{"id":111652,"date":"2017-06-09T13:52:04","date_gmt":"2017-06-09T17:52:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=111652"},"modified":"2017-06-09T16:26:26","modified_gmt":"2017-06-09T20:26:26","slug":"staff-picks-society-wives-siege-poems-strippers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/06\/09\/staff-picks-society-wives-siege-poems-strippers\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Society Wives, Siege Poems, Strippers"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_111654\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/twoseriousladies.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-111654\" class=\"wp-image-111654\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/twoseriousladies.jpg\" width=\"1000\" height=\"452\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/twoseriousladies.jpg 1001w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/twoseriousladies-300x135.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/twoseriousladies-768x347.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-111654\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">From the first edition of <i>Two Serious Ladies<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>The other day in conversation, a friend compared Ottessa Moshfegh\u2019s stories to the work of Jane Bowles, so out of curiosity I picked up Sadie\u2019s old copy of <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.amazon.com\/Two-Serious-Ladies-Jane-Bowles\/dp\/006228312X\" target=\"_blank\">Two Serious Ladies<\/a>\u2014<\/em>and, for the first time, from the first page, felt utterly at home with Jane Bowles. Why had her fiction seemed so strange before? A phobic society wife gets dragged by her husband to Panama and ditches him for life in the red-light district; meanwhile, another rich eccentric drags her hangers-on to a crummy house on Staten Island, and starts haunting the docks \u2026 Maybe Moshfegh has opened my mind. Maybe we all go strange sooner or later. For whatever reason, a reason I can\u2019t explain, it all makes perfect sense to me now. \u2014<strong>Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Late last year, Ugly Duckling Presse published\u00a0<em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.uglyducklingpresse.org\/catalog\/browse\/item\/?pubID=695\" target=\"_blank\">Written in the Dark<\/a><\/em>,\u00a0a small volume of startling poetry, the first of its kind: a collection of verse written by five men from within the Siege of Leningrad, an event that can be counted among the great horrors of war. \u201cMy soul, \/ to defend itself, pretended \/ to be wooden. There was no light,\u201d writes Dmitry Maksimov in the epigraph to one of his poems. These \u201cSeige poems\u201d were, with small\u00a0exception, unknown and unpublished in their authors\u2019 lifetimes: the imagery of \u201cfrozen mummies,\u201d of \u201clying and living, \/ In the grave with my dead wife,\u201d of eating \u201cRebecca the girl full of laughter\u201d ran counter to the official history of patriotism, stoicism, and Soviet might. The book\u2019s editor, the poet Polina Barskova, links the poets\u2019 works to those of the <small>OBERIU<\/small>, to which some of the authors are directly connected. Their trauma verse becomes a modernist salvo, not poems \u201c<em>after<\/em>\u00a0or\u00a0<em>about<\/em>\u00a0the Siege,\u201d writes the scholar Ilya Kukulin in his afterword, but \u201cpoems\u00a0<em>through<\/em>\u00a0the Siege.\u201d\u00a0\u2014<strong>Nicole Rudick\u00a0<\/strong><br \/>\n<!--more--><\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_111655\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/shakedown.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-111655\" class=\"wp-image-111655\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/shakedown.jpg\" width=\"1000\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/shakedown.jpg 1200w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/shakedown-300x150.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/shakedown-768x384.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/shakedown-1024x512.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-111655\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Still from <i>Shakedown<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>This weekend is your last chance to catch the Whitney Biennial\u2014but my favorite part of it, Leilah Weinraub\u2019s film <em><a href=\"http:\/\/whitney.org\/Events\/LeilahWeinraub\" target=\"_blank\">Shakedown<\/a><\/em>, has already come and gone. I\u2019ll just tell you about it anyway. Following the changing fortunes of a black lesbian strip club in South Central LA, <em>Shakedown <\/em>unfurls in a kind of trance state: it\u2019s a vignette of a close community of women leading bifurcated lives. Within the club, the dancers bask in the sublime pleasures of a subculture that reveres them; without it, they try to get by in a city\u00a0that marginalizes them. Weinraub shot hundreds of hours of tape for the film, but the cut she showed at the Whitney eschewed a rigid structure. It runs for a gauzy, intimate sixty-four minutes, with the Shakedown parties themselves serving as ebullient set pieces. At the peak of their powers, the women dance in the center of a boisterous circle of onlookers; bursts of light and color break through the grainy half-darkness, and a steady stream of dollar bills rains down on them. Everyone is having the best time\u2014and this in itself, the openness of their pleasure, feels radical. The club is a queer utopia, conjured from a provisional, almost liminal space, with no stage, lots of folding chairs, and long boards of plywood in evidence. It feels too good to last, and it doesn\u2019t: eventually, the cops show up and shut it down. \u2014<strong>Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>I discovered\u00a0<a href=\"http:\/\/themiddler.com\/\" target=\"_blank\">the Middler<\/a>, an apartment gallery in Brooklyn, late last year, and I keep returning. It\u2019s the kind of gallery experience I\u2019ve been dreaming about since I read Chris Kraus\u2019s essay collection\u00a0<em>Where Art Belongs<\/em>, a study of contemporary artists working on the periphery of the commercial gallery and museum system.\u00a0Anthony Atlas, the Middler\u2019s creator, opened his door a year ago with \u201cReseda Man,\u201d an exhibition of works on paper by the musician Zane Reynolds, whose trippy visual style is born from his vexed relationship with California\u2019s San Fernando Valley. Last June, the Middler was operating as a summer-long pop-up; now it\u2019s extended into something semipermanent, though there\u2019s no definite program for the gallery\u2019s future, and Atlas doesn\u2019t formally represent any of the artists.\u00a0In its short existence, the Middler has presented five exhibitions by established artists, including Rafael Delacruz and Sophy Naess; collaborated with the\u00a0Swiss publisher Nieves; and created an opportunity for artists to show their work in their own way.\u00a0The setting is loose, but the execution is staggeringly precise.\u00a0To celebrate its first year, the gallery is presenting an art fair from\u00a0June 22 through June 25, featuring works by other galleries operating in a spontaneous way: \u201cto celebrate the idea that if anything can be art, anywhere can be a gallery.\u201d \u2014<strong>Jessica Calderon<\/strong><\/p>\n<p><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/kawabata.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-111653\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/kawabata.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"452\" height=\"700\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/kawabata.jpg 452w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/06\/kawabata-194x300.jpg 194w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p>I\u2019ve been spending my mornings poring over Yasunari Kawabata\u2019s lusciously peculiar novel\u00a0<em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.amazon.com\/Dandelions-Yasunari-Kawabata\/dp\/0811224090\">Dandelions<\/a><\/em>, which New Directions will publish later this year. Translated from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich, the book, Kawabata\u2019s last, was unfinished when he took his life in 1972. It\u2019s a story of love and loss and mania, told in sparse, arresting prose. At its start, a young woman, Ineko, is sent to a madhouse to cure her of \u201csomagnosia,\u201d a condition that leaves her blind to her lover Kuno\u2019s body. Kuno and Ineko\u2019s mother, who\u2019ve committed her, walk through the hills toward home, listening for the\u00a0three o\u2019clock\u00a0temple bell Ineko has promised to ring and debating the extent of her madness. Their thoughts and conversation form the bulk of the novel, roaming from the existential to the absurd. The mother, upon seeing a beautiful child running past, swears he\u2019s a fairy with powers to soothe her daughter\u2019s mind; Kuno, hearing the\u00a0nine o\u2019clock\u00a0bell, is overcome with darkness and paranoia. By the book\u2019s end, I found myself returning over and over to one of Kawabata\u2019s casually unsettling questions: \u201cEach of us carries inside of us the potential for madness, don\u2019t you think?\u201d \u2014<strong>Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>In this week\u2019s staff picks: Jane Bowles, Soviet poetry, Yasunari Kawabata, and more.<\/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":[35,8960,4365,29132,13797,71,8705,7676,29134,8956,29135,1741,217,29140,81,747,165,2047,29133,20282,9619,22904,29136,29131,883,7854,29137,29138,6477,29130,29139],"class_list":["post-111652","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-art","tag-chris-kraus","tag-dandelions","tag-dmitry-maksimov","tag-documentaries","tag-fiction","tag-films","tag-galleries","tag-ilya-kukulin","tag-jane-bowles","tag-leilah-weinraub","tag-lesbians","tag-los-angeles","tag-michael-emmerich","tag-movies","tag-novels","tag-poetry","tag-poets","tag-polina-barskova","tag-queer-culture","tag-recommended-reading","tag-russian-poetry","tag-shakedown","tag-siege-of-leningrad","tag-staff-picks","tag-strip-clubs","tag-the-middler","tag-the-whitney-biennial","tag-two-serious-ladies","tag-written-in-the-dark","tag-yasunari-kawabata"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- 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