{"id":132125,"date":"2018-12-19T09:00:25","date_gmt":"2018-12-19T14:00:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=132125"},"modified":"2018-12-19T09:59:44","modified_gmt":"2018-12-19T14:59:44","slug":"restoring-a-family-ghost","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/12\/19\/restoring-a-family-ghost\/","title":{"rendered":"Restoring a Family Ghost"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Some months ago, I came across a smattering of random family photographs at my parents\u2019 house. The house had experienced some flooding during Hurricane Sandy, and the pictures, having been rather unsentimentally stored in the garage, were damaged\u2014not terribly, but enough to make them brittle, to make them seem older than they were, to make them somehow strange, like daguerreotypes sold at flea markets. In the pile I found a very old group photo: my tiny maternal grandfather plopped on his mother\u2019s lap, surrounded by people who must have been family but whose identities now seemed irrevocably lost. My mother held the fraying sepia image and lamented not knowing, the family history mostly a blank she could not fill in, the details lost to war and displacement, to evacuation and emigration, to the banalities of everyday life that make it impossible to keep track of the everyday banalities that eventually become history.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But history, like nature, abhors a vacuum, and so we make do; we make up. We plot against the blank spaces. Frail Sister<\/em>, Karen Green\u2019s genre-transcendent new book, is just this sort of plotting against: a collage-memoir-epistolary found object willed into the story of a life otherwise lost. Virginia Woolf famously invented Judith Shakespeare, doomed sister of William and a woman of equal talents and missing opportunities, who\u2014abandoned, pregnant, fallen<\/em>\u2014dies by suicide. Green reanimates her Aunt Constance, a ghost in the family archive. Working with old photos, vintage postcards, stationary, sheet music, newspaper clippings, faded cocktail menus, ration books, military documents, and aerial maps, Green combines and reworks, adding text in snippets and bursts, until\u2014imperceptibly\u2014a story coalesces. In an interview with Art in America<\/em>, Green describes the book as \u201can old-fashioned mystery,\u201d hidden in a graphic novel, a memoir, an art book, a biography\u2014though she is adamant that Frail Sister<\/em> is none of these. I came to think of the work as an immersion, a piece of participatory theater, a way of getting lost among the artifacts of a civilization that eventually shows itself to have been ours all along.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Like most good stories, the tale Frail Sister <\/em>tells is simultaneously very simple and very complicated. At its center is Constance \u201cConnie\u201d Gale, a musical prodigy and born performer. As children during the Great Depression, Connie and her sister are put to work dancing and singing to support their family. Eventually, Connie joins the USO, goes to Italy, and witnesses the ravages of World War II. Men fall in love with her and send her letters, then die fighting. Connie forwards this correspondence to her sister (who, in remaining silent and nameless, serves as a placeholder for the reader), adds comments, makes fun of her more hapless admirers, and laments those she cared for (\u201cThey wouldn\u2019t let me marry him because I was seventeen when he went away. I thought I was a widow in some way\u201d). Sometimes she doubts herself. \u201cYou would faint if you saw the state of me and my things,\u201d she types over an image of bombed ruins, \u201cbut I am alas still a girl \u2026 which in wartime means still pretty.\u201d Sometimes she gestures at the intersection of large-scale violence and intimate violations. Over a photograph of a warplane raining bombs: \u201cAfter his kisses and after his slaps, the same chorus: look what you made me do look what you made me do.\u201d As war\u2019s end nears, she scribbles, \u201cWar has swords \/ Love has darts \/ War breaks heads \/ Love breaks hearts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Then she\u2019s in New York (\u201cThis city is like poetry only easier to interpret\u201d). There are more men, only this time Connie seems to be the one falling, feeling desperate, for them. The city begins to lose its shine: \u201cI can now catch roaches by smacking them with the palm of my hand.\u201d Connie has a baby out of wedlock (\u201cMaybe I called the baby an It, maybe I said I don\u2019t want it, which I didn\u2019t mean, but whatever I said made them call the authorities\u201d). She struggles, is institutionalized. Her letters become harder and harder to comprehend: \u201cBaggage bawd bitch broad chippy cocotte drab floozy fornicatress frail sister guttersnipe harlot harridan hussy jade jezebel loose woman nymphet nymphomaniac pickup pig slattern slut strumpet tart trollop wanton wench whore,\u201d she writes, defending against charges or else lambasting herself. She is hospitalized (\u201cThe one about my Cracking Up is true\u201d). She disappears. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Frail Sister<\/em> is sad but not depressing, a difficult maneuver that Green makes seem effortless. Her previous book, Bough Down<\/a><\/em>\u2014stunningly good and, shockingly, her first\u2014documents the aftermath of her husband\u2019s suicide. (Green is the widow of David Foster Wallace.) Writing in fragments and interspersing small collages, some as tiny as a stamp, Green meticulously strings the beads of her grief. Most of her assemblages are muted in color, with occasional bursts of vivid red. Meticulous, they appear to have been made by a loving, patient hand and looked over by eyes that have seen too much. \u201cSome people would rather die than be understood,\u201d Green writes late in Bough Down<\/em>. \u201cNot me. My chess pieces are transparent. I move them around with a ropey, spotted hand. The other hand makes a mess of things under the table.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Juxtaposing words and images, Green makes texts that are elliptical, resonant, impervious to description. They are poetic vitrines. They are exotic butterflies pinned to vellum. They are symphonies in matchboxes. It\u2019s hard to know what to make of an encounter with them, only that you are a little different afterward. Like Bough Down<\/em>, Frail Sister<\/em> is generous, a beautiful jewel excavated at great cost and with great endurance. It shines brightly and drips blood. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will salt away our memories, even the jaggedly ones I\u2019ll turn over and over until they are burnished,\u201d Connie writes. \u201cWe are the bridge in a song, sis, forever linked, together we make music and there is nothing and no one can asunder us, not even war!\u201d Frail Sister<\/em> documents the sundering, shows the ways in which frailty is the enforced condition of women trying to survive in a world hostile to their ambitions, their melodies, their needs and desires. All sisters are frail. But Frail Sister<\/em> insists that faded images can be restored, fragile connections remade. The book\u2019s final images are of an embroidered woman playing the violin, flowers in her hair, then the embroidery\u2019s reverse. The threads tell the tale. The threads hold tight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yevgeniya Traps lives in Brooklyn. She works at the Gallatin School of Individualized Study, NYU.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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