unsentimental eye,” reads the blurb on the book’s dust jacket, “yet with profound sympathy, and with an irresistible humour that is never superficial, but deeply rooted in life.” Some of the pieces in “Some Customs of My Clan” are little more than vignettes, but others are more substantial. Take the searing portrait of the narrator’s parents’ troubled marriage in “The Widow,” in which Forshaw’s father—who died only a week after her eleventh birthday—looms especially large: “Hellenic body. Gladiatorial mind. Vital, violent, sudden. A wife-beater. A mountain swooping to leather his child.” In another story, “Rom: Bride of Christ,” the narrator bumps into an old classmate from her Catholic school days, who tells her that one of their ex-teachers wishes to read the stories that the narrator had recently published in a magazine. This embarrasses the narrator, and she hopes her friend hasn’t passed them on as requested. “They were about Real Life,” she worries, “not fit reading for nuns.” This in itself, no doubt, was Forshaw writing from firsthand experience. “I do write almost straight from life,” she told de Berg. Earlier in the same interview, when describing her childhood, Forshaw confirms the particulars of “The Widow”: “Both parents drank, and the atmosphere was violent a lot of the time.” Love and violence often go hand in hand in this family; aggression, it sometimes seems, is almost a form of affection, and family members—described en masse in “The Wowser” as “a small flock of black sheep”—are drawn together for one of three reasons: to drink, to gamble, or to gossip. Even a Mother’s Day trip to the cemetery to pay tribute to the narrator’s dead grandmother is an opportunity to nurse both hangovers and stories of family scandal. One of the most mesmerizing and intricately drawn characters here is Aunty Dee, a cleaning lady who’s the subject of some of the best writing in the book. “Like most women of her occupation, she basks in the material glory of her employers,” Forshaw writes in “The Ladies’ Parlour Clique,” one of the shortest pieces in the book. At less than three pages, it’s little more than a tableaux really, a snapshot of life in the bar where her aunt spends her hard-earned cash each afternoon. Forshaw admits to de Berg that she borrows from those around her “perhaps more undisguisedly than most writers,” and that it got her into trouble. This passage from “The Wowser” prompted the son of the aunt upon whom Aunty Dee was based to threaten to sue Forshaw for libel: Aunty Dee was a true criminal type, who corrupted at a touch. She was the evil genius of her clan, the witch doctor who presided over orgy and wake, broken marriage and psychopathic child. She loved the young as the rake loves a virgin. Now and again she arranged for me, just turned seventeen, to meet the wealthy or influential men whose flats she serviced. But they always went away quietly after treating me to a paternal lunch, daunted, I think by the passionate purity I wore like an amulet. A purity not of innocence, but formidable with witnessed knowledge. I shall always believe that Aunty Dee tried to launch me as a courtesan—with an eye to a percentage, naturally. We find similar stings in the tail throughout the collection; Forshaw doesn’t mince her words. Paragraphs of intrusive commentary like this one, ruminative but pithy, are dotted throughout the book. Although they ostensibly interrupt the narrative, the reader swiftly learns that they’re actually the jewels in the collection. Forshaw intuitively understands what makes people tick. In “The Pawn,” for example, she ponders the many suitors who turned up to flirt with her newly widowed mother. “I suspect now that much of her charm lay in her knack of winkling out a man’s secret sorrow and, no matter how petty the grievance, making him feel he bore the burdens of a King Lear. She was a dab hand at giving a man stature.” To describe Forshaw’s tone as loving would go too far, but there is a tenderness in the way she depicts her demonic, riotous, scandal-mongering family; the accompanying wry wink and shoulder shrug always implicit. * “I’ve had a hell of a life,” Forshaw told Lewis when defending her attack on Greer, “but I’m still free, I’m buoyant—that’s why I don’t go in for all this whingeing.” The stories in An Affair of Clowns echo this. Forshaw dips her toe into life’s darker corners—whether it’s the violence of her parents’ marriage, or the alienation and loneliness felt by immigrants—but it’s not a depressing collection and she doesn’t seem to believe in victimhood, either. As she promised, her humor wins out in the end. I’m not the only one who thought so. “Listen, Forshaw,” wrote her friend, the prize-winning writer Thea Astley, in 1963, “I read your letters and they are literally flashing opal mines of wit. You are seriously one of the funniest, no, THE funniest woman I have ever met.” But Forshaw’s life wasn’t all fun and games. The cockiness she expressed in the Age fell away when she told de Berg about the “divided loyalty” she felt “between caring for my children to the fullest extent and the claims of writing” that “dogged” her. Her conclusion is not an especially liberating one (though undoubtably it owes much to both the era and the environment in which she came of age)—“I think that no woman can achieve true greatness because of this conflict. If she has children, she hasn’t got a hope.” In reality, the situation, it seems, was not anywhere near as cut and dry as she implies in the Age. “Perhaps I want too much,” she tells de Berg, “I want to be better than, perhaps, I’m capable of being.” Forshaw is astonishingly candid throughout this entire interview, even when detailing her flaws. She knows, for example, that a critic should be “dispassionate, and judge a work purely on what it sets out to do,” but, she admits, she finds this impossible. Instead, she explains, she finds herself reacting to a book “as if it was a person,” becoming “madly involved with the author and what he’s doing and his personality […] Sometimes I’m very angry, and sometimes I’m amused, sometimes I’m contemptuous, and I think I get this emotion into my reviews.” This, of course, is exactly what happened with Greer’s book. Perhaps feminism came too late for Forshaw—she was sixteen years older than Greer, thus forty-nine years old when The Female Eunuch was published, and had been a wife and mother for the past twenty-four years, which was half of her life. She knew what she’d given up in making the choices she had, but her ambition was still there. “I don’t want to be mediocre; I don’t want to be just another writer. I want to be one of the best, and I don’t think you can be if your heart is elsewhere,” she told de Berg. But though she lived for another two and a half decades—she died at age seventy-two in 1995—An Affair of Clowns was the only book Forshaw published. Read earlier installments of Re-Covered here. Lucy Scholes is a critic who lives in London. She writes for the NYR Daily, The Financial Times, The New York Times Book Review, and Literary Hub, among other publications.
November 19, 2020 Feminize Your Canon Feminize Your Canon: Forough Farrokhzad By Joanna Scutts Our column Feminize Your Canon explores the lives of underrated and underread female authors. Read Forough Farrokhzad’s poems “After You” and “Window” in our Summer 2020 issue. Forough Farrokhzad in 1965 (wikimedia commons) In 1954, a nineteen-year-old poet walked unannounced into the office of the literary editor of Roshanfekr (The Intellectual), one of Iran’s most prestigious magazines. Her fingers were stained with green ink, and she trembled with nerves as she handed over three poems. One of them, the twelve-line “Sin,” described in explicit detail her affair with the magazine’s editor in chief. Different translations give different nuances to the opening of the poem: “I have sinned a rapturous sin / in a warm enflamed embrace” (Sholeh Wolpé), or “I have sinned, a delectable sin, / In an embrace which was ardent, like fire” (Hasan Javadi and Susan Sallée) or “I sinned / it was a most lustful sin / I sinned in arms sturdy as iron, / hot like fire and vengeful” (Farzaneh Milani). Across these variations, there are a few scandalous constants: the heat, the embrace, the pleasure, and the boldly unashamed I. The speaker declares herself as a sinner, but there is no repentance in the poem, no punishment. She is not her lover’s victim, but a joyous coconspirator, exhilarated by her power to arouse him: “Lust enflamed his eyes, / red wine trembled in the cup, / my body, naked and drunk, / quivered softly on his breast” (Wolpé). The magazine printed the poem. At a time when many Iranian poets wrote under pseudonyms, the author of “Sin” not only used her real name, but her poem appeared alongside her photograph and a short biography, which revealed her to be a married mother of a two-year-old son. It also described her physical appearance, in sexualized terms, drawing attention to her “disheveled hair” and “penetrating eyes.” Here was a young woman confessing to a sexual awakening in the arms of a man who was not her husband, a deliberate “reversal of a thousand years of Persian literature” written by men about their lovers, at a time when autobiographical writing by women was nonexistent in Iran. The biography collapsed any distance between the loving wife and the libidinous poet, implying that this was not a work of imagination, but a report on experience—making readers wonder what their own wives might be getting up to. Read More
November 12, 2020 Happily U Break It We Fix It By Sabrina Orah Mark Sabrina Orah Mark’s column, Happily, focuses on fairy tales and motherhood. I am inside U Break It We Fix It holding my sons’ shattered iPad. “Hello,” I call out. No one answers. The counter glows white, and the walls are empty. “Hello? Hello?” I wait a few minutes before calling out again. “One minute,” says a raspy voice from the back of the store. Hope swells in my chest. Here We comes. We will fix it. A man in rumpled clothes emerges. I put the shattered iPad on the counter. “Don’t put it there,” We says. I quickly lift it off the counter. We sprays sanitizer on the spot I touched and wipes it dry with a paper towel. I hold up the broken screen so We can see It, and a little shard of glass drops to the floor with a plink. “Yeah, no,” We says. “Yeah no, what?” I ask. We says the soldering work required would cost more than a new iPad. We says it would take weeks. “Possibly months.” To be sure We asks me to read the serial number off the back of the iPad. I read the numbers, and We silently types them into a computer. “Yeah,” We says. “It isn’t worth it.” I just stand there. “But if I break It, it says We fix It.” I point to the sign that is the name of the store. Even if We has to send it far, far away. Even if it takes the handiwork of one hundred mothers with long white beards and God inside their fingertips, We should fix it. We promised. Even if all We ever do is just try to fix It, We should try. But the man is gone. He has already disappeared into the back of the store. Read More
November 10, 2020 Re-Covered Re-Covered: Living Through History By Lucy Scholes A woman sips a cup of tea after her street is struck by a German bombing raid, 1940 Since the beginning of lockdown, I’ve sought refuge in sagas set during the Second World War. There is something deeply comforting about reading stories in which people are trying to live their lives against the backdrop of an intense global crisis, not least because it’s given me a much-needed sense of perspective. It’s so easy to become caught up in the myriad horrors of the contemporary moment, one sometimes forgets that the darkest days of the Second World War would have been just as depressing and desperate as the period we’re living through right now. Of the many books on the subject I read, Blitz Spirit: Voices of Britain Living Through Crisis, 1939–1945—a brilliant new compendium of extracts from wartime diaries compiled from the Mass Observation Archive by the anthologist, editor, and literary agent Becky Brown—has stuck with me. Mass Observation (MO) was set up in 1937 by the anthropologist and polymath Tom Harrison, painter and filmmaker Humphrey Jennings, and poet and journalist Charles Madge. It’s aim, Brown explains, was “to tell a truer, fuller version of events than was available in the newspapers or recorded in the history books,” or, as the founders themselves put it, to collate an “anthropology of ourselves.” Central to the project was the five-hundred-strong National Panel of Diarists, volunteers from all walks of life living across the UK, who kept a daily personal journal that they then submitted each month. So many of the films and books from or about this period are, Brown explains, “bathed in the golden glow of ‘Blitz Spirit’,” yet this is nowhere near the full story. “This alleged wartime phenomenon has little space for twenty-first-century human frailties such as succumbing to unnecessary trips to the shops, or hugging your grandmother,” she continues, invoking the deprivations of the current pandemic. “We are used to hearing about ‘Blitz Spirit’ as psychological bunting that festooned the national mind, a one-size-fits-all utility suit that the nation donned for The Duration, allowing every person to dig their way to victory with a song and a smile.” Instead, she argues, what makes the MO Archive “so valuable and so poignant,” is that these are accounts written in real time and by real people, thus “riddled with fear and defeat.” Take, for example, this entry written by a widowed housewife and voluntary worker from London on September 1, 1941: Life at present offers for my taste a damn sight too little active pleasure to set against the unaccustomed displeasure of work—what with friends scattered & busy, & the lack of petrol, & the shortage & monotony of food & drink, & now the beastly long blackouts creeping in again. Everything seems reduced to a vast, drab boringness. Change a few minor details—swap rationing for quarantine and isolation, for example—and this could have been written only yesterday. Read More
October 27, 2020 Archive of Longing The Stylish Disaffection of “Divorcing” By Dustin Illingworth Susan Taubes’s fiction is animated by an unbearable awareness of death. Her first and only novel, Divorcing (1969), had the working title To America and Back in a Coffin. (An apt title, but deemed unmarketable and rejected by her publishers.) Like her contemporary Ingeborg Bachmann, Taubes’s fiction transposes existential mysteries with aesthetic ones. (There are other similarities between the pair: both published only one novel; both novels feature a love interest named Ivan; neither writer would live to see fifty.) Long out of print, Divorcing will finally be reissued by NYRB Classics this month. Taubes’s foreshortened oeuvre—this novel, an unpublished novella, a handful of stories—offers a range of formal precarities that mirror states of inward collapse. Fiction seemed to give shape to her own vulnerability. A lifelong depressive, she took her own life mere weeks after Divorcing was published. Her close friend Susan Sontag later suggested it was Hugh Kenner’s New York Times review that finally pushed Taubes over the edge. “Lady novelists have always claimed the privilege of transcending mere plausibilities,” he’d written. Sontag herself would identify the body. The protagonist of Divorcing, Sophie Blind, an academic and novelist, may or may not be alive. “I died on a Tuesday afternoon, struck by a car as I was crossing Avenue George V,” she tells us early in the novel. She is in Paris with her lover. Her charmless marriage to Ezra, a cruel and charismatic intellectual, awaits her in New York City. Her death seems less biological fact than act of imaginative liberation, the pulled escape hatch of a highly pressurized consciousness: “My body growing enormous, its thousands of trillions of cells suddenly set free, spread, speeded, pressed jubilant, rushing to the seven gates of Paris.” As a narrator, she inhabits a kind of third space, quantum uncertainty, neither living nor dead, neither present nor past. The novel’s first half is a study of the Blinds’ failed marriage, a tilting relationship freighted with years of deception and three precocious children. Taubes has created an unctuous, carnal, brilliant, despicable foil in Ezra. (In his preface, David Rieff writes, “For those who remember him, or have read the many recollections that have been written about him, the portrait of Ezra is an uncannily accurate description of [Susan’s husband] Jacob Taubes.”) His pettiness and bullying are indexed with excruciating clarity: Ezra complained; Ezra was appalled by beads and clay and stuff and rags and paint, especially children painting on the wall… For a long time she refused to believe in Ezra’s transformation. Was this Ezra talking through his nose like his father? He grew a belly, developed strange ailments, he screamed at the sight of a crack in the wall, anything spilling, a missing button; it had to be repaired immediately. Read More