{"id":135951,"date":"2019-05-03T13:47:32","date_gmt":"2019-05-03T17:47:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=135951"},"modified":"2019-05-03T14:19:05","modified_gmt":"2019-05-03T18:19:05","slug":"staff-picks-color-crags-and-croatia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/05\/03\/staff-picks-color-crags-and-croatia\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Color, Crags, and Croatia"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Da\u0161a Drndi\u0107. Photo: Mavric Pivk.<\/p><\/div>\n

Da\u0161a Drndi\u0107\u2019s EEG<\/em><\/a> is a sequel of sorts to her novel Belladonna<\/em><\/a>, also translated by Celia Hawkesworth and also published by New Directions. Like Belladonna<\/em>,\u00a0EEG<\/em> is narrated by the retired psychologist and academic Andreas Ban, and its plot consists mainly of Ban sifting through documents, photographs, ephemera, and memories related to Croatian complicity with Nazism and the Yugoslav ethnic conflicts of the nineties. A traditional plot, though, isn\u2019t necessarily what\u2019s important to this story; truth is. \u201cAutobiographical books don\u2019t exist,\u201d Ban observes near the novel\u2019s beginning, \u201cautobiographies don\u2019t exist, there are multigraphies, biographical mixes, biographical cocktails, the whole melange<\/em> of a life through which we dig, which we clear out, from which we select fragments, remnants, little pieces that we stuff into our pockets, little mouthfuls that we swallow as though they were our own.\u201d \u201cLittle pieces\u201d make up much of the book, as seen in one section concerned entirely with listing chess players who committed suicide or who collaborated with totalitarian regimes. EEG<\/em> frequently stretches the definition of the novel to devastating effect, akin to Thomas Bernhard or Elfriede Jelinek, two writers Drndi\u0107 has cited as influences. \u201cArt should shock, hurt, offend, intrigue,\u201d she told Dustin Illingworth in a 2017 interview<\/a> featured on The Paris Review<\/em> Daily<\/em>, \u201cbe a merciless critic of the merciless times we are not only witnessing but whose victims we have become.\u201d Sadly, Drndi\u0107 passed away last June at the age of seventy-two, but her books\u2014concerned as they are with the crimes of the twentieth century\u2014offer a blueprint as to what the novel in the twenty-first century could look like. \u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

My current favorite Instagram account<\/a> belongs to the great American photographer Stephen Shore. Shore made a name for himself as an artist in the seventies, when he pioneered the use of color film in art photography. Before then, color was thought of as mundane, the reality of the world\u2014it was something used in family albums, by amateurs. Shore\u2019s work has always broken down the dichotomy between pedestrian images and art photography, and with his Instagram, he furthers this deconstruction. He\u2019s allowed to be both amateur and professional at once. Social media platforms have made it easy to capture those small moments Shore has been photographing since the start of his career\u2014a meal before eating, feet propped on a bed, an intriguing storefront. And yet Shore\u2019s Instagram photos are seemingly more than quick snapshots. Each image is carefully considered, a complete composition in color with no retouching, like he\u2019s always done. There are no photos of Shore on his feed (except for one utterly charming selfie<\/a>). His images, even viewed on an iPhone, compel us to think about how photographs both construct meaning and help us to see the world in new ways. In a time when much of what we see feels artificial or contrived, Shore\u2019s account is a breath of fresh air. His work reflects the world rather than filters it. He turns the everyday into art. \u2014Camille Jacobson<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Jeannie Vanasco. Photo: Dennis Drenner.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I read Jeannie Vanasco\u2019s forthcoming memoir, Things We Didn\u2019t Talk About When I Was a Girl<\/em><\/a>, immediately upon receiving it, and although I can\u2019t stop thinking about it, I\u2019ve struggled to find words for a work that demands pages in response. Vanasco pieces together an account of her sexual assault\u2014rape, she often amends\u2014by a close friend when she was nineteen. Recalling the incident fourteen years later, she decides to contact her rapist and interview him about the assault and the dissolution of their friendship. The transcripts are brave and compelling, but it\u2019s Vanasco\u2019s reflections throughout that I found most striking. Conversations with her partner and friends occur around each of the interviews, and it\u2019s through these discussions that Vanasco articulates the uncertainty in naming and reacting to her rape. She is meticulous in her decision to tell the whole of her experience, even though she notes that many components, including her conflicting emotions, defy a concise or clean narrative. But it is the miscellany, the happenings around Vanasco, that shapes her story: her female friends, who offer insights integral to her own self-reflection; her other experiences with assault and how she considers their individual and cumulative impact on her relationship to men; and the students in the creative nonfiction writing course she teaches, many of whom write about sexual assault. Throughout the book Vanasco questions her motivations, the way she shifts the scales of power in each interview to consider where we place anger, responsibility, agency, truth, and labor. Jeannie Vanasco muddles through the silt of her thoughts to create a language for something we don\u2019t talk about. \u2014Nikki Shaner-Bradford<\/strong><\/p>\n

When the musician Emily Wells asked me about the full-bleed image on page 124 of our Fall 2018 issue, I was curious. That page of the portfolio<\/a> features a shot of Ugo Rondinone\u2019s Seven Magic Mountains<\/em><\/a>, a set of painted-rock stacks in the Nevada desert. Analyzing each of these stone towers is a bit like building a sentence\u2014the black, blue, and neon yellow tell a different narrative than the hot pink and red do. The effect of observing them is akin to a stroll through some surreal landscape, a cluster of stories resonating off one another. When I listened to Emily\u2019s new album, This World Is Too ____ for You<\/em><\/a>, I understood why she wanted to put Seven Magic Mountains<\/em> on the cover. In her multilayered compositions is the aural joy of neon triumphal swells and beautiful detail, a feeling that spills over to her lyrics and the video loops she uses in her performance, a commentary about the world and its too-____<\/em>-ness (she leaves it to the listener to fill in that blank again and again as the album spins through this complicated moment). Each song is built like its own stack of stones, well crafted and craggy and overfull of color, but together, Wells\u2019s trademark loops and ambitious string arrangements make something more: a forest of sound. \u2014Emily Nemens<\/strong><\/p>\n

Even the greatest books, if they\u2019re old enough, take a moment before they allow you to fully sink into their worlds. Imagine cell phones and Snapchat in sixteenth-century Verona, and Romeo and Juliet<\/em> becomes very different; a certain suspension of disbelief is required. But Charlotte Bront\u00eb\u2019s Villette<\/em><\/a>, published in 1853, asks nothing of the sort; it feels timeless but incredibly current. I think this is because fundamentally, it is a book about loneliness. Lucy Snowe describes waiting weeks for a word from friends, a sign that they\u2019re thinking of her; today she\u2019d be waiting but also watching them on Instagram. (I don\u2019t think Lucy would have an Instagram, but we can all agree that Graham\u2019s would be public.) So its question is not really how to forge a path in this world, which is ostensibly what Lucy is doing; that gets done one way or another, and if you can\u2019t forge a path, a path will be forged for you. The question Villette<\/em> forces you to think about is how you face that path when you are on it alone. \u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

George Richmond, Charlotte Bront\u00eb<\/em>, 1850, chalk on paper. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads the fabulous Da\u0161a Drndi\u0107, imagines Lucy Snowe\u2019s social-media presence, and delights in Stephen Shore\u2019s Instagram account.<\/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":[4217],"class_list":["post-135951","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-charlotte-bronte"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Color, Crags, and Croatia by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads the fabulous Da\u0161a Drndi\u0107, imagines Lucy Snowe\u2019s social media presence, and delights in Stephen Shore\u2019s Instagram account.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, 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