{"id":144282,"date":"2020-04-10T16:54:21","date_gmt":"2020-04-10T20:54:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=144282"},"modified":"2020-04-10T17:25:24","modified_gmt":"2020-04-10T21:25:24","slug":"staff-picks-angels-iuds-and-books-in-threes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/04\/10\/staff-picks-angels-iuds-and-books-in-threes\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Angels, IUDs, and Books in Threes"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

John Prine.<\/p><\/div>\n

The first line of John Prine<\/a>\u2019s song \u201cAngel from Montgomery<\/a>\u201d is a sentence that captures the listener with its simple introduction: \u201cI am an old woman named after my mother.\u201d The song played many times during the Louisville-based radio station WFPK\u2019s all-day tribute to Prine, who died Tuesday at age seventy-three. During this airwave vigil, strangers\u2019 voices would speak through the warm fuzz of their cell or landline connection, often to share a memory alongside their song request. One man had been the sound guy at a Prine show in the eighties, meeting him for a moment backstage, just long enough to clock how stoned he was. Another had met him briefly while standing one urinal over in the bathroom at the Bluebird Caf\u00e9 in Nashville. A man remembered his daughter calling late one Saturday night during her freshman year of college, tipsy and in tears because nobody at the party she had gone to wanted to listen to her music and she missed home\u2014he stayed up and listened to Prine\u2019s albums with her, letting the music connect them across the miles. I let the station play, and the songs unspooled in randomness. I probably could have opened Spotify, pressed shuffle play on the artist page for Prine, and achieved much the same effect. But this wasn\u2019t the algorithm steering. It was a chorus of stories befitting the man it paid tribute to. \u2014Lauren Kane\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Awash with quarantine anxiety, I\u2019m finding it hard to engage with anything that requires much thought. I stare despondently at the stack of literature on my bedside table instead of reading it. Emails from the Criterion Channel taunt me. Galleries that I would normally pop into after work now inundate my inbox with promises of virtual openings and exhibitions. In this brave new world of solitary artistic engagement, it\u2019s tough to know where to start. This Wednesday afternoon, however, I received a note from DC Moore Gallery<\/a> that seemed distinctly different. It was the first installment<\/a> of the space\u2019s From the Studio newsletter\u2014personal notes from DC Moore artists on life and work in social isolation. The inaugural letter is written by Eric Aho, a Vermont-based painter who most recently exhibited at the gallery in 2018. This isn\u2019t an invitation into the sterile space of an online gallery but rather into the artist\u2019s country home. Aho takes us on a morning walk to his studio across the Saxtons River Falls. The impasto and the lively blue greens of the paintings he shares are a direct reflection of the craggy, wet landscape. \u201cWe can joke that life in Vermont is a form of social distancing under normal circumstances,\u201d Aho writes, but \u201csomething is different \u2026 Time feels<\/em> different.\u201d The second installment<\/a>, sent today, is an update from Robert Kushner, the bright pinks and lilacs of his paintings jumping off large, Matisse-like canvases. These notes read like long letters from old friends, a welcome gesture in times of isolation. \u2014Elinor Hitt<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from Johnny Guitar<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Johnny Guitar<\/em><\/a> (1954) is the world\u2019s first and perhaps only work of art. This Western, directed by Nicholas Ray, is Johnny Guitar\u2019s in name alone: it is possessed, wholly, by Joan Crawford. Crawford plays Vienna, a saloon owner in the windy desert, waiting for the railroad to be laid as disappointing men pass through\u2014among them Johnny, her ex. Vienna runs a Wild West saloon like Joan Crawford running a Wild West saloon; it is at once an immaculate impression and a radical invention. She delivers every line as if she were trying to summon the dead and moves through space with the authority and precision of a queen on a chess board. This film is only tangentially of this world. Everything is improbable, from the decor and the vivid colors to how perfect each element is. The film is as camp as Joan Crawford playing piano beneath a chandelier as she awaits a mob\u2014which is to say it is camp. Nominally, there is, as in some other films, heterosexual lust, though here it is as vague and played out as it should be; it evaporates before the feelings between Vienna and Emma (Mercedes McCambridge), an off-camera enmity so ardent it was hammed down for the screen. Emma rallies a mob to drive Vienna out of town and claim her land; her torrid hatred for Vienna is all-consuming, electric. Johnny Guitar<\/em> has a liberating disinterest in sublimation. In its brazen strangeness, the film jettisons Western clich\u00e9s and sentimentality for an unreal theater of desire. Johnny, drunk and oozing self-pity, asks Vienna, \u201cHow many men have you forgotten?\u201d Vienna moves closer, then answers with a bull\u2019s-eye: \u201cAs many women as you\u2019ve remembered.\u201d Without breaking his gaze, she flings Johnny\u2019s glass against the wall. \u2014Chris Littlewood<\/strong><\/p>\n

After having my own IUD-related health difficulties last year, I picked up Caren Beilin\u2019s Blackfishing the IUD<\/em><\/a>, published this past October by Wolfman Books, in the hopes that I would find in it some kind of mental companionship regarding the anxieties and questions I still find myself dwelling on. Beilin offers that and more: Blackfishing the IUD<\/em> is an elegant and angry riposte to the recent widespread popularity of the birth control method among millennial women, as well as a chronicle of the health complications that many have consequently endured. My own experience was mild compared to those recounted here, in chapters that alternate between real women\u2019s testimonies found on the many IUD-related forums online and Beilin\u2019s own painful experience with the Paragard (which triggered rheumatoid arthritis for her at age thirty-three), as well as her meditations on philosophy, art, books, academia, writing, and gender. This is a book that I know I\u2019ll pass along. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

At various points of conflict in Hilary Mantel\u2019s Thomas Cromwell trilogy, Cromwell wonders why he left Italy. Me, too. \u201cIf I had stayed in Italy I could have had a house in the hills, with white walls and a red-tiled roof. A colonnade shading its entrance, shuttered balconies against the heat; orchards, flowery walks, fountains and a vineyard; a library with frescoes \u2026 At the Frescobaldi villa the girl came every morning with her basket of herbs. You struck the jars of oil as you passed, and the note told you how full they were.\u201d By the end of The Mirror and the Light<\/em><\/a>, book three of Mantel\u2019s outrageously generous series, we\u2019ve been at Cromwell\u2019s finely wrought sleeve for nearly two thousand pages, and we have plenty of regrets and big dreams of our own. Italy is where it all began. Thomas moved from sharp kitchen boy to sharp banker\u2019s clerk to consigliere to maker of death. I\u2019m sure there are few books that have better lessons about human greed and desire than these, though reviews for the final installment have been less laudatory than those for the previous two. I think Colin Burrow\u2019s critique<\/a> in the\u00a0London Review of Books<\/em> is a particularly cheap shot. He suggests Mantel is overawed by the beauty clinging to the crust of the Tudor court. It is Cromwell, though, who allows his eyes to mete out the cost of a weave, the lay of tile, the drop of a pendant, and the worth and value that humans have learned to stack against the dark and the cold. Heaven for Cromwell isn\u2019t only a list of figures in his favor; it is a stack of figures on fine paper that amount to a very fine orchard in a choice bit of countryside. My family and friends teased me that there couldn\u2019t be any spoilers about the end of the series. My beloved especially enjoyed the joke that Cromwell of course wasn\u2019t still alive now\u2014in 2020. But I couldn\u2019t countenance the loss of such a fine head. If only he\u2019d stayed in Italy, perhaps he\u2019d be calling in to the BBC even now, some dark Arthur, in our hour of need, taking press conferences, arranging mask shipments, and fixing up a trade deal or two to keep the national coffers in fine health\u2014with just a little skimmed off the top, as befits such a loyal knight of the realm. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Hilary Mantel. \u00a9 Els Zweerink.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 mourns John Prine, finishes Hilary Mantel\u2019s Cromwell trilogy, and kneels at the altar of Joan Crawford.<\/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":[],"class_list":["post-144282","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Angels, IUDs, and Books in Threes by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 mourns John Prine, finishes Hilary Mantel\u2019s Cromwell trilogy, and kneels at the altar of Joan Crawford.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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