{"id":92551,"date":"2015-12-04T13:59:06","date_gmt":"2015-12-04T18:59:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=92551"},"modified":"2015-12-04T14:32:20","modified_gmt":"2015-12-04T19:32:20","slug":"slow-days-fast-company","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/12\/04\/slow-days-fast-company\/","title":{"rendered":"Slow Days, Fast Company"},"content":{"rendered":"

Eve Babitz\u2019s singular take on Los Angeles.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Babitz, as pictured on the first edition of Eve\u2019s Hollywood<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Years ago, a friend gave me a first edition of\u00a0Eve\u00a0Babitz\u2019s second book,\u00a0Slow Days, Fast Company<\/a><\/em>\u00a0(1974), which had slipped out of print. Tucked inside was a promotional photo of the author on thick, glossy Kodak paper; the back cover, featuring the same image, explained that Babitz had begun to write in 1972 after a stint designing album covers for\u00a0Atlantic Records. It neglected to mention that she\u2019d had romances with the portrait\u2019s photographer, Paul Ruscha, and his brother, the artist Ed Ruscha\u2014a kind of discretion she\u2019s not often afforded.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Most discussions of Babitz\u2019s writing are preceded by a list of her paramours or a seemingly obligatory nod to the iconic 1963 photograph in which Babitz, nude, plays chess with Marcel Duchamp. I wouldn\u2019t care so much about Babitz having dated Jim Morrison\u2014one of her admitted \u201ctar babies\u201d\u2014or having posed with Duchamp, except that her love life plays nicely into her game on the page: one of sharp, funny, memoiristic essays set in the late sixties and seventies Los Angeles scene. Babitz claims she started these studies at age fourteen. I believe her. She\u2019s been working since she was a teenager, closely observing the people around her\u2014few of whom, presumably, suspected that such a pretty party girl could be so gimlet-eyed.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cI looked like Brigitte Bardot and I was Stravinsky\u2019s goddaughter,\u201d Babitz writes of herself in\u00a0Eve\u2019s Hollywood<\/a><\/em>, her first book, reissued this fall. She\u2019s hyperaware of her beauty and her pedigree, and they prove to be useful assets. (She also tells us that it was Stravinsky who gave her scotch when she was thirteen and slid rose petals in her top on her sixteenth birthday.) Growing up, Babitz lived in the back of her parent\u2019s house in a tiny bungalow on Bronson Avenue. Her father was a Baroque musicologist with a Fulbright and Ford grant, and friends like Stravinsky, Arnold Schoenberg, and Thomas Mann. Her artist mother, Ed Ruscha told me, was \u201ca real sweet beautiful woman from a little town in Texas.\u201d Babitz seemed to have inherited the best qualities from both.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The episodes in\u00a0Eve\u2019s Hollywood<\/em>\u00a0are sometimes\u00a0only a few paragraphs long, with titles like \u201cDaughters of the Wasteland,\u201d \u201cIngenues, Thunderbird Girls and the Neighborhood Belle: a Confusing Tragedy,\u201d and \u201cAnd West (n\u00e9 Weinstein) Is East Too.\u201d\u00a0Throughout, Babitz is bitingly self-aware, the perfect faux na\u00eff. In\u00a0Slow Days<\/em>, the follow-up to\u00a0Hollywood<\/em>, she responds to the new varieties of attention her writing got her:<\/p>\n

\n

I wasn\u2019t as used to the new dumb questions, so when men I had once thought of as wise daddies now asked me \u201cHow do you write?\u201d I did not try and spill red wine in their suede pants, I would just smile and say, \u201cOn a typewriter in the mornings when there\u2019s nothing else to do.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Babitz addresses\u00a0the Los Angeles lifestyle outside in, as if looking on from a distance, though she’s never left home. This is her milieu by birth and adoption; she coopts its breeziness.\u00a0In\u00a0Hollywood<\/em>, in a chapter\u00a0called\u00a0\u201cThe Sheik,\u201d Babitz writes about \u201cthe Jim Morrison phrase which occurs to me whenever I think about some foolhardy, glamorous, and fatal adventure, he was \u2018trapped in a prison of his own devise.\u2019 \u201d She goes on cheekily, \u201cHollywood herself was always trapped in a prison of her own devise, but don’t think about that (because if you do you\u2019ll start wondering what devises are, anyway, if not prisons, and if you\u2019re going to have to be trapped in one, it might as well be a Hollywood devise).\u201d\u00a0No writer has a keener eye for the ways in which\u00a0Hollywood is ensnared in its own myth making.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Charles Moll\u2019s art for the paperback edition of Slow Days, Fast Company<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Throughout Babitz\u2019s stories, there\u2019s an awareness of the dichotomy between the often vapid realities of Los Angeles and the ideals of an authentic Bohemia; she wonders, too, about the divide between the life of an \u201cadventuress\u201d artist and a reliable, settled wife. In\u00a0Slow Days<\/em>\u2019s\u00a0\u201cSirocco,\u201d she remembers driving with her mother to a wedding\u2014she\u2019d been engaged, at various times, to both the groom and the best man. \u201cI\u2019d broken off with both of those guys because I was impatient with ordinary sunsets,\u201d she writes. \u201cI was sure that somewhere a grandiose carnival was going on in the sky and I was missing it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Likewise, in \u201cThe Garden of Allah,\u201d she writes about everyone\u2019s girl crush, Mary, \u201ca laughing blond, beautiful dilettante who always said the right things.\u201d Mary gives in and marries a man who doesn\u2019t approve of her Los Angeles friends. \u201cBut it wasn\u2019t just the money. I knew it couldn\u2019t be just the money. It was that she was afraid of getting old without living out a girlhood fantasy of one day marrying and having children and a house and a business-husband.\u201d The cumulative effect of withering pronouncements like these, scattered throughout both collections, leaves an impression on the reader. It\u2019s as if Babitz is preserving her ability to unsettle by couching it in levity.\u00a0<\/p>\n

In the beginning of\u00a0Slow Days<\/em>, Babitz writes, \u201cPerhaps if the details are all put together, a certain pulse and sense of place will emerge, and the integrity of empty space with occasional figures in the landscape can be understood at leisure and in full, no matter how fast the company.\u201d Its version of abstraction reminded me\u00a0of another writer enjoying a renaissance this year: Clarice Lispector. Her fiction\u00a0covers similar terrain, and there\u2019s a strange, undeniable sisterhood in the way she displaces the reader with her\u00a0language, using phrasing that is deliberately\u2014misleadingly\u2014lightweight. Both Babitz and Lispector play with the expectations surrounding their beauty; and both suffered severe burns later in life, damaging the good looks they were known for. Their superficial assets superseded their work, which would have been laughable were they not aware. Lispector had her own style of challenging this notion. Babitz\u2019s was often in saying exactly what she saw\u2014maybe embellishing it just a little.\u00a0Her interest in appearances, and regard for her own, isn\u2019t so simple.<\/p>\n

Like Lispector and Ruscha, Babitz is obsessed with the void between language and meaning. She\u00a0writes in the opening note of\u00a0Eve\u2019s Hollywood<\/em>, \u201cI am really an artist, not a writer. So, I like the way Arabic numbers look un-written out on a page.\u201d This early disclaimer should have been accompanied by another announcing\u00a0Eve\u2019s admitted inability to spell (\u201cIt\u2019s strange to hear my friends\u2019 astonishment the first time they receive a letter from me and find the word sacrileges\u2014but how is it spelled?\u201d she later writes.) A few pages in to the dedication there\u2019s a telling error:\u00a0\u201cAnd to Marcel Duchamps who beat me at his own game.\u201d\u00a0Babitz knows she owes much of her notoriety to\u00a0Duchamp,\u00a0<\/em>but she can\u2019t be bothered to spell his name correctly\u2014and neither, I guess, could the copy editor.<\/p>\n

Ruscha, himself kind of a\u00a0faux na\u00eff, seems captivated by Babitz\u2019s ease, her unaffected self. \u201cShe was really intelligent and up-to-date, into out-of-the-way things, unpopular things, avant-garde,\u201d he told me. \u201cOur little Kiki de Montparnasse pulled it off.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stephanie LaCava is a writer in New York. Her work has appeared in\u00a0<\/em>Interview,\u00a0<\/em>The Los Angeles Review of Books, and other print and online publications, including\u00a0<\/em>Vogue\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Tin House.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Eve Babitz\u2019s singular take on Los Angeles. Years ago, a friend gave me a first edition of\u00a0Eve\u00a0Babitz\u2019s second book,\u00a0Slow Days, Fast Company\u00a0(1974), which had slipped out of print. Tucked inside was a promotional photo of the author on thick, glossy Kodak paper; the back cover, featuring the same image, explained that Babitz had begun to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":45,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[489],"tags":[17,20436,5004,9371,19774,20434,217,15537,20435],"class_list":["post-92551","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books-2","tag-books","tag-charles-moll","tag-clarice-lispector","tag-ed-ruscha","tag-eve-babitz","tag-eves-hollywood","tag-los-angeles","tag-reissues","tag-slow-days-fast-company"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLos Angeles Through the Eyes of Eve Babitz<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 4, 2015 \u2013 Eve Babitz\u2019s singular take on Los Angeles.Years ago, a friend gave me a first edition of\u00a0Eve\u00a0Babitz\u2019s second 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