{"id":171273,"date":"2025-08-01T10:00:43","date_gmt":"2025-08-01T14:00:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=171273"},"modified":"2025-07-31T12:28:27","modified_gmt":"2025-07-31T16:28:27","slug":"the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/","title":{"rendered":"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Mozarowsky in Beatriz<\/em> (1976), directed by Gonzalo Su\u00e1rez.<\/p><\/div>\n

For centuries, philosophers, theologians, and poets have pursued the meaning of life. Is there one, and, if so, what is it? Spirituality? Religion? Ask a man on the street the meaning of life and he might just say \u201cSurviving.\u201d<\/p>\n

But ask a teenager, and you\u2019ll get your answer. She\u2019ll tell you the meaning of life is Love, and her certainty should make you happy for her. By twelve, I\u2019d fallen in love more than fifteen times. My romances were huge, earth-shattering, much more devastating and intense than any of the ones that came later. All the men were perfect, being imaginary, and since I saw no need for messy breakups, we always ended things on good terms.<\/p>\n

When I was six or seven, our babysitter entertained us with fairy tales. She always told the same story. Once upon a time, in a faraway land, Pablo (my brother) married a princess and became king. Blanca (my sister) wed the crown prince of the country next door, which meant she, too, was in line for a throne. I always got the prince\u2019s younger brother, which meant contenting myself with being a princess\u2014and I was not content. Who would be? In my imagination, I stole my sister\u2019s boyfriend.<\/p>\n

Sandra Mozarowsky was never a queen. She was never a king\u2019s girlfriend. She was the king\u2019s lover, though, if you believe the rumors.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

As the Franco regime approached its end, its subjects started demanding freedom of expression. Not the whole country, but enough of us to be heard. Our demands for liberty got louder and more insistent, and the regime took them to mean that we wanted to see breasts. We wanted naked women, or half-naked, and so we spent the mid-seventies gaping in awe as our country attained the dubious freedom of a national cinema starring girls who, without fail, opened or removed their tops within seconds of appearing onscreen.<\/p>\n

Yes, in Spain, freedom was for breasts. You could spy some liberated bush in a semilegal softcore magazine, too, though never ever a penis. Visible male genitalia would be libertinism, which was anathema. According to the many government ministers and functionaries assigned to disseminate this message, liberty was one thing, libertinism another, and as a nation, it was important for us not to get them confused.<\/p>\n

As a nation, we were waiting for Franco to die. Some of us were eager and excited; some were fretful and afraid. Some of us staged strikes and demonstrations that were met with ferocious police repression. In his sickbed, the dictator signed his last death sentences with a decisive, if shaky, hand. All the rest of us sat and watched destape<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Destape<\/em>, which means “undressing,” was the name we gave our new erotica. We were such innocents, or such pigs, that we really did assume all those tits meant democracy and freedom, or, at the very least, an uplifting promise of both.<\/p>\n

Sandra Mozarowsky was a destape<\/em> actress, but before that, she was a girl. She was one her whole life, really: she died at eighteen. She was born in Tangiers in 1958 (three years before me), the third and youngest child of a Russian father, Boris, and Spanish mother, Charo Ruiz de Fr\u00edas. In 1961 the family moved to Madrid, where Sandra studied at the British School and, according to a piece in the October 1, 1977, issue of \u00a1Hola!<\/em>, \u201cbegan to demonstrate her artistic gifts, especially in dance, distinguishing herself as an outstanding ballet student.\u201d<\/p>\n

At ten, Sandra made her screen debut in El otro \u00e1rbol de Guernica<\/em>, which, she explained in an interview, was just luck: a friend of her mother\u2019s happened to mention her to the director, Pedro Lazaga. She waited only four years to \u201cget back in front of the camera,\u201d as she put it, in Lo verde empieza en los Pirineos<\/em>, which stars Jos\u00e9 Luis L\u00f3pez V\u00e1zquez as a Spanish hick with a major issue\u2014any time he meets a girl he likes, he involuntarily tanks the attraction by imagining her with a beard. He goes to a psychologist, who unearths a childhood trauma that caused his compulsive inhibition with women, then reminds him that men are the kings of creation, women their lesser helpmeets.<\/p>\n

\u201cFrom now on,\u201d the shrink instructs, \u201cbefore you go up to a girl, repeat to yourself, \u2018She\u2019s inferior to me.\u2019 \u201d<\/p>\n

L\u00f3pez V\u00e1zquez and his buddies plan a trip to Biarritz to see sexy movies, like Last Tango in Paris<\/em>. Pre-destape<\/em>, when anything horny was banned in Spain, our columnists and talking heads hotly debated the line separating erotica from porn. On the one hand, it was a major controversy, but on the other, we all knew erotica was tasteful, it was art, and porn was neither. Regardless, you couldn\u2019t see either in Spain. Nudity was a no-go, and so we poured into Biarritz and Perpignan on the weekends to see everything the generalissimo, in his wisdom, had chosen to censor. Heading home, we felt very free and sophisticated. We\u2019d seen nipples! Pubic hair, too, and a silhouetted hard-on. We\u2019d even seen half a ball.<\/p>\n

I, too, went to Perpignan to watch porn. I have no memory of who drove, who else was there. Grown-ups, presumably. I was fourteen, and all I remember is that Emmanuelle<\/em> was sold out and we had to content ourselves with some strange movie, nearly all sex, that nearly bored me to tears. I only refrained from napping because my true goal wasn\u2019t just seeing the movie but describing it\u2014i.e., bragging\u2014to my classmates.<\/p>\n

When L\u00f3pez V\u00e1zquez and his buddies arrive, they discover that Biarritz is swarming with Spaniards. Not a single car has French plates. Spanish buses idle en masse outside the theaters. All of Spain has descended on Biarritz to watch what we used to call blue movies. Our heroes, of course, are delighted, especially since, as good Spaniards, they\u2019ve never bothered learning any language but their own. Post-beach, our three hicks shut themselves up in a theater, watching the same movie on repeat, gaping at every nipple and thigh. Sandra appears very briefly, as a \u201cyoung French girl\u201d who sits with our protagonists at the cabaret they go to after finally staggering out of the theater. She and her two friends are cute and young, the Spaniards old and ugly, but the girls still want to sleep with them. (Unsurprising in this version of reality, which holds that Spanish men are irresistible and French women are sluts.) Sandra, lucky girl, gets L\u00f3pez V\u00e1zquez, who could be not just her dad but her grandfather. She gives him her most charming smiles, her most seductive green-eyed looks, but when he tries to kiss her, the curse strikes. A huge, dark beard sprouts from her face, and he recoils in fear. After that, a showgirl hauls him on stage\u2014in drag? In a duck costume? I can\u2019t remember. I turned the movie off as soon as Sandra\u2019s scene ended. I was only watching for her.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

When she was sixteen, in 1974, she made her horror debut in El mariscal del infierno<\/em>, starring Paul Naschy (born Jacinto Molina \u00c1lvarez) as a villain based on the medieval serial killer Gilles de Rais. Sandra plays a nameless virgin whom he sacrifices so he can give her blood to an alchemist who\u2019s promised to use it to make him a sorcerer\u2019s stone. Sandra\u2019s character has no lines, which happened to her so often that she picked up the same techniques as a silent film star. In this role, she\u2019s tending crops when Paul Naschy\u2019s henchmen kidnap her. She gets dragged into his lair, where she cowers in her white blouse, screaming in horror as he rubs himself against her, rips her top, grabs her breasts. She faints at precisely the right moment and wakes in a canopy bed with Paul Naschy thrashing on the ground beside it, having an epileptic seizure (Sandra, terrified, screams some more).<\/p>\n

Next, the director takes us outside the castle. Sandra, gagged and shrouded in red, lies bound on an altar, waiting for the knight\u2019s wife, a harpy with painfully overplucked eyebrows, to slit her throat. Our villainess is wearing a strange dress, long and narrow, with an enormous collar and swinging sleeves, paired with a little conical hat like stewardesses wore back then. Overall, the effect is hippie-medieval, very sixties kitsch.<\/p>\n

Sandra does, indeed, get her throat slit. She writhes while it happens, breasts bouncing, huge. She\u2019s silenced by the gag, but panic transforms her face as it did in nearly all her roles: Sandra as sacrificial lamb, damsel in distress, tied up and murdered by one monster after the next.<\/p>\n

Sandra Mozarowsky was beautiful. She had a Slavic face: huge green eyes that tipped up at the corners; wide, plush mouth; pale skin; so much straight, shiny chestnut hair she could have starred in shampoo commercials. Would <\/em>have, if she hadn\u2019t died too young to get truly famous. In an old issue of Pronto<\/em>, I saw her described as a \u201cgirl-woman who broadcasts sexiness and innocence at the same time \u2026 green eyes, perfect features, and a statuesque body\u2014though she\u2019ll have to be careful not to get fat.\u201d An exaggeration, that last bit. Sandra wasn\u2019t thin, and she did put on weight easily, but no one cared about that, given her age, beauty, and gameness to take off her clothes whenever a script called for it\u2014which was always, every time.<\/p>\n

One person did care about Sandra\u2019s weight: Sandra herself. Dieting was one of the obsessions of her short life. She\u2019s half-naked in many of the photos I\u2019ve seen of her. In one, her hair spills over her breasts, covering them, as if she were Lady Godiva. In another, she\u2019s looking sleepily at the camera, mouth ajar, an embroidered vest just barely covering her nipples. In a third, she\u2019s on her knees in a bikini, hands behind her back, pouting suggestively at the camera. And a fourth: Sandra taking (or ripping) her white blouse off, one shoulder already bared. A faint halo seems to encircle her, like a cloud drifting away. She looks, unsettlingly, equal parts virgin and whore.<\/p>\n

Sandra came from a conservative, middle-class background, and I doubt her parents were thrilled about their youngest daughter\u2019s burgeoning career as a destape<\/em> star. In an interview with Primera plana<\/em>, Sandra says, \u201cFor four years, my parents were against my acting. Slowly, though, I convinced them to let me do it as long as I could balance it with school.\u201d\u00a0 In a short interview she gave the magazine Diez minutos<\/em> in July 1975, as part of the press tour for Las protegidas<\/em>, her father\u2019s supposed opposition to her acting came up again. Asked if she \u201cconnected\u201d to her role as a prostitute, Sandra says, \u201cWell, it\u2019s challenging, but I just tried to remember that the character\u2019s new to the job, and excited about it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sandra comes across as independent, a person of character, as she liked to say. She was only sixteen in July of 1975. Franco hadn\u2019t died yet, Spanish society was Catholic and repressed, and yet she managed to earn a nice living acting in movies that scandalized her family.<\/p>\n

In that same issue of Diez minutos<\/em>, I encounter a distracting story. It\u2019s a scoop\u2014exclusive!<\/em>\u2014titled, \u201cRomeo and Juliet in \u201975.\u201d On the cover, we get a taste: \u201cMeet the lovers whose fate broke Italy\u2019s heart! Before throwing themselves under a train, they left us their last words on tape \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

Our Juliet, Maria, was born in the town of Rapolla. She died at seventeen. We don\u2019t get her last name, only that of her Romeo, Michele Gastoni, a nineteen-year-old from nearby Melfi. We see them in black and white: Juliet (Maria) is a sweet, scared-looking girl, Romeo (Michele) a resolute youth with thin lips and one of the most egregious haircuts I\u2019ve ever seen, a dense curve of hair clamped over his narrow face.<\/p>\n

After introducing the couple, the writer describes Basilicata, the region where they lived. Apparently, misery and poverty are endemic there. Perhaps this is meant to contextualize the appalling story that comes next. Our two lovers committed suicide by lying on railroad tracks. Every night, the last train arrived in Melfi at 11:45, having passed through the nearby Tunnel of the Seven Bridges at top speed. On the day they died, the teenage couple spent over an hour in the dark tunnel, waiting for the train. During that hour, they\u2014mostly Michele\u2014said goodbye into a tape recorder, preserving their motivations for posterity.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne, two, three,\u201d says Michele. \u201cIf you\u2019re listening, return this recorder to M\u2014 F\u2014. He didn\u2019t know why I asked to borrow it. And share this tape with the world. I\u2019m sorry if it upsets people, but it\u2019s what I have to do. Life is shit. It\u2019s too boring. Maria agrees. Maria, you talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no. I don\u2019t want to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf my parents are listening, and my brother, don\u2019t worry. It\u2019s not your fault I\u2019m killing myself. It\u2019s society. You guys should go on with your lives. Don\u2019t remember me. I\u2019m gone, so why bother? Forget me. Maria, seriously, you should talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d Michele says, and resumes his broadcast, complaining that nobody appreciates him or shares his ideals. He assures the listener that he\u2019s not taking the wrong path, and that it\u2019s better (\u201cmore appropriate,\u201d he says) to die than to escape life with drugs and so on. Why should anyone be miserable for sixty or seventy years? he asks. \u201cWe can leave this life because we know the next one is coming,\u201d he says. \u201cI know the next world will be an improvement. Ours is shit! Maria, come on, talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maria\u2019s sobbing. \u201cWhat should I say?\u201d she chokes.<\/p>\n

\u201cSay hello to someone. Say goodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGoodbye to everyone, especially Mama. No, no. I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you dying?\u201d Michele asks. \u201cWhat\u2019s making you do this?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLots of stuff,\u201d says Maria, still crying. \u201cSociety, people \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe want to speak, even though it seems like we don\u2019t,\u201d says Michele, and launches into a furious denunciation of humanity.<\/p>\n

At some point, Maria interrupts. \u201cI\u2019m ready to talk,\u201d she announces, no longer in tears. \u201cI want everyone to know we really thought about this. We were talking about it for a long time, going back and forth, and this morning we made up our minds. We\u2019re not changing them now. No one understands us. Society can\u2019t understand anyone, which is why we\u2019re all prisoners. So don\u2019t cry for me, okay? I love you, Mama, Papa. I love my family. I\u2019m cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d he says. \u201cLights out.\u201d We hear them getting ready for the train.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold on!\u201d Maria calls. \u201cWhere are you going? You said we\u2019d go together!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re no one,\u201d Michele concludes. \u201cBut no one else should have to die like this.\u201d<\/p>\n

After that, the lovers lie quietly in the tunnel. On the tape, we hear the train approaching, their breath, the locomotive whistling into the tunnel, the cars roaring on the tracks, the brakes shrieking, someone shouting \u201cA shoe!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWas it a person?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, there\u2019s a girl here, but she\u2019s missing her head.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m surprised that a tabloid like Diez minutos<\/em> would run this story in 1975, alongside \u201cAmparo Mu\u00f1oz turns twenty-one,\u201d which features photos of our Se\u00f1orita Universo blowing out her candles; \u201cWhy the name P\u00e9rez matters\u201d; \u201cJackie Onassis\u2019s intimate secrets\u201d; and \u201cIn the sun with Patricia,\u201d a color centerfold in which Patricia, who they describe as \u201cClaudia Cardinale meets Candy Rialson, with some Raquel Welch thrown in,\u201d poses very seriously in her bikini on a rock by the sea.<\/p>\n

Diez minutos<\/em>\u2019s transcript of the taped dialogue has a strange narrative pull. Michele comes across as a resentful, arrogant, domineering young man, clearly the brains behind both the suicide and the recording. He scolds his parents for their poverty, his brother for his acceptance. He\u2019s not a sympathetic narrator.<\/p>\n

But Maria! Her death hurts. She was an innocent, suggestible, infatuated girl, totally willing to submit to her shithead boyfriend. On the tape, she\u2019s his echo, so admiring and obedient she let him talk her into suicide. She gave up her life for love. Puppy love. She\u2019d only been dating Michele seven months. Surely if he hadn\u2019t roped her into this death pact, she\u2019d have dumped him, or he her, leaving her upset, but alive.<\/p>\n

How can a seventeen-year-old decide whether life is worth living? How can she reject something she barely knows?<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Several months before Sandra Mozarowsky died, an interviewer asked her, \u201cWhat do you see in your future?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI never think about my future. I mean, I can\u2019t imagine it. I have a hard time believing in tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your goal in life?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBeing remembered after I die.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you worry about death?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not there yet, luckily. I\u2019m not sure we should worry about death, and anyway, I\u2019m realistic. You\u2019re born, you get old, and then you die. It\u2019s the way of things. Why should I have a problem with it?\u201d<\/p>\n

As far as Sandra was concerned, the meaning of her life was clear. She was going to make her mark, be a hit. I talked to an actor and an actress who worked with her on different films, and they agreed: she was a nice girl with good manners, a little shy, very ambitious. She wanted to be a star.<\/p>\n

I suspect the silly answer she gave the interviewer (whose question was equally silly) hides an unexpected wisdom. A philosophy, even: Since I haven\u2019t died, how should I know whether to be afraid of death? She\u2019s got a point. What scares us about death is its mystery. Not even the oldest or wisest person can tell us what death is like. Maybe that means we should stop worrying about it so much.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s nothing humans love like a pit. We may be frightened, but deep down, we\u2019re attracted to the void. Stand on the edge of a cliff, and you\u2019ll see how positive death suddenly seems. Maybe it\u2019s exciting; maybe it\u2019ll be a change of pace. Our fascination with the things we fear is the reason we like horror movies. Sandra starred in seven works of erotic horror: Los ojos azules de la mu\u00f1eca rota, El mariscal del infierno, La noche de las gaviotas, El colegio de la muerte, El hombre de los hongos, Beatriz<\/em>, and El espiritista<\/em>. She made twenty movies between fourteen and eighteen.<\/p>\n

Camus writes, \u201cThe actor’s realm is that of the fleeting. Of all kinds of fame, it is known, his is the most ephemeral. At least, this is said in conversation. But all kinds of fame are ephemeral. From the point of view of Sirius, Goethe’s works in ten thousand years will be dust and his name forgotten \u2026 Of all the glories the least deceptive is the one that is lived.\u201d According to Camus, this means actors are lucky. An actor can succeed or not, but if he does, it happens now. He doesn\u2019t have to wait for posterity, which is probably never coming. His art means he lives many lives, as many as the characters he plays. He\u2019s no one and everyone, pure appearance, so many souls jammed into one body.<\/p>\n

So Sandra Mozarowsky chose the best profession, and, as if she sensed that she only had a brief measure of time on earth, she hardly wasted any of her hours on diversions and distractions. Instead, she worked like a mule, living many lives through her characters. But oh, what lives! Nearly all of them were unbearable.<\/p>\n

At sixteen, she got her first starring role, in El colegio de la muerte<\/em>. It\u2019s set in Victorian London, but you can tell it was shot in Spain: all the exteriors are in Madrid and Toledo. Sandra plays Leonor, a surprisingly well-nourished orphan. In the opening scene, we see her (of course) mostly naked, tied to the rafters of some sort of dungeon, cowering as one of the mistresses of the orphanage where she lives whips her. After the beating\u2019s done, its perpetrator, Miss Colton, bans Sandra from seeing the doctor who\u2019s scheduled to visit the next day. Sandra\u2019s gorgeous green eyes well with tears: she\u2019s secretly in love with the doctor.<\/p>\n

Every girl in the orphanage is beautiful, like Sandra, and every single one lives in fear of the vile Miss Colton and her iniquitous boss, Miss Wilkins. Both are parched, severe women with overplucked eyebrows, scraped-back hair, and high Victorian collars. From their sly expressions, we know they\u2019re the villains. We get to know only one other orphan, Sandra\u2019s best friend, played by a very young Victoria Vera. All the others vanish\u2014a budget issue, I\u2019m sure. You can tell that the movie (which, to be fair, has its charms) was made on a shoestring. Its whole cast is Spanish, despite the English setting, and Dr. Kruger, the supposed heartthrob, is a gnomelike man with a colossal head. It seems like the sets were borrowed from an amateur theater: one scene takes place in an utterly unrecognizable Regent\u2019s Park, which, luckily, is mostly hidden by fog, like a Japanese garden on a fan. Of course, there\u2019s a cemetery, a disfigured mad scientist, some interring and disinterring of corpses, some swordfighting, secret tunnels, moonlit escapes, a profoundly homoerotic scene of a lecherous Miss Colton lotioning Sandra\u2019s scarred back, white blouse pooling at the young woman\u2019s waist. By that point in the story, Sandra\u2019s leaving the orphanage\u2014someone has found her a job as a governess\u2014but Miss Colton has a secret to tell her first. Once the blouse is chastely buttoned, the teacher asks Sandra to join her in her room, but Miss Wilkins gets there before Sandra does. Having guessed that the other teacher is about to denounce her, Miss Wilkins stabs Miss Colton with a dagger.<\/p>\n

Miss Colton dies after revealing that what awaits Sandra is not a steady career as a governess but a nightmarish fate that has already befallen Victoria Vera. Cut to the other girl in the mad scientist\u2019s laboratory, heavily sedated and lashed to an operating table, leather straps crisscrossing her body and mask covering her face as the evil scientist cuts into her cranium. With one incision, he turns her into a living corpse, a walking dead girl who, instead of wreaking havoc, is doomed to be loaned out to satisfy the depraved fantasies of men like Lord Ferguson, who looks like he should be playing a bandit from the Sierra Morena. Now we know the orphanage\u2019s terrible secret\u2014and Sandra does, too.<\/p>\n

From here on, Sandra, in her white blouse, runs like a soul in torment, narrowly escaping all kinds of threats and torments. But at the end, she ends up bound and gagged as usual, back to the silent-movie routine: open eyes, shrieking mouth, body writhing in just the right way to make her breasts pop out of that white blouse. It\u2019s a ridiculous movie. Even Camus would say it\u2019s too absurd. We don\u2019t have to spend more time on it, but I just want you to know it ends with a cruel anagnorisis: Sandra learns that the man of her dreams, the good Dr. Kruger, is in fact the wicked, deformed scientist. You should really just watch Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde<\/em>.<\/p>\n

In one interview, Sandra said, \u201cNow that I\u2019m very close to having a real career, there are people out to get me. Saying I\u2019m vain, or an exhibitionist, or only getting cast for my looks. None of that\u2019s true, but I can see why someone would get that idea from the movies I\u2019m in. I\u2019ve just had to be a good girl, a trained seal. You know how the industry is.\u201d<\/p>\n

The interviewer asks if she feels that she\u2019s being objectified. Sandra replies, \u201cI wouldn\u2019t say that. I mean, not more than happens to any woman. And when it happens, I always learn something from the experience. You know, I\u2019ve learned a lot just being on set. I take classes in my free time\u2014speech, movement, ballet\u2014but my serious education happens when I get a script. I study my part, see how close I can get to the character, how completely I can understand her. Directors don\u2019t always want you to identify with your character, but I do. And when I\u2019m rehearsing, I always tape myself so I can listen and correct my performance. I\u2019d rather learn alone than get a coach, since in the end, the only person I\u2019ll always have by my side is myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

It breaks my heart to envision her rehearsing in her room, wailing, \u201cNo, don\u2019t!\u201d and \u201cI\u2019m begging you, please, please let me live!\u201d and \u201cOh!\u201d and \u201cAh!\u201d and \u201cAyyy!\u201d into her tape recorder. All that panting, all those muffled shouts and anxious gasps and sobs and unstoppable weeping, and never once \u201cO, what a noble mind is here o\u2019erthrown! The courtier\u2019s, soldier\u2019s, scholar\u2019s, eye, tongue, sword, th\u2019 expectancy and rose of the fair state, the glass of fashion and the mould of form, th\u2019 observ\u2019d of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, that suck\u2019d the honey of his musicked vows\u201d or \u201cWhen you durst do it, then you were a man; and to be more than what you were, you would be so much more the man. Nor time nor place did then adhere, and yet you would make both. They have made themselves, and that their fitness now does unmake you.\u00a0I have given suck, and know how tender \u2019tis to love the babe that milks me.\u201d No, Sandra Mozarowsky was never Ophelia, or Lady Macbeth, or Hedda Gabler.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne must imagine Sisyphus happy,\u201d Camus concludes at the end of \u201cThe Myth of Sisyphus,\u201d having compared the absurd man\u2014the man who knows, who\u2019s conscious of his mortality and of the futility of pursuing transcendence\u2014to the Homeric hero condemned by the gods to eternally roll a boulder up a mountain. Century after century, Sisyphus ascends the mountain, bearing the weight of the rock, which will roll to the bottom when he\u2019s about to achieve his goal, and down he goes, up, down, up, down\u2014and Camus wants us to imagine him happy! He writes, \u201cThe struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man\u2019s heart\u201d (he doesn\u2019t speak of women\u2019s hearts). \u201cIt happens as well that the feeling of the absurd springs from happiness. \u2018I conclude that all is well,\u2019 says Oedipus, and that remark is sacred.\u201d<\/p>\n

One must imagine Sandra happy, happy during the long nights and chilly mornings on set, happy in her coat, or maybe a bulky sweater, drinking coffee and chatting with the cast and crew while she waits for her call, getting ready to shed her coat and kick her shoes off the moment she hears \u201cAction,\u201d to tremble barefoot in her white blouse with its elbow-length sleeves, its neckline that comes up to her collarbone, though in this scene or the next, by order of the script, it\u2019ll get undone to reveal a shoulder and breast, or else shredded, or spattered with blood, or crumpled on her exposed belly while some man\u2019s ass moves rhythmically between her open legs.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve seen Sandra wearing that demure white blouse in El mariscal del infierno<\/em>, in La noche de las gaviotas<\/em>, in El colegio de la muerte<\/em>, in Beatriz<\/em>, in Pecado mortal<\/em>, in Train sp\u00e9cial pour SS<\/em>, in \u00c1ngel negro<\/em>. I want it to have a meaning. Surely that virginal blouse isn\u2019t just a coincidence. It\u2019s a symbol, a signal, a sign pointing to\u2014what? A bunch of male directors (she never worked with a woman) seeing her in a white blouse, liking the view, and repeating it? Could be. I\u2019m pretty sure I got Camus\u2019s point about absurdity, so I\u2019m not going to come up with a whole myth of the shirt. I\u2019m not even going to keep asking why she played the same two roles\u2014the damsel in distress and her reverse, the prostitute\u2014so many times. Could a young actress in Spain aspire to anything else at the time?<\/p>\n

At seventeen, Sandra complained to the press, \u201cI\u2019m sick of saying, \u2018Yes, this one is destape<\/em>,\u2019 or \u2018No, it isn\u2019t destape<\/em>.\u2019 Just flip a coin. Really playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d But by the time she got done shooting in Mexico, she\u2019d changed her tune. She told \u00a1Hola!<\/em> she was \u201csaying goodbye to movies\u201d for a while, that she was \u201csick of always playing the same part, sick of script after script where I have to take my shirt off. I\u2019m moving to London to study English and drama, then coming back to Spain for my baccalaureate, and then <\/em>I\u2019ll act again. I love it more than anything else in the world, but I\u2019m quitting until I have the qualifications that get you treated as more than an object.\u201d<\/p>\n

One night, Sandra appears on television. She\u2019s in her bedroom pouting and whining, bursting out of a white dress with heavy, pseudomedieval silver embroidery. The comic actor Alfredo Landa appears in the doorway, wearing a white tunic over brown breeches and carrying some sort of instrument made of a ram\u2019s horn. Concerned, he asks, \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, it\u2019s so awful,\u201d she says, weeping. \u201cI\u2019m so scared. My lock rusted, and I can\u2019t turn the key.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat lock?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOn my chastity belt! I put it on and now I can\u2019t get it off,\u201d Sandra says, raising her skirts to show a gilded chastity belt with a giant padlock.<\/p>\n

This work of cinema is called Cuando el cuerno suena<\/em>, and it unites me and Sandra in eternity, or in my small, cluttered living room with its heaps of books and drafts and newspapers. I rent my apartment, so while it\u2019s my right to be here, I\u2019m still a precarious resident\u2014of my home and of time, unlike Sandra, who\u2019s returned from the dead on my screen. Camus was wrong to say actors\u2019 glory is ephemeral and fleeting. He wasn\u2019t thinking about movies or television, where even something as silly as Cuando el cuerno suena<\/em> can live for all time. You could say it\u2019s not Sandra who\u2019s joined me, just her appearance, but Camus says the actor is his appearance, so here she is.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated from the Spanish by Lily Meyer.<\/em><\/p>\n

An adapted excerpt from <\/em>The Shy Assassin<\/a>, to be published by Vanderbilt University Press this November.<\/em><\/p>\n

Clara Us\u00f3n was a practicing lawyer for twenty years before writing her first novel,<\/em> Las noches de San Juan, which was awarded the 1998 Premio Femenino Lumen.<\/em> With<\/em> La hija del Este (The daughter from the east), she became the first woman to win Spain\u2019s National Critics Prize. <\/em>El asesino t\u00edmido (<\/em>The Shy Assassin) was awarded the 2018 Sor Juana In\u00e9s de la Cruz Prize, recognizing excellent literary works written in Spanish by female authors.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n
Lily Meyer is a\u00a0translator, a critic, and the author of the novel <\/span><\/span><\/em>Short War<\/span><\/span>. H<\/span><\/span><\/em>er translations include Claudia Ulloa Donoso’s story collections <\/span><\/span><\/em>Little Bird<\/span><\/span> and <\/span><\/span><\/em>Ice for Martians, and h<\/em><\/span><\/span>er novel <\/span><\/span><\/em>The End of Romance<\/span><\/span> is forthcoming from Viking in winter 2026.<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2608,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1186],"tags":[68836,7924,67827],"class_list":["post-171273","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-film","tag-destape","tag-erotica","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky by Clara Us\u00f3n<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"August 1, 2025 \u2013 \u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky by Clara Us\u00f3n\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"August 1, 2025 \u2013 \u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2025-08-01T14:00:43+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-scaled.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"2560\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"1788\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Clara Us\u00f3n\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Clara Us\u00f3n\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"24 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Clara Us\u00f3n\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/a1bddc58eed52f3b365daca93dbe8160\"},\"headline\":\"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky\",\"datePublished\":\"2025-08-01T14:00:43+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\"},\"wordCount\":5397,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-1024x715.png\",\"keywords\":[\"destape\",\"erotica\",\"Featured\"],\"articleSection\":[\"On Film\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\",\"name\":\"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky by Clara Us\u00f3n\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-1024x715.png\",\"datePublished\":\"2025-08-01T14:00:43+00:00\",\"description\":\"August 1, 2025 \u2013 \u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-scaled.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-scaled.png\",\"width\":2560,\"height\":1788,\"caption\":\"Mozarowsky in Beatriz (1976), directed by Gonzalo Su\u00e1rez.\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/a1bddc58eed52f3b365daca93dbe8160\",\"name\":\"Clara Us\u00f3n\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dfb1eef57aef6b2b50637a61c23e2345fe98b2a9fabaf14a7d85e1322af876c0?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dfb1eef57aef6b2b50637a61c23e2345fe98b2a9fabaf14a7d85e1322af876c0?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Clara Us\u00f3n\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/cuson\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky by Clara Us\u00f3n","description":"August 1, 2025 \u2013 \u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky by Clara Us\u00f3n","og_description":"August 1, 2025 \u2013 \u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2025-08-01T14:00:43+00:00","og_image":[{"width":2560,"height":1788,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-scaled.png","type":"image\/png"}],"author":"Clara Us\u00f3n","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Clara Us\u00f3n","Est. reading time":"24 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/"},"author":{"name":"Clara Us\u00f3n","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/a1bddc58eed52f3b365daca93dbe8160"},"headline":"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky","datePublished":"2025-08-01T14:00:43+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/"},"wordCount":5397,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-1024x715.png","keywords":["destape","erotica","Featured"],"articleSection":["On Film"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/","name":"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky by Clara Us\u00f3n","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-1024x715.png","datePublished":"2025-08-01T14:00:43+00:00","description":"August 1, 2025 \u2013 \u201cReally playing a character is about a lot more than whether you have to take your shirt off. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don\u2019t.\u201d","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-scaled.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/screenshot-2025-07-22-at-110158-scaled.png","width":2560,"height":1788,"caption":"Mozarowsky in Beatriz (1976), directed by Gonzalo Su\u00e1rez."},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/08\/01\/the-white-blouse-of-sandra-mozarowsky\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"The White Blouse of Sandra Mozarowsky"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/a1bddc58eed52f3b365daca93dbe8160","name":"Clara Us\u00f3n","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dfb1eef57aef6b2b50637a61c23e2345fe98b2a9fabaf14a7d85e1322af876c0?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dfb1eef57aef6b2b50637a61c23e2345fe98b2a9fabaf14a7d85e1322af876c0?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Clara Us\u00f3n"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/cuson\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/171273","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2608"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=171273"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/171273\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":171362,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/171273\/revisions\/171362"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=171273"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=171273"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=171273"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}