{"id":150256,"date":"2021-01-08T14:53:07","date_gmt":"2021-01-08T19:53:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=150256"},"modified":"2021-01-08T15:35:20","modified_gmt":"2021-01-08T20:35:20","slug":"staff-picks-marriage-martinis-and-mortality","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/01\/08\/staff-picks-marriage-martinis-and-mortality\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Marriage, Martinis, and Mortality"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_150277\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/sigrid-nunez-2017-c-marion-ettlinger-higher-res.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-150277\" class=\"size-full wp-image-150277\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/sigrid-nunez-2017-c-marion-ettlinger-higher-res.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"823\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/sigrid-nunez-2017-c-marion-ettlinger-higher-res.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/sigrid-nunez-2017-c-marion-ettlinger-higher-res-300x247.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/sigrid-nunez-2017-c-marion-ettlinger-higher-res-768x632.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-150277\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sigrid Nunez. Photo: \u00a9 Marion Ettlinger.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>A candid attitude about death and sincere empathy for grief are wrongly put at odds: to speak with frankness is regarded as insensitive, and condolences are meant to come from the heart. But often it is the card-aisle euphemisms that ring false. Sigrid Nunez\u2019s most recent novel, <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9780593191415\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>What Are You Going Through<\/em><\/a>, is unflinching on the theme of mortality and thus presents an openhearted honesty so rare it feels thirst-quenching. The two major elements at play: dread about the end of the world, by way of the narrator\u2019s ex, an academic who delivers lectures about what humanity has done to ensure the demise of everything; and the imminent death of the narrator\u2019s friend, either by cancer or (the friend hopes) her own hand. I don\u2019t want to call this a story without hope, because to face inevitability with the dichotomous perspective of hope versus no hope \u2026 you may as well be armed with Hallmark. Nunez renders the pain of aging, especially as a woman, with quiet humor and philosophy brought to life by sharp characters. Readers of Nunez\u2019s previous novel, <em>The Friend<\/em>, will recognize these qualities, but here they feel honed, turned up in intensity. Afterward, I flipped open a book by a young person, about young people, and how silly it all seemed. <strong>\u2014Lauren Kane\u00a0<\/strong><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>I recently picked up a short essay by Michel Foucault about Ren\u00e9 Magritte\u2019s <em>The Treachery of Images<\/em> in an effort to sate my appetite for writing about visual art. <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9780520236943\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>This Is Not a Pipe<\/em><\/a>\u2014translated and edited by James Harkness\u2014made for one of the most accessible experiences I\u2019ve had with reading theory. A short, dense work of little more than sixty pages, Foucault\u2019s essay is, first and foremost, fun. He displays a deft humor within his analysis without sacrificing any intentionality or depth. While many of Foucault\u2019s most complicated puns had to be omitted due to the impossibility of accurately translating them, Harkness provides ample footnotes and endnotes to explain the voice of the philosopher as it pertains to the intersection of whimsy and scrutiny. As a result, the work of translation enters the conversation about words, signs, and how they imperfectly relate to each other. But in that gulf\u2014whether large or small\u2014lies room for investigation as to how we manage to communicate through words and images anyway. Ultimately, the answer rests in our willingness to stick with discourses until they break apart to reveal a truth that\u2019s altogether too grand for a pipe. Or a painting of a pipe. Or a painting of a not-pipe. <strong>\u2014Carlos Zayas-Pons<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_150279\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/meena.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-150279\" class=\"size-full wp-image-150279\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/meena.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/meena.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/meena-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/meena-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-150279\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Meena Kandasamy. Photo: \u00a9 Teri Pengilley.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Barely a page went by in Meena Kandasamy\u2019s <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9781609455996\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait of the Writer as a Young Wife<\/em><\/a> without my wanting to underline at least a sentence. Kandasamy\u2019s novel, which was short-listed for the 2018 Women\u2019s Prize for Fiction in the UK but only recently came out in the U.S., follows a young writer in Chennai who marries a leftist college lecturer and quickly finds herself trapped in an abusive marriage. Kandasamy\u2019s prose is electric, at once brave and poetic and satirical as she pokes holes in the mythoi of marriage, gender, intellectualism, and art. \u201cQuickly realizing that the more she changes, the more things remain the same,\u201d she writes in a parody of a movie\u2019s publicity material toward the book\u2019s beginning, \u201cthe writer begins to essay the mock role of an intellectual in a bid to save her marriage. Faking orgasmic delight in discussing the orthodoxy of the Second International, or dismissing the postmodern idea of deconstruction, she coasts along with aplomb.\u201d In chapters that begin with epigraphs from Kamala Das, Pilar Quintana, Elfriede Jelinek, Anne Sexton, and more, Kandasamy is unflinching in her portrayal of both domestic violence and how art can grapple with abuse. <strong>\u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>To break up the time in that slow, strange week between Christmas and New Year\u2019s, I wanted to read something that felt vibrant, vital, and alive. I picked up Sarah Crossan\u2019s <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9780316428583\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>Here Is the Beehive<\/em><\/a>, a novel written in free verse. I liked the look of all that space, the short sentences and line breaks letting me feel like I was accomplishing something with each quickly turned page, the sparsity of the prose giving way to gorgeous passages and subtle depth. Free from the excesses of typical fiction writing, the flashes of dialogue and half-formed thoughts come within a narrative consumed by grief and then, later, obsession. The titular line appears in a nursery rhyme, but the anxiety of the novel lends it an eerie cadence: \u201cHere is the beehive.\u2009\/\u2009Where are the bees?\u2009\/\u2009Hidden away where nobody sees.\u201d I\u2019ve been thinking about this ever since, how so much happens below the surface, behind closed doors, and in unexpressed thoughts\u2014the body a beehive with its barely concealed bees. <strong>\u2014Langa Chinyoka<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>For me, <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9783906915609\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">the oral\/visual history<\/a> of the late Luchita Hurtado would have been worthwhile just for the anecdote about drinking martinis with Agnes Martin\u2014though I recognize I\u2019m a biased audience (toward Martin, toward the confluence of artists working in New Mexico in the seventies, and yes, toward martinis). Fortunately, the eponymous book, published in December by Hauser &amp; Wirth, offers much more than that: it is a compelling portrait of an artist as she approaches her hundredth birthday (a milestone she missed by a few months\u2014she died this past August, at ninety-nine), a concise summary of her peripatetic art practice (which included self-portraits, botanical drawings, and numinous paintings of the sky), and a beautifully designed object (the pressed flowers on transparent inserts feel, in particular, like a gift to the reader). The spine of the volume is a series of exchanges with the curator Hans Ulrich Obrist, with whom Hurtado developed a friendship near the end of her long life; their conversations about her biography and creative practice are interspersed with portfolios of her art and photos from her personal archive. In the last four years of her life, Hurtado was \u201clavished with attention, praise and exhibitions,\u201d as Roberta Smith notes in <a href=\"https:\/\/www.nytimes.com\/2020\/09\/24\/arts\/design\/luchita-hurtado-review.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">a review<\/a> of <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/09\/03\/a-tree-is-a-relative-a-cousin\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">her latest exhibition<\/a>,\u00a0but what the book shows again and again\u2014as illustrated by those martini lunches with Martin\u2014is that the attention didn\u2019t matter; the making a rich life did. <strong>\u2014Emily Nemens<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_150278\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/luchita-11.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-150278\" class=\"size-full wp-image-150278\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/luchita-11.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"667\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/luchita-11.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/luchita-11-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/01\/luchita-11-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-150278\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Luchita Hurtado with sons John and Matt Mullican, California, ca. 1966. Photo: Lee Mullican. \u00a9 The Estate of Luchita Hurtado. Courtesy The Estate of Luchita Hurtado and Hauser &amp; Wirth.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads Sigrid Nunez, has a pleasant encounter with theory, and yearns to drink a martini with Agnes Martin.<\/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":[67827],"class_list":["post-150256","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Staff Picks: Marriage, Martinis, and Mortality by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads 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