{"id":102293,"date":"2016-09-02T10:00:09","date_gmt":"2016-09-02T14:00:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=102293"},"modified":"2016-09-02T14:01:37","modified_gmt":"2016-09-02T18:01:37","slug":"staff-picks-forehead-blotches-lasagna-hogs-crust-punks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/02\/staff-picks-forehead-blotches-lasagna-hogs-crust-punks\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Forehead Blotches, Lasagna Hogs, and Crust Punks"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"From<\/a>

From William Eggleston\u2019s The Democratic Forest<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

In the new issue of Aperture<\/em><\/a>, our Southern editor, John Jeremiah Sullivan, pays a visit to William Eggleston in Memphis. As you might expect, it is a memorable visit. Eggleston plays piano for John and his wife, Mariana. They talk about Bach and Big Star and Mississippi Fred McDowell; and about Eggleston\u2019s fifty-year marriage. They look at his photos, too. \u201cHe asked me to pull down the new boxed set of his Democratic Forest <\/em>(2015). Ten volumes.\u00a0I stopped at certain pictures. He leaned forward and, with his finger, traced lines of composition. Boxes and Xs. Forcing me to pay attention to the original paying of attention. \u2018Either everything works, or nothing works,\u2019 he said about one picture, a shot of an aquamarine bus pulling into a silvery station. \u2018In this picture, everything works.\u2019 \u201d \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

After reading Amie Barrodale\u2019s debut collection You Are Having a Good Time<\/a>, <\/em>I was reminded of something Geoff Dyer wrote in his introduction to Prabuddha Dasgupta\u2019s photography portfolio<\/a> in our two hundredth issue: \u201cLonging can exist entirely for its own sake, with no object in mind, as a kind of intensified nostalgia or eroticized elegy.\u201d It\u2019s this aimless form of desire that drives Barrodale\u2019s stories and gets her characters into trouble, as in \u201cWilliam Wei\u201d (for which Barrodale won our 2011 Plimpton Prize), about a morbidly depressed New Yorker\u2019s attempt to crystallize a relationship with a woman he\u2019s spoken to only on the telephone, mostly when she\u2019s stoned. In \u201cCatholic,\u201d a young woman has a one-night stand with a married man, obsesses over him, and compulsively e-mails him without response: \u201cI told him a tree of plum blossoms fell on me and I saw some young men wearing outfits \u2026 I always wish there was a point to all those e-mails. Maybe there was. I don\u2019t know. I do know. There was.\u201d Like so many of the troubled people in these fictions, she struggles to articulate the profundity in her bad decisions. Still, she desperately convinces herself that the beauty is there, somewhere. In You Are Having a Good Time<\/em>, we know meaning exists, but we\u2019re all too fucked up to understand its various expressions. It\u2019s one of the quintessential sentiments of this collection: the stories are as eloquent as a plum blossom tree collapsing on a lonely woman\u2014if only we could figure out just what that eloquence means. \u2014Daniel Johnson
<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\"51-UlRtAz3L\"<\/a><\/p>\n

In Rachel Cusk\u2019s essay for the New York Times Magazine<\/i> this week<\/a>, she deconstructs homemaking\u2014not the homemaking of compulsive, suburban housewives, but her experience remodeling her flat in London. Although the new white couch and clean floors have proven more pleasant than the old peeling Formica and shaggy carpet, the construction tore apart her home in more ways than one. First came the knocking down of walls and ripping up of floors, but, when it was over, she noticed a breakdown in her and her daughters\u2019 mode of living. Their former home could be battered on, stomped through, lived in with indifference. She recognizes the creative freedom of living in a home that one allows to look lived in and brilliantly articulates the unique war some women fight between domesticity and creative freedom. I agree with her that there can be a political aspect to exhibiting \u201cinsouciance in the face of the domestic,\u201d especially for \u201cmodern women,\u201d who are \u201ccontemporary heirs of traditional female identity.\u201d Of her interior battle she writes, \u201cThe artist in me wanted to disdain the material world, while the woman couldn\u2019t: In my fantasy of the orderly writer\u2019s room I would have to serve myself, be my own devoted housewife. It would require two identities, two consciousnesses, two sets of minutes and hours.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Love<\/b><\/p>\n

After reading the poems in What Ridiculous Things We Could Ask of Each Other<\/em><\/a>, I suspect Jeffrey Schultz of being prophetic. The megalomaniacal politician in \u201cAs If Someone Were Trying to Tell Us Something,\u201d for example, bears a discomfiting resemblance to a certain airily coiffed somebody, his \u201chair parted \/ in a perfectly straight line which reveals his scalp.\u201d But Schultz isn\u2019t a seer, he\u2019s an observer guided by history. In \u201cTo the Unexploded H-Bomb Lost in Tidal Mud Off the Coast of Savannah, Georgia,\u201d he writes, \u201cForehead blotch and breadlines on the little black-and-white\u2019s \/ nightly news, the thing was half-decayed by the time \/ I knew it was there.\u201d Elsewhere, he wonders what a breeze \u201cmight be willing to confess \/ about where it\u2019s been and where we all must be heading.\u201d Maybe it\u2019s because he\u2019s so attuned to both the past and future that Schultz is able to fully inhabit the present, making urgent the most human moments of quotidian life. \u201cEvery day,\u201d he writes, \u201cseems more like this, the verge of extinction with coffee \/ And a roll on the back stoop.\u201d \u2014Taylor Lannamann<\/strong><\/p>\n

My\u00a0head\u2019s been filled with palindromes lately (A man, a plan, a canal\u2014Panama!<\/em>; Go hang a salami! I\u2019m a lasagna hog!<\/em>), so it was fun to find the Uruguayan animated film Anina,<\/em> which plays with capic\u00faas<\/em> (Catalan for \u201cpalindromes\u201d) in the loveliest of ways. It begins with a small, redheaded girl, our narrator, peering out of a bus window, admiring the rain: \u201cMy name is Anina Yatay Salas,\u201d she tells us, \u201cI\u2019m ten years old and I\u2019m in deep trouble.\u201d What follows is a cinematic bildungsroman, full of whimsy and mischief. The gist of the story is this: after Anina brawls with a bully, Yisel, whom she calls an elephant after being taunted by snickers of \u201cni\u00f1a capicua<\/em>\u201d (Anina loathes her palindromic names), the two nemeses are doled a rather outr\u00e9, nebulous punishment: to carry a sealed envelope around for a week, without peeking inside. Along the way, Anina plots Yisel\u2019s demise and combats feelings of torturous, crush-inspired envy, until seeing the shallowness of it all. My favorite parts of the film are the more surreal ones, like when Anina imagines her peers as pigs or herself as an acrobat preparing to jump over a pool of boiling oil. Oh, what a sweet, imaginative flick it is. \u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/p>\n

Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, I mostly didn\u2019t go to school. I blew through a series of loathsome jobs while hanging out with anarchists and crust punks, hoarding their tips about temporary work and naively believing that someday I would give up my job and apartment to move between trimming weed in California, crewing yachts in Florida, or harvesting sugar beets in North Dakota. For many reasons, this was never going to be my life, but Sierra Murdoch-Crane actually did it. Her essay \u201cSugar Days<\/a>,\u201d in the Virginia Quarterly Review<\/em>, puts into context the phenomenon of punk kids trading short bursts of labor for extended bouts of wandering. \u201cSugar Days\u201d teases out a taxonomy of the strains of workers who power the North Dakota sugar-beet harvest (retirees, migrants, dropouts, punks), taking seriously the differences in their backgrounds and drawing a distinction between \u201cthose who work for a way into society and those who work for a way out.\u201d Without romanticizing the harsh lives of the kinds of punk kids I knew, Murdoch-Crane provides a window into their values and the shifting communities they create. The piece doesn\u2019t make me want to strike out for Fargo, but it allowed me to more fully imagine the circumstances and desires that might have led to a different life. \u2014Sylvie McNamara<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In the new issue of Aperture, our Southern editor, John Jeremiah Sullivan, pays a visit to William Eggleston in Memphis. As you might expect, it is a memorable visit. Eggleston plays piano for John and his wife, Mariana. They talk about Bach and Big Star and Mississippi Fred McDowell; and about Eggleston\u2019s fifty-year marriage. They […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[2563,16940,2691,24328,16328,10761,24331,71,79,1761,2861,24332,1577,16837,12811,24330,10347,100,24327,165,6438,297,24333,24329,368,13171,1333,2572],"class_list":["post-102293","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-amie-barrodale","tag-anarchism","tag-animation","tag-anina","tag-aperture","tag-big-star","tag-democratic-forest","tag-fiction","tag-film","tag-geoff-dyer","tag-history","tag-jeffrey-schultz","tag-john-jeremiah-sullivan","tag-labor","tag-memphis","tag-mississippi-fred-mcdowell","tag-palindromes","tag-photography","tag-plimpton-prize-for-fiction","tag-poetry","tag-prabuddha-dasgupta","tag-punks","tag-quotidia","tag-sierra-murdoch-crane","tag-uruguay","tag-virginia-quarterly-review","tag-william-eggleston","tag-william-wei"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Forehead Blotches, Lasagna Hogs, and Crust Punks by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 is reading.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/02\/staff-picks-forehead-blotches-lasagna-hogs-crust-punks\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Forehead Blotches, Lasagna Hogs, and Crust Punks by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 2, 2016 \u2013 In the new issue of Aperture, our Southern editor, John Jeremiah Sullivan, pays a visit to William Eggleston in Memphis. 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