Photography and Janet Malcolm

Photography—the nature of images, and the nature of documentation, of cataloging, of representation—was one of Janet Malcolm’s key subjects, from her first book of criticism, Diana and Nikon, to her own work as a photographer. This latter work is greatly overshadowed by her lasting contribution to written culture—her books In the Freud Archives, The Journalist and the Murderer, and The Silent Woman, among others, being some of the most incisive critical works about the ethics of writing. (Already, a digression: I found the recent splash-up over Kristen Roupenian’s “Cat Person”—namely the essay published in Slate by Alexis Nowicki, who claimed that a personal relationship she had was the inspiration for the viral hit story—reenforced my sense of sadness over Malcolm’s recent passing. Not that I felt that she would have necessarily written a word about the incident, but sadness at the fact that it was no longer possible she’d jump into the conversation.) Reading Diana and Nikon in the past week, I was reminded of the slim volume of photographs Malcolm published in 2008, Burdock.

Burdock is a study of leaves Malcolm photographed over three summers in the Berkshires. These large leaves are presented as highly-detailed works of documentary and art. (It was this summer that I found myself in a position of despair, realizing that I could no longer look at any nature photograph without thinking of climate crisis, which has turned nature photography into a monument for a time-bomb.) The leaves are posed simply, without ornamentation and seemingly without context.  As in Malcolm’s writing, it is in the details of the subject that makes the work unique.

Writing of Richard Avedon,  one of the great photographers—whom Malcolm returned to as a subject several times in Diana and Nikon—Malcolm points to the way that Avedon’s most iconic works passed through several stages, from the early portraits “characterized by their aliveness and (often exaggerated) expressiveness, and by the photographer’s conception of the subject as the embodiment of what he does” (44) to the shift towards the blunt, somewhat intimidating works that hold the “Avedon style.”

“His subjects become older, and his camera dwells on the horrible things that age can do to people’s faces—on the flabby flesh, the slack skin, the ugly growths, the puffy eyes, the knotted necks, the aimless wrinkles, the fearful and anxious set of the mouth, the marks left by sickness, madness, alcoholism, and irreversible disappointment. These pictures of people who no longer care how they look—or shouldn’t if they do—were taken under the glare of strobe lights or in bright daylight, to pick out every degrading and disgusting detail; were often angled from below, to reveal the collapse of chin into formless flaccidity or to accentuate the tense, death-rattle attenuation of neck; and were printed in savage black contrast.” (44-45)

This “horrible,” “collapse,” and “savage” photography is on display in Burdock. There is no looking away from a leaf that has been eaten into, been torn, been collapsing in on itself, or at the very least has been plucked from its landscape. The damaged spots on the leaves are the same spots we have seen over and over: on our hands and faces, in old photographs and medical charts, in documentary footage and reconstructions of “lost” or damaged films. Their lives can be read on the surface of their bodies.

Malcolm’s burdock leaves show they owe as much to Avedon photographs as much as they do fine lacework or silhouettes. The body of the leaf can be exposed with the same bluntness as a nude portrait, a passport photograph, or a patient on a table. The leaf is documented, almost as in an experiment. One can see shadows, or perhaps the blurred aura of the leaf’s green on the white backdrop. This returns us to the Avedon comparison (an influence Malcolm openly admits in the introduction to this volume) and shows the soft corners—the bleeding edge—of Malcolm’s photography as opposed to the tight, highly contrasting, black and white portraits Avedon was known for, in which the subject is as distinct from the background as a thick, black-lined cartoon. Malcolm’s effect is that of Modernist pastels. The composition of leaves also brings to mind Mapplethorpe’s late photographs of flowers, which display a rich physicality and depth, or the iconic paintings of Georgia O’Keefe.

And while thinking of O’Keefe, we are reminded of Stieglitz, who floats throughout Diana and Nikon, including a review of a volume of photographs of O’Keefe (which O’Keefe would not let Malcolm reproduce images from in her volume). One of the key points in the review is the effect that the crop, the frame of the image, can have in changing the impact of the work. Discussing these nude portraits, Malcolm writes that, in contrast to Stieglitz’s image as “pompous, sententious, petulant, cold, sexless,” “The man who took the pictures of O’Keefe is a person of evident warmth, passion, erotic imaginativeness and assured masculinity.”

“One Stieglitz nude, of 1918 (never before published)—a torso cropped at the chest and mid-thigh—stands out from the rest in its blunt sexuality. The picture is taken from below, from a gynecologist’s vantage point. […] What gives the picture its tremendous erotic impact is, paradoxically, the very thing that saves it from being lewd and unprintable in an art book. The photograph is printed to darken out the particulars of the genitals: the dark pubic hair merges with the darkness below and forms an enormous black place at the center of the picture which dominates the composition—drags the eye to itself, as an abyss compels the gaze of the vertiginous into its fathomless darkness” (133-134).

(She returns to this focus on the crop in a discussion of Edward Weston’s photograph Torso of Neil throughout Diana and Nikon, and later in a discussion of the photographs of Herta Hilscher-Wittegnstein, both of which concern the representation of the body and its emotional effects.) The crop focuses on a subject—a movement of the eye that performs a slight-of-hand for the viewer, or directs a viewer’s focus like a traffic cone. Malcolm’s photographs of burdock leaves often leave out the bottle in which they were placed to stand tall, but the hinting mouth of the bottle appears in a few of them, and lingers there like something we are not supposed to be seeing, like the mixing of drugs in a test tube.

The clinical nature of Malcolm’s photographs demonstrates a paradoxical frame of mind: documenting the natural world, and in doing so, removing it to a new context, one in which it decays and spends its final moments apart from its natural location. But is this pinning down not the job of a writer? Certainly, as one who has worked as a passport photographer, one can see the difficulty of representing the subject in a recognizable way while presenting the subject removed from real-world context through a sterile background. In Diana and Nikon, Malcolm remarks about the selection process of photographs—namely, there is a moment before and after the photograph was taken, and often there are photographs that were almost the “iconic” photograph, but were not quite right. In “Slouching Towards Bethlehem, PA.,” Malcolm writes not only of alternate photographs made by Walker Evans (multiple versions of iconic works, as opposed to Stieglitz and his theoretical “one-take” masterwork, The Steerage,” discussed in the opening of Diana and Nikon) but also of the ability for a photograph’s printing and editing to change the context and meaning of the photograph itself. Using Evans’s photograph of a sharecropper, Malcolm points to the fact that the image that was widely disseminated and used in Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, is, in fact, retouched and printed in a manner that blunts the “horror” elements discussed earlier.  The photograph as printed (and given “iconic” status) “betrays” the text written by James Agee. Photography, then, has the ability to contort the perception or experience of reality. (This becomes explicit in the playful spirit of surrealist photographers, or disturbingly in bad reportage.) The pose of Malcolm’s leaves rarely allows for this kind of betrayal or seduction, unless it is consciously playing with these ideas, as in one photograph of a curved leaf folding over, looking both as if it is closing and opening at the same time.

Malcolm’s camera came to the leaves with the same pointedness as her pen came to sentences. The works reproduced in Burdock will perhaps seem simple and small at a first glance, but further inspection demonstrates the Malcolm style that many readers admired throughout her life and work.

Janet Malcolm

Buster & Beyoncé

The contemporary wisdom is that silent films are difficult for modern audiences to watch. This is not surprising. Silent films contain a different pacing; a different visual emphasis. The language of a silent film swings between more subtle renderings of emotion (Louise Brooks and sometimes Garbo) and exaggerated emphasis to compensate for the lack of speech (everyone else, including Chaplin, the Gish sisters, Swanson, and sometimes Garbo). At the start of quarantine, I went back to watch silent films because I found the actors possessed an intense emotional versatility in their eyes. A person’s eyes have become one of the most important facets of reading someone’s emotional situation when a third of their face is covered by a mask. “We’ll see a lot of actors who developed very good communication with their eyes,” I said when asked what I thought would come out of the prolonged quarantine.

In part because of the work of Guy Maddin, Godard, and Peter Greenaway, I became fascinated by the concept of revisiting classic films and presenting them in new contexts: recreating lost sequences, supplying new music, or contrasting documentary footage or outtakes with the final project. I was also reminded by the internet that Beyoncé is always on beat. And so I took this short clip from The Cook, a 1918 silent short film with Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle and Buster Keaton as two kitchen workers in a hotel, and spliced it with “Apeshit” by The Carters. What happens if you put these two artists, a century apart, in direct contact with each other? What calls out and speaks across time–beyond the intentions of anyone involved with either work?

Reading about The Cook, I became aware that the sequence I had found and heard was, in fact, a parody of Theda Bara’s performance in Salome: a lost silent film about the beheading of John the Baptist, loosely based on the play by Oscar Wilde.

(This would also be the basis for Ken Russell’s absurd, neo-Victoriana, Freudian sex romp, Salome’s Last Dance, featuring the legendary Glenda Jackson as Salome’s mother.) The Cook itself was considered lost until the 1990s. I was fascinated by the idea that film historians had uncovered a lost parody of a lost film (or potentially two, if one considers Arbuckle’s holding a sausage to his chest and pretending to die of snakebite as a possible reference to Bara’s 1917 Cleopatra.) The music video for “Apeshit” by the Carters visualizes a certain odyssey–a journey through culture to center black identity as central to culture, occupying the space of other grand signifiers of culture, such as the Mona Lisa. We see then two messages, one of elevation, and one of parody, working around each other when forced into direct conversation.

What fascinates me are the possibilities for opening up new audiences to classic films; to open a door to a greater potential visual literacy and reference for the next generation. Perhaps it doesn’t come down to something as grand as that. Perhaps, in the end, it is a question of entertainment before anything else.

Notes on Queering “Ally”

These notes were delivered in a different form as a guest lecture at Kutztown University on 1 April, 2021. They have been reworked from that lecture for the purposes of clarification and citation. There were many wonderful questions asked by the students, and I have worked some of my replies to them into the finalized notes. This work is, in many ways, still in progress–the issues under discussion cannot be resolved by a single lecture or essay, but must be part of an ongoing personal and social critique.

While the terminology of allyship arrives in the 1980s, I would argue that allyship as an action, as well as the concept of an ally as an invested participant in a movement, began with the change in the contemporary structure of what we now term social justice movements. Many contemporary imaginings of American history present the Civil Rights movement in a crystalized moment of the 1960s, reaching its zenith in the persons of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Rosa Parks, rather than presenting the era of the 1960s as part of a momentum building from previous decades of boycotts, protests, and marches on Washington. (This is not to downplay or erase the serious victories of icons of this movement, but to point to the tendency we have to clean up and simplify the nature of activism, social change, and the lives of activists as opposed to the force of a group political action.) I cannot pinpoint a moment when ideas of how to best organize shifted, but I would not be the first to suggest that the majority of movements that have obtained serious success in recent history have largely followed in the steps of the 1960s Civil Rights movement.

Inside the discussion of “Who Is an Ally?,” leading from a piece by Micki McEyla, we see an appeal on the part of the person outside of the group under discussion (IE: the other, who is assumed to be part of the heterosexual majority as opposed to the marginalized gay and lesbian subject). Allyship is given contemporary definition and form through a discussion of Washington and Evans’s Beyond Tolerance, a guide on being an ally to the lesbian and gay community of the 1980s. As McElya points out, all the benefits of allyship are presented as primarily benefitting the ally. One of the primary motivations of allyship is, half-jokingly, the boon to culture and richness of life that the ally will be able to lay claim to enjoying, to be “invited to some of the most fun parties, have some of the best foods, play some of the best sports, have some of the best intellectual discussion, and experience some of the best music in the world, because everyone knows that lesbian and gay people are good at all of these things.” The appeal to exceptionalism–we deserve our rights and your respect because we are just so damn good at what we do–serves a purpose, but it also lays the groundwork for another series of problems within the proclaimed-exceptional community: burnout, self-consciousness, impostor syndrome, and perfectionism for fear of letting everyone else down. If constant exceptionalism is what it takes to convince someone they should support the rights of others, then we are all in a very unstable boat.

I would argue that allyship, like friendship and many other social interactions, comes down to certain ethical questions that we will not be able to answer definitively: What do we owe to each other? At what point do we have a responsibility beyond our own interests to support the rights of others? Do our deeper motivations for helping another person validate or invalidate our good works? When do we get to call ourselves a friend or an ally? And, perhaps the most difficult and troubling question for those who proclaim their ally status, At what point can a person or a group deny the status of “ally” to an individual?

“Who is an Ally?” begins with a discussion on the nature of naming within the LGBT+ community and what has become known as the “alphabet soup” problem. Jonathan Rauch, in a 2019 article cited by McEyla, suggests that the problem of too many letters (LGBTQIAA+) can be solved by replacing them with the singular letter “Q.” The problem, of course, is that any attempt at renaming or reworking the name of a group is inherently going to cause as much conflict as the original name. “Rauch noted that the ‘Q’ would be derived from ‘queer,’ itself an increasingly common term of inclusion in popular discourse, it would be sheared of the word’s ugly history and more recent ‘radical baggage.'” Leaving aside the reactionary aura of the phrase “radical baggage,” I want to challenge the idea that replacing a word with a single letter inherently changes the history of the word or the effect of the letter. The abbreviating of a word short-circuits the speaking or enacting of the word, but it does not erase the word itself. In critical discussion of racist and pejorative language, particularly in light of the ongoing acts of racist violence against Black and Asian-American communities that prompted part of this very discussion, there is often a tendency to redact a slur or profanity, or to cover up all but the first and last letters with asterisks and dashes. I found two examples in a copy of the NY Daily News I purchased the night before these remarks were delivered and I include them below:

“‘I’m going to hurt somebody,’ Ooi said the man snarled. ‘I’m going to f–k somebody up.”

-“Together, They Fight the Hate,” NY Daily News, 30 March, 2021, pg 10.

“A witness at the end of the minutelong [sic] video ca be heard claiming the victim called the suspect the N-word.”

-“Another Beatdown of Asian on Subway,” NY Daily News, 30 March, 2021, pg. 11

Here we see both the abbreviation of the word “fuck,” as well as the short-handing of a racial slur. This act in reporting places the writer or speaker on an awkward footing, allowing them to “say it without saying it,” as it were. The ghost of the slur and profanity remain in the space between the letters, which we as readers fill in. It does not eliminate the “baggage” of these words: in fact, it re-enforces their history on the reader. (There is also the unfortunate fact that the QAnon theory is sometimes referred to simply as “Q” in online spaces. Given the history (both past and ongoing) of presenting LGBT+ people as sexual predators, this dovetailing of self-naming and conspiracy theory is very poorly timed.

Rauch’s idea does, in fact, bring to the forefront an important point about reclaiming and reworking words, particularly words that have a “baggage,” like Queer. Queer, as a term, is always the mark of the outsider or the Other. The outsider term comes with a space of questioning: the outsider is defined as being apart from the assumed normal structure of a community or group in one or more ways, and is defined, stereotyped, and penalized for not fitting into what is viewed as “normal.” Toni Morrison defines the process of Othering as follows:

“What is the nature of Othering’s comfort, its allure, its power (social, psychological, or economical? Is it the thrill of belonging–which implies being pat of something bigger than one’s solo self, and therefore stronger? My initial view leans towards the social/psychological need for a “stranger,” an Other in order to define the estranged self (the crowd seeker is always the lonely one.”

-Toni Morrison, The Origin of Others, pgs. 15-16.

Rarely do those defining Otherness turn that same gaze upon themselves and seek to define, in a meaningful way, “What is normal?” Normal is assumed, Other or Queer is presented in contrast, or in negative relief to, the assumption. Therefore, it is also important to question or queer the assumptive definition of a term that is being claimed, reused, and held by individuals seeking to meet under a word. In “Critically Queer,” Judith Butler lays out the argument for continued analysis of the way in which these words are used:

“Who is represented by which use of the term, and who is excluded? For whom does the term present an impossible conflict between racial, ethnic, or religious affiliation and sexual politics? What kinds of policies are enabled by what kinds of usages, and which are backgrounded or erased from view? In this sense, the genealogical critique of the queer subject will be central to queer politics to the extent that it constitutes a self-critical dimension within activism, a persistent reminder to take the time to consider the exclusionary force of one of activism’s most treasured contemporary premises.


“If the term queer is to be a site of collective contestation… it will have to remain that which is, in the present, never fully owned, but always and only redeployed, twisted, queered from a prior usage and in the direction of urgent and expanding political purposes. This also means that it will doubtlessly have to be yielded in favor of terms that do that political work more effectively.” (Butler 172)

In this way, we have to consider not only “Queer” but “Ally,” as well as any other term deployed for the purposes of political organizing. Ally comes with the implication that the user is standing with, but separate from, a group. (This is why many–myself included–have been somewhat mystified by the arguments of including allies in the LGBT+ umbrella: one does not become a member of the Black community by being an Ally in support of Black Lives Matter.) Butler is well aware that words, once released into the world, are no longer entirely under our control. They can be played with, played against, recut, reworked, remixed, redefined, and given meaning beyond our intent or understanding–sometimes within reason, sometimes (as in the case of certain interpretations of Butler’s Gender Trouble, mentioned in “Critically Queer”) with the clear intent of misunderstanding from a closed mind. Indeed, in the semi-satirical book, You Can Keep that to Yourself: A Comprehensive List of What Not to Say to Black People, for Well-Intentioned People of Pallor, the author, Adam Smyer, says that the first term that should be thrown out of the lexicon is, in fact, “Ally.”

“Well-intentioned people of pallor went seamlessly from not seeing color to being allies. Bein part of the problem was never considered. And, really, ‘ally’ was fine for a while. It was aspirational. But now ‘I’m an ally’ is the ‘Don’t hurt me!’ of our time” (11).

Smyer’s book moves between a humorous approach and a sense of genuine frustration–at both rhetorical strategies and the very realistic silencing and unwillingness to have a deep conversation about the issues effecting people of color in the United States. Smyer performs an act of informing the (presumed pale) reader of a term, the context in which it is used, the problem with the term, the context, and the use, and why it should be, in effect, cancelled. This represents, in a simple way, the critical strategies called for by Butler in “Critically Queer.”

In the same way, we can see a connection between Smyer’s work and the now-infamous New Statesman interview between Alona Ferber and Judith Butler, in which Butler replies to Ferber’s questions with refutations of the way the questions were constructed while still answering the question in direct, fairly simple language. (The straightforwardness of Butler’s replies, after spending so much time with “Critically Queer,” might still remain the most shocking part of this exchange for me.) This interview comes across as an example of critical engagement in “real time” as well as an application of the theories in “Critically Queer,” from her question about what is assumed in the use of the phrase “mainstream feminism” to the discussion of the term “TERF”:

“I am not aware that terf is used as a slur. I wonder what name self-declared feminists who wish to exclude trans women from women’s spaces would be called? If they do favor exclusion, why not call them exclusionary? If they understand themselves as belonging to that strain of radical feminism that opposes gender reassignment, why not call them radical feminists?”


“Feminism has always been committed to the proposition that the social meanings of what it is to be a man or a woman are not yet settled. We tell histories about what it meant to be a woman at a certain time and place, and we track the transformation of those categories over time.”

A significant portion of the works engaged with in the lead-up to this lecture are about the question of identity, either being defined by things outside of ourselves, or through identities we take on and claim for ourselves. This brings with it baggage: what constitutes proclaiming yourself as a member of a group, and what makes your membership valid or invalid? In the case of Allyship, there remains a question of what constitutes “being an Ally.” As Colleen Clemens states in her essay “Ally or Accomplice,” while one may hear accomplice and think about crime, the original meaning of the word conveys a sense of cooperation—and not in a criminal sense.” This past summer, many of us witnessed the limits of allyship in light of the global pandemic and crack down on protests and acts of civil disobedience in the face of state-sanctioned violence in major cities. The ongoing crisis of COVID-19 and the ongoing crisis in hate crimes, abuse of police power, and ongoing intimidation and suppression of voting rights in the aftermath of the 2020 election, has forced some using the language of allyship into a corner. To proclaim that one is an Ally is to say that one supports and stands with a group: to say that one is an accomplice is to say that one is going to aid a group. To proclaim that one is an Ally to this or that cause without substantive action is, in fact, mere performance, enacted for the benefit of the Ally alone. I suggest that to say that one is an ally without offering any kind of proof is to enter into the same ghostly space as the letters removed from an abbreviated slur: one is making an appearance without really being there.

The move from Ally to Accomplice follows Butler’s idea that terms “will doubtlessly have to be yielded in favor of terms that do political work more effectively” (172). An accomplice might not have been central to the action at hand, but is enmeshed with the work of the targeted group or actor one is standing with. This removes a barrier of protection on the part of the accomplice–one cannot entirely walk away, one must take a risk in being included in repercussions stemming from protest action–and promotes a more-substantial affinity between the outsider and the group.

What are we willing to risk when we say that we stand with another person, particularly when we stand to gain little to nothing for doing so? We must ask what our purpose is, where our soul lies with our sense of justice and critical thought, and grow from that point, using what tools we have, and seeking new means of connection to others.

Drella: Sunday Morning

A year ago, I made a cover of “Surrender” by Suicide under the moniker of Drella. After another creative block, I found myself making shadowboxes and collage works, being too tired to do any essay writing. Inspired by a shadowbox I made for my boyfriend’s birthday, I thought to record a version of one of my favorite songs, “Sunday Morning,” by the Velvet Underground, from their debut album The Velvet Underground And Nico. Of course, the album was produced by Andy Warhol, who was the original Drella according to founding VU members John Cale and Lou Reed.

Bubble Memory: “I Remember” by Joe Brainard and Georges Perec

“There was plenty of time to remember things, and perhaps most importantly, there was more time to misremember things. We had the opportunity to naval gaze and imagine what could have been. The time locked in our rooms was a chance to pretend that life had been something different, before we remembered what our lives had really been like.” (From an unpublished story, written in April, 2020.)

Memory has the unnerving ability to seem absolutely certain at the same time that it is fallible. Even after years of playing postmodernist games, there is a certain instinct to trust the narrator of a piece; to believe that what we are hearing is true. If anything, the mere appearance of something in print bestows an air of legitimacy and authenticity. This can be used as both an integral part of satirical effects, or a sort of dark magic in the wrong hands. To engage meaningfully with a text, we have to be willing to be open in as much as we are willing to raise our suspicions. How much trust are we to give our memories or the memories of other people as a foundation for documenting our lives?

Joe Brainard’s experimental memoir, I Remember, collects a series of paragraphs, each of which begins with “I Remember…” and each of which presents a specific memory. In this way, Brainard operates in the tradition of Gertrude Stein, with the force of repetition baring the constraints of a mantra or rosary. There is also a hat-toss to the surrealist concept of a text that could be created as if painted by number—a formula for artistic production, made for humankind in the assembly age, to be given a thought and be asked to complete it.

I remember pillow fights.

I remember being surprised at how yellow and how red autumn really is.

I remember chain letters.

I remember Peter Pan collars.

I remember mistletoe.

I remember Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” (so sad) in Meet Me in St. Louis.

I remember Judy Garland’s red shoes in The Wizard of Oz.

 I remember Christmas tree lights reflected on the ceiling.

 I remember Christmas cards arriving from people my parents forgot to send Christmas cards to.

Brainard (49)

These are just a sample, seasonally appropriate, from page 49. Within this selection, we see the mixing of a personal experience (Christmas tree lights reflected on the ceiling and cards arriving from people Bainard’s parents forgot to send cards to) and a larger, cultural memory (Judy Garland). What intrigues in the rereading of I Remember is the way that the listed memories bounce off of each other, sometimes forming a clear connective sequence around a theme—food, sex, religion, the movies—or seeming sometimes to shift focus without a clear connecting path between them.

Brainard’s memory is explicitly tied into cultural memory, not only that of his own association with the New York School, but also from the media-centric culture of his youth—movie stars especially. If you want to search for name-dropping, you can find the famous acquaintances referred to here. I admit my own eyes opening a little wider as I tracked down the appearances of Frank O’Hara and the movie star that I always associate with the unfortunate poet. (“Lana Turner has Collapsed!”, poor dear.) “I remember that Lana Turner was discovered sipping a soda in a drugstore” (59).  But this is only the partial, tabloid truth, a false memory, or rather a memory of falseness, tied to a publicity story fed to fan magazines and newspapers during the height of Hollywood’s power to transform an actor’s life story. In spite of this, the romantic notion of the story is itself a drug, a machination of a publicity machine that liked to place the impossibly beautiful halfway in our reach. Lana Turner was once a girl like you. We remember truths just as easily as we remember illusions. There are moments in which we have to choose whether to continue believing in a given illusion or received truth and choosing to find a new truth, a new story. The memory of the false story can remain as a kind of trivia.

Frank O’Hara
Lana Turner

The memory of Lana Turner, along with the aforementioned Judy Garland, brings a small point that is worth noting. Elements of I Remember, along with other works by Brainard, often refer to the coded culture of queer icons, particularly the use of “Golden Era” Hollywood (as well as other pop culture materials) in conjunction with a camp sensibility. Brainard’s perspective as a gay man is inherently tied to his memories of sexuality and his experience of culture. At the same time, anyone of his generation, queer or not, would have seen Judy Garland, either in a film or on television or on the radio, and would most likely have experienced her impact on the culture as a star figure. In this way, the presentation of this memory is a hand reaching out to both the straight audience and the queer audience, a place of common ground as much as double-meaning. In this sense, the construction of I Remember is itself in a sense camp, operating on multiple levels of meaning; yet operating in a seemingly straightforward and unironic way. The text is itself able to step away from this same camp sensation by virtue of its willingness to detail the explicit physical and emotional details of the author’s desires and memories of desire.

It is easy to create one’s own structured memories by following Brainard’s pattern. I don’t know the extent to which Brainard revised and reworked his sentences (though it had to have happened, given that I Remember is in fact a gathering of several smaller published series based around the “I Remember” theme). In works such as this, the personal reflections of the author almost imply the opportunity to remember—to become an active participant in the making of the text, or to respond (either seriously or as parody) by creating a text revising the original question. What follows is roughly an unedited page of what came to mind when I started to piece things together:

                I remember convincing my father that oatmeal cookies with icing were fewer calories than same cookies without icing. (And they were, according to the package!)

                I remember vending machines in a coin-operated laundry mat next to the local library where my parents would drop me off for an afternoon once a week. I would promise not to leave the library and then sneak over to the laundry matt to get a treat with coins I gathered through the week.

                I remember that the vending machine was broken more often than not and wouldn’t give me my change back.

                I remember putting a piece of pumpkin bread into the microwave too long and a cloud of smoke that looked like sulfur covered my face when I opened the door.

                I remember my first consenting experience with a man was with a man whose name I can’t remember.

                I remember trying oysters for the first time with my best friend, who was obsessed with them, and the champagne we ordered, and the way we compared notes about what oysters were said to taste like and how that idea did or did not meet expectations.

                I remember throwing up at a hookah bar because I had bronchitis but had gone along to support my then-boyfriend at open mic night. The smoke had come into my eyes, ears, nose, and throat. I suddenly stopped breathing and my words were replaced by sickness as I ran to the bathroom and desperately tried to clean myself up.

                I remember that he kept playing as I was sick and I remember that he didn’t ask if I was okay and I remember that he didn’t understand why I didn’t want to kiss him after.

                I remember my brother biting my hand because I was brushing his hair too aggressively.

                I remember being in a glass elevator in Georgia the year that the Olympic bombing happened.

                I remember Razzles. And Mallow Cups. And Pecan Spinwheels kept in the freezer until they turned into rocks.

Brainard’s text becomes a perpetual writing prompt—creating a series of potentially endless revisionary, remixed, and extended works employing the formula. The writer Georges Perec did just that, in a book that, more than An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris, speaks to the documenting of place and time: not just three days in a series of cafes across from a fountain, but a lifetime in fragmentary bursts of symbols.

“This cultural resistance to translation is more obvious in what may be Perec’s most untranslatable book, Je me souviens (I Remember), a collection of brief remembrances of things and people that are indecipherable to anyone not French and not of his generation.”

–Footnote from Translator’s Afterword to An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris, Marc Lowenthal.

What does this say about how personal a work can be? Can a work develop a language that is so much “inside baseball” that the attempt to translate it to another language and another time might go beyond the usual difficulties of translation that the reader must be welcomed into the world of the writer, as if a blueprint was needed to understand even what the context of a work meant, much less the content of a work? One of the authors of the collective known as Wu Ming also happens to be one of the primary translators of Stephen King’s novels into Italian. I once read an interview with this Ming member, saying that one of the difficulties of translating Stephen King was the use of brand names in his work—it’s not just cigarettes, they smoke Pall Malls. It’s not just candy, it’s a Mars Bar. These things are a shorthand to the American reader, something that we can swap the specific name brand for the generic concept of a piece of candy or a cigarette, that do not translate well across land, language, and time. I think of the domestic novels that I read in college that would make reference to a particular cleaning product—clearly referenced as a joke—and hoping for the footnote that would give me something to latch onto. This reference, this memory, did not translate into my own. Having grown up in a different America than Joe Brainard, it is amazing how infrequently I had to make a gesture towards the footnote, when something would pass me by completely. These works are specific to his time and place (and his remarks about women and non-white people are evidence of the passive, generational prejudice that eventually kills us all); yet I can identify with the memories of a man who died before I was born.

In Perec’s hands, “I remember” becomes a sort of challenge, reflecting the way in which these memories, as a whole, can only belong to one person in total—Georges Perec. There will be overlaps and moments of parallel between author and reader, but the sum of the parts can only be collected in Perec’s notation of these memories. In Perec, we see how culture can become a gap in the sympathy of our memories. Indeed, it is much more difficult to find an appropriate sample from this work, as the entries form a series of declarations that are so specific as if to be without meaning to an outsider.

I remember an aperitif that was called “le Bonal.”

I remember “Prosper youp-la-boum.”

I remember the third-class carriages on trains.

I remember that in Merrily We Live, there are two dogs, one called “Get out of it,” the other “You too.”

I remember that Jean Gabin, before the war, had a contract stipulating that he had to die at the end of each film.

 I remember the Yves Klein exhibition, at the Gallery Allendy, Rue de l’Assoption.

Perec (42)

It is when a remark such as “I remember the murder of Sharon Tate” appears that the reader feels something to latch onto. Words and suggestions appear that a reader may understand in part but may not put into the correct context. Within the specificity of memory, there are also moments where Perec allows for the limitations of memory and the idiosyncrasies of personal reflection to take forefront of the text, recalling the ways memory can be shaped and reshaped, to admit to the absence at hand. “I remember the radio programs (Comme il vous plaira) presented by Jean-Pierre Morphée and ?” (76). The work concludes with an invitation to the reader to create their own list of “I Remembers” inspired by Perec’s example.

The volume composed by Perec includes a substantial index, with references, corrections, explanations, photographs, and suggestions of the work’s relationship to the cosmology of Perec’s other writings. The value of the work, especially when read immediately after Brainard’s, is two-fold. It calls into question the reliability of a world created by the declarative voice of a narrator. It also reflects the cracks in an assumed common ground and collective experience brought by a reader to the text. At heart, the formula for structured memory provided by the simple phrase, “I Remember,” opens the door each time to a deeply personal, radically different experience of memory, truth, and time.

Reprint: Breaking Childhood Illusions: A Personal Narrative

An Introduction

Early this morning, I discovered that Roadside America, one of the largest interior train displays in the country, was officially closing after 85 years of operation. In the age of quarantine, the business could no longer survive, after holding on for several years in hopes of new ownership. The materials, I was told, would be auctioned off, piece by piece. This forced a return to an essay I wrote a few years back on the experience of revisiting Roadside America. It turned out that this would be the last time that I was able to visit–although I did not know that at the time. It has always existed for me in a weird vacuum of nostalgia: something that was old before my time, something that seemed so distant and unusual as I tried to explain it to my partner. Visiting Roadside America was, in many ways, like streaming a silent movie on a tablet–you were experiencing an event in a context the creator never could have envisioned. In describing Roadside America, I often think about the Night Pageant, mentioned in the following essay. I maintain conflicted feelings about it. On the one hand, this display influenced my own practice of using cultural memory in art, the use of collage, projection, and contrast, and an interest in the progression of time. On the other hand, it perpetuated an unquestioned, unthinking idea of cohabitating nationalism and religious traditionalism that is responsible for so much of the present chaos in the United States. The memory represents both a simpler time and an uninformed time–explicit spectacle and implicit ideology. My feelings remain complicated; they probably always will. I suppose that the goal of revising these memories and engaging once more with childhood institutions is to see what new meaning and new purpose can be found alongside the meanings and purposes we were too little to understand.

Breaking Childhood Illusions: A Personal Narrative

Holga: […] I didn’t know. And now I don’t know how I could not have known.
-Arthur Miller, After the Fall (15)

“Just don’t say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if only you had heard this story.
You’ve heard it now.”
-Thomas King, The Truth about Stories (167)

A few years ago, another student I was sharing a house with asked if I could drive her out to Hershey so she could visit her friend. Being an undergraduate, I actually had some free time; so I said yes. I had taken the drive many times—a girlfriend of mine had lived out there—and family car trips had occasionally ventured that far from home in search of antique markets, fun little tourist traps and amusement parks. We bought some Peach Rings, bottles of water and cans of soda, and set out.

We stopped at one of the largest indoor train sets in the country, Roadside America. The signs outside the building, which were weather-beaten when I was a child, had been repainted since I had last been there, but they were already showing signs of organic wear and tear. The interior of the main building looked as though it had not been touched since the 1970s, except for the few stray traces of technology which had clawed their way inside from pure necessity. We paid our entrance fee to go look at the train display, and walked through the thick, velvet curtain just in time for the “night pageant”—a production of patriotic songs and lighting effects which cast the entire room into darkness and created an eerily beautiful display of hundreds of miniature homes lit up from the inside as trains rush past. The production ended as the lights recreated a sunrise over the display, and Kate Smith even sang “God Bless America.”

The last time I had been there, in the days after 9/11, it seemed as if this retro-patriotic effect had been designed just for that moment. Now, lacking any subtlety, it seems almost comical.

As the lights came up, I saw something which I had completely forgotten about. There was a display of a western scene to the right of where we were sitting. The scene varied in scale, from small models which were the size of everything we’d been looking at below to two large Indians looming over everyone, looking out into the distance at the American flag and Statue of Liberty at the other end of the room. If I were a more talented child, I think I would have created a story about this man as a great spirit who looked out over everything below—a spirit of the first people in this land, looking for his decedents, and looking on at those of us who came over without permission. But I wasn’t that kind of talented child, and in fact the western scene used to scare me. The reason that I did not remember it from when I was younger was that I had avoided really looking at it before. Like a fear of heights had kept me from looking over the railing in the elevated mountain-scape section of the tour, the fear of the unknown had kept me from looking at this display. I will admit to having been cowardly child, frequently afraid of what was different. Perhaps this was because I was afraid of what was different growing inside of me—a growing knowledge of my own queerness in a heterosexual culture. Sensing this difference, I pushed away from the differences of other people instead of finding common ground and reaching out to them.


Now I looked at the two figures of “Indians” staring out at me, one on each side. They were covered in tracks of war paint and dark as coffee beans. Below the one, a battle of the Wild West erupted; below the other, a pueblo untouched by white settlers. Given that the model town on display below us was supposed to represent any small town, but specifically Pennsylvania’s small towns, it seemed so odd and out of place. Of course, there had been Indigenous people in this part of the country, and there still are. There’s even a small pamphlet about the Hochstetler massacre on sale in the gift shop for those who don’t understand the dangers of indigenous folk.

When I grew up in Bethlehem, there was a house on the side of a mountain with a cement patio in the back that had the statue of a young Native American girl looking out over the Lehigh Valley. We called it the Pocahontas statue because Pocahontas was the only female “Indian” we ever thought of and because she was pretty. (Sacajawea was not yet coined into our consciousness.) She looked out from her perch and waved to those who came and left the Valley. “Wave to Pocahontas,” my mother would say, and my brother and I would make a rudimentary gesture of what we thought would be some kind of Indian hello and goodbye. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized she wasn’t waving—her hand had broken off, and so the wave was cut off in a grey stump.

I listened to old radio shows on cassette tapes bought in thrift stores, comic book shops and the gift store of the Cracker Barrel restaurant. Until I was a teenager, there was no cable in our house, and the Internet existed only as something I used the library computer for when I couldn’t find a book. Tonto and Lone Ranger were childhood playthings, imaginary worlds, alongside the Shadow and his orientalist mystical spectacular. Because they existed in my mind instead of a visual field, the fear I felt soon abated. These stories spent so much of their time cultivating the mystique of the “other,” the outsider, the person from a place cut-off from the rest of us. And with that isolation and that “other”-ness came great powers that few could access without giving a kind of respect and deference to the “other.” This does not, however, negate the constant problems of the savage myths perpetuated by these same radio dramas.


I am writing about these things that have seated themselves at the very edge of my memory because they have moved from the edges slowly inward in my consciousness over the last seven weeks. I am writing about these things because I need to find a way of explaining what I have seen and what kind of baggage I have brought into this journey with me. This was, in many respects, a part of my childhood—just as it was a piece of many childhoods before mine, especially for American boys. To my knowledge, I have no indigenous heritage, not even in an apocryphal manner of the “Indian Grandmother” myth that Deloria wrote about in Custer Died for Your Sins. I feel that I should have stated this from the beginning to clarify my own position here.

Being white, I feel that there is only so much that I can say in regard to these issues. I must acknowledge, as must all people who exist outside of these cultures and experiences, that there is only a certain point to which I can speak. After that point, I must turn it over to the writers and activists themselves. I can magnify their voices, I can amplify the radius of their message by sharing it, reblogging it, buying copies of their pamphlets and books and giving them to friends, distributing their poems. I cannot speak for them though. To do so is to contribute to their erasure and silencing, albeit in a way which is not directly reigning violence against their experiences.

My relationship with this subject can make me uncomfortable. It should.

In all of these representations, I see that the Indigenous people are cut off—sometimes quite literally—from giving full expression to their voice, their culture, their needs. Even when it’s glorified, they’re limited—they can’t move or speak or be humans. Not just yet.

I hope in writing about this, I’ve called up some images from the past for you as well, and in doing so that you become aware of the ways that these images bled into our worlds. In reading these Indigenous writers I realize that I need to account for my own background and the ways in which I contributed to these stereotypes—even if I did it in innocence. I didn’t realize then, but I do now. The illusion is broken, and I will never put it back together.

This essay was originally published at Indigenous Ambiguities on February 28th, 2016. The original essay can be found at this link.

The Dear Loneliness Project in 12 Pieces



We are writing the longest letter in the world to fight loneliness. And we need your help.


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“I found an old school notebook, still half-empty. And so I wrote you a letter.”



Loneliness has long been deemed an epidemic in our society, yet relatively little attention has been bestowed it in research. As part of an artistic installation, we seek to create the world’s longest letter by compiling entries written by individuals like you about your frustrations, hopes, and experiences with isolation–connecting lonely people through art in the process.



“There were moments when I could feel my hope for the future bloom like a firework and shine through the evening. A firework does not last, however. I got used to the quiet–or rather, I got used to the sounds I would usually tune out. In March, I saw my neighborhood in daylight on a weekday for the first time in months. I promised I would keep a diary. I wrote to you instead.”



With your permission, your letters will be archived as both a record of the COVID-19 era and a crucial source of academic data for a poorly understood phenomenon.



“I saw other neighborhoods sing from their windows I saw a neighborhood of one sing “Moon River.” Both made me think of you. Both made me cry.”



And yes, we will be breaking the Guinness World Record letter length of 290 meters–three football fields or almost 1,000 sheets of A4 paper–together.



“I guess I’m telling you this because it is easier than telling you directly how it feels. At once to be by myself is to feel as though nothing stands in my way. Soon after, I feel like the bowl that cracked and then split in half maybe a week after everything stopped–still the same pattern, no longer holding together.”




8 years of life expectancy are lost as the direct impact of loneliness. 54% of Americans say they feel that no one knows them well. 49% of Britons age 65+ consider their TV or their pet their main source of company. 



When we think of our experience of time, time moves slower when we are alone. There were days that I became more conscious of time because I wasted it. I spent a great deal of time not writing and not working. When we are alone, it becomes much easier to procrastinate. I delayed writing my letter. Not because I didn’t know what I’d say, but because there seemed not enough time to say it. By the time I wrote my letter, quarantine (or at least the first real quarantine of my life) was over and I was working again. I had to reflect and recreate the feeling of apart-ness I felt. I wrote to loneliness the way I wrote to many people—friends, collaborators, my lover. I see no point in writing a letter if not to be honest in my feelings or to discuss something previously unexplored—to expand on a remark in class or something said during a phone call. I wrote and spoke more than usual because this was the time, in some ways, to have the conversations I’d been putting off.

Loneliness has no postal address; it’s a fairly universal state. So what better way to address it than to speak to the world? When we speak to loneliness, we are speaking to a deep part of ourselves. Perhaps we experience it because we look into ourselves and find something lacking, or perhaps we find something we want to share and no one to share it with. Loneliness is a place of no-place, a heart without a center, moving on without walls.



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The Vision: A room covered in over 1,000 feet of handwritten and scanned letters about loneliness, with the ceiling and floor covered in large mirrors that create the illusion of letters on loneliness stretching into eternity.






Sources: Italicized text taken from the Dear Loneliness Project website. Text in quotation marks is taken from my submission to the project, which was cataloged as entry number 85. Non-italicized text and text outside of quotation marks is original to this piece.

A Few Words on Perec

If Paris, A Poem, is a modernist representation of the French city at the height of early modernism, Georges Perec’s An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris is its postmodern sibling. Less ornate and reflexively flashy, this small work presents three days in Paris, documented by a narrator-observer trying to remain neutral as he describes the world around him. Observations come and go; collections of detail that would be window-dressing in a novel become the whole of the text: the list of busses repeats itself as they circle through their journeys (though frequently, our observer notes, not quite on schedule), brand names on bags, interesting hats and those nameless people sheltered under them walk back and forth as the observer picks up and drops the pattern of the day. The observer-narrator occupies the realm of the spy in real life, or a more realistic detective story—seeing the changes of the neighborhood; picking up on the pattern of a day without explosions or grand events. What makes these notes intriguing is that nothing happens on these days. These notes represent a foundation for a fiction that never quite emerges.

My intention in the pages that follow was to describe the rest instead: that which is generally not taken note of, that which is not noticed, that which has no importance. What happens when nothing happens other than the weather, people, cars, and clouds. (Perec, 3).

Perec et Chat

Whether or not Perec succeeded in his text comes down to intention. Is just observing enough or does it need to form a narrative—or at least some structure through which a reader can find connection between one piece and another? Is this connection necessary for meaning? Or art? Wayne Koestenbaum writes in his new book, Figure it Out, “These notes won’t be literature until I shape, frame, or contextualize their stammering” (43). With what level of intervention do notes become a publishable text? This is a fundamental question of the writing life—the development need of the author moving from notation to creation. Perec’s text forces these questions, which do not often register in the mind of the reader. We are used to seeing the filled-in text, the created and redesigned “room” of a work. To take Perec at his word, we can believe that we are seeing the raw ability, the raw material of a text. Consider the notebooks of another writer, the materials that became Death in Venice, for example. These are the elements to be built upon, the grain of a story, but they are not the story itself. Or Mann’s memoir on the writing of his Doctor Faustus, The Story of a Novel, in which the author gives an accounting of the writing of the work that many considered a crowning masterwork in a lifetime of masterworks. In this way, my friend and I have argued over The Original of Laura, or Nabokov’s recently published dream journal, or—to continue in another way with the same author—the proto-Lolita stories published after Nabokov’s death. In what way do these qualify (or fail to qualify) as texts? Does the fact that they are published and carry the name of the author make them texts instead of notes?


The word “raw” keeps entering my thoughts. This is not because I am writing this at a kitchen counter with the elements of my dinner lined up beside me, or because I keep thinking of intent as something that “cooks” the notes into a text, boils it down or bakes it until it rises. Or that I am wondering about the period that follows after cooking but before the text is consumed by the reader. I genuinely struggle with the idea that something is done, in that the spirit of revision—to cook it down a little while longer, to add another spice—is always there, sometimes to my detriment. I have been writing these notes since March, at this kitchen counter that looks out on a well-traveled street, where, the weekend before the Fourth of July, three cars are parked in an accidental pattern of red, white, and blue. I am distracted by a Mister Softee ice cream truck coasting up to the red traffic light as a reminder that (theoretically) quarantine is relaxed and we can pretend things are normal in the city. I think it would be naïve to suggest that this context has nothing to do with my thinking; just as it would be true to say that it means everything.

It makes sense that this reader could lose themselves in contrasting the experience of reading Mirrlees and Perec. Mirrlees has movement, a journey through the city; Perec is static—at first look. The narrator-observer has a space, but he doesn’t stay anchored. He moves about in the limitations he has set for himself like leopard in a cage. These movements can seem so small as to be unnoticeable as a reader glides through the pages of this short volume. After a morning and early afternoon, the mid-afternoon observer breaks from the fragmented document of the day’s work. This is the first time that the observer-narrator moves into a conscious acknowledgement of narration and the place of the narrating voice; an interior self, explaining the existence of his work. Consciously or not, the narration of the observer seems to come from Philip Marlowe, or the now-forgotten American radio drama about an insurance investigator, Johnny Dollar, whose case files were recounted as an expense account. The details are reported with unsentimental importance.

Later on, I went to the Tabac Saint-Sulpice. I went up to the second floor, a sad room, rather cold, occupied only by a quintet of bridge players, four of whom were in the middle of playing three clubs. I went back down and installed myself at the table I had occupied this morning. I ate a pair of sausages and drank a glass of Bourgueil. (18)

These details mark the beginning of a new phase in the work, one in which the narrator-observer calls attention to himself and speaks the declarative I. No longer is there the feeling, as David Foster Wallace put it, of being a giant, revolving eyeball in the center of things, trying to see and record as much as possible. The five paragraphs that follow speak to the continuation of this mode of narration. Just as soon as we begin to find the rhythm of this detective-novel prose, we return to the fragmented, one-line style of the earlier notes. At this point, I thought of a fiction editor once writing “Details! Details! Details!” on a friend’s short story, which they had gone out of their way to make as minimalist and spare as they could. It seems as though these notes are the little details—the references left out of other works. (Just as Perec wrote a novel in which there was no “E,” he also wrote a tale in which “E” was the only vowel. Waste not, want not.)

The interruption of “(fatigue)” on page 24 recalls the fact of the narrator-observer, particularly that the “(fatigue)” seems to signify the potential for absence and the force of authorial/editorial direction. That is to say, the note-taking in and of itself is no longer enough. A break occurs as the mind is worn down by the details of recording details. Breezy as the text may seem in its accounting, the act of observing, noting, observing again and placing down is exhausting. Like keeping a diary as a New Year’s Resolution, it seems as if the experiment could end here in a loss of attention. The narrator-observer rallies on, even though one can sense each section growing slightly shorter as the narrator-observer balances between what has already been noted (and can be noted again) and what has not been noted before.

When the details of the text start to add up, there is a realization that this third day is a national holiday. It seems as if this accounting of the details would add up to the event or spectacle of a holiday. When the holiday occurs on the third day, it is almost pointless and uninteresting by comparison to the odd details collected in the lead-up. There is the possibility that this has something with that lingering “(fatigue)” described by the author. The enthusiasm of the first day is waning, and this is the shortest section of the text. This is not meant as a criticism. Just as the focus on the text is on “that which has no importance,” it makes sense that the text would begin to fade out in the face of a disruption. Yet, at the same time, the fact that the holiday seems not to change too much what is noted seems to speak to larger issues about the way we experience life.

From the Translator’s Afterword:

An American sitting in the same cafés that Perec haunts in this short work, moreover, would undoubtably take note of very different details of his or her surroundings. Reading through Perec’s Attempt makes one realize the degree to which our perception of the world is formulated through categories, genres, and classifications, many of them specific to the cultures we come from. What remains outside these categories, going by this Attempt, seems to be sparce indeed. For all we know, these are in fact automatons walking about the place Saint-Sulpice—the items everyone holds in their hands seem almost to have more presence than the people holding them. (52)

To have read this text three times in quarantine was to have a security blanket of sorts. An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris is a connection to life in a city beyond incident, before the world stood still. And yet, it’s also a text about a place in Paris that continues on, just as it continued on after the destruction of World War II, just as it was a city of revolutions and survived those revolutions. The world has stood still before, just as Perec’s narrator-observer theoretically stands still.


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A 3D view of the Fountaine Saint-Sulpice taken from Google Maps

It was as I was writing the above remarks that I began to wonder how the landscape had changed. Would I be able to recognize the “exhausted” landscape of Perec’s notes by using them as a map? What was my conception of the place without actually getting to see it? The European Union was getting ready to ban Americans from entering its borders due to COVID-19 concerns, and I have a job and don’t have money enough to jet-set to Paris. And so I looked at Google Maps. I saw, in three dimensions, the fountain sketched out by Perec, completed in 1848. I saw the café at which Perec locates himself (not Les Deux Magots, the home away from home for writers of the generation before Perec’s) in a street-view photograph. Because of a fair or some other event going on when the pictures of the café were taken, I couldn’t see a view of the fountain from the relative position of the café tables. Judging from the photos I saw, it still looks like a well-traveled area, with someone always coming and going as other people look, see, notice, or perhaps, pretend not to notice.

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Cafe de la Maire in 2019, taken from Google Maps Streetview

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The Fountaine is hidden behind the white tents, obscured to the patrons of Cafe de la Maire in 2019. Image taken from Google Maps Streetview.

The Book of Monelle by Marcel Schwob

Recently I recorded an excerpt from The Book of Monelle by Marcel Schwob early last week and I have uploaded it to YouTube with some improvised music in the background. As with most things, it’s best experienced with headphones.


I chose this section of the book because I truly enjoyed Schwob’s work and can see its influences across so many other works, especially those of Jean Cocteau. This little fable about two girls—one of whom lives in a mirror—is my personal favorite from the book, which is an astonishing collection of perverse fairy tales. Schwob went on to have a major influence on many surrealists and Dadaists and all sorts of -ist artists.

You can listen to it below.

Thoughts on Paris: A Poem by Hope Mirrlees

Falling after Appolinaire; before cummings [sic] and Eliot, Hope Mirrlees represents the tale of a particular kind of Modernist writer. There should be much more attention given to her works after Faber’s republication of her 1920 masterful poetic experimentation, Paris: A Poem, for its 100th anniversary this past week.

The first edition of Paris: A Poem by Hope Mirrlees (Image from the British Library)

Mirrlees is one of the many Modernist writers overshadowed and “lost” between one generation and another. Most of her work is out of print and hard to come by, even in specialized collections. (Even the biography Hope-in-the-Mist by Michael Swanwick is out of print and almost impossible to come by.) She is not included in almost any anthology of Modernist poetry—not even anthologies focused solely on women writers of the period. When one of her novels was reprinted in a series of fantasy rediscoveries by Lin Carter, he stated that the publisher could find no proof that the author was still living. Like Jean Rhys, she was still alive, off the radar; unlike Rhys, she was deeply unamused and did not enjoy the level of resurgence. Apart from Lud-in-the-Mist, no lost novels came back in print and no new novels were led by the hand to completion. A small volume of poetry, Moods and Tensions, arrived in 1976. Mirrlees died in 1978.

Like most modern readers, I came to Mirrlees through her association with Virginia Woolf. In addition to her career as a writer, Woolf and her husband, Leonard, were commercial publishers and creators of the Hogarth Press. Woolf read manuscripts and set type for the publications—work Leonard believed would be therapeutic for her. (He was unable to set type due to a hand tremor.) One of the reasons the Woolfs turned down the chance to publish Joyce’s Ulysses was the difficulty of printing the book.  (Virginia also expressed her reservations about the quality of the book). Woolf typeset both Paris: A Poem and the first UK edition of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land in the early years of the press.

Mirrlees represents for me as well the value of digital archives in modern research. In the early days of the Google Books digitalization efforts (before I read Ursula K Le Guin’s open letter) I found a middling PDF copy of the text, scanned in from a university collection. At the time, this was the only ready way to access the poem. This was, for a time, the only way of accessing so many texts I would later study—Carl Van Vechten’s music criticism and essays, Gertrude Stein’s operas and cyclical poems, the first versions Marianne Moore’s work: gilded and ornate before the editorial scissors came out, Victorian pulp and early African American writers of fiction, nonfiction and poetry. If one lived in the suburban Waste Land and there were only limited libraries nearby, these scans opened up new possibilities otherwise denied. There was the thrill of excavation, of finding and interpreting a new tongue in engaging with these works for the first time.

The poem presents its sensibilities from the start: “I want a holophrase.” Moving from such a term—the declaration of an idea in a single word (ie: “Bed” for “I want to go to bed”)—the poem represents a day in a city as a single work, much as Joyce or William Carlos Williams would attempt in coming decades. Associations on the holophrase abound, from the holograph—a document entirely in the author’s own hand, both a term and an object the literary Mirrlees would be familiar with—to the hollow-phrase, where there is a distillation and accounting of words and their meanings. (Thinking as well of the phrase to come in another Eliot work: The Hollow Men.) The writer of the poem sends forth a melody of images and sounds; a conjunction of people and statues, as if witnessed on speeding transit. We would see, later, the incorporation of advertisements (what else has more hollow phrases and holophrases at the same time?) placed against literary references, the making of scrap into the foundation of a monument, like an outsider artwork.

I am reminded of a remark recorded in Some Contemporary Novelists (Women) by R. Brimley Johnson (1920), one of the few works referencing Mirrlees at length:

“Life,” says Miss Mirrlees, “is like a blind and limitless expanse of sky, for ever dividing into tiny drops of circumstances that rain down, thick and fast, on the just and unjust alike. Art is like the dauntless, plastic force that builds up stubborn, amorphous substance cell by cell, into the frail geometry of a shell.” (213)

These remarks were made in conjunction with her first novel, Madeline: One of Love’s Jansenists, published the year before Paris. I keep these words in mind as I follow along in the poem and its interpretations.

Moving through Paris, having made the way through the Metro, our speaker-guide tours through the Louvre. There is a litany of masterworks, an abbreviated catalog:

In the Louvre

The Pieta of Avignon,



Mantegna’s Seven Deadly Sins,

The Chardins

Minerva Chasing the Vices from the Garden of Virtue, which Julia Briggs identifies as the painting referenced as Mantegna’s Seven Deadly Sins by Mirrlees in her Notes on Paris: A Poem, published in Collected Poems, edited by Sandeep Parmar

Noticeably absent in the list is, of course, the Mona Lisa—arguably the imagistic holophrase of the museum for most, if not the representation of fine art more generally in popular consciousness. In 1911, the Mona Lisa was stolen. It was returned in 1914 and went from being a painting hanging on the wall (albeit a respected one) to becoming the highly guarded, highly mythologized image we associate with it. (“LA “JOCONDE” EST RETROUBEEE” the headline of Le Petit Parisien declared.) The theft, removal, or destruction of the Mona Lisa was, after all, a commonplace idea among the more radicalized modernists and several Dadaists and Surrealists (including Apollinaire) were interviewed in conjunction with the theft. Consider too the variations on rewriting and reworking the image, including Marcel Duchamp’s L. H. O. O. Q. of 1919, drawing a moustache on the image, perhaps the most recognizable of the vandalized reconfigurations of the Da Vinci image. Mirrlees’s poem is, by this absence of reference, both working in tandem with the artistic sentiment of wanting to destroy the past while at the same time calling constant reference to it.

From Vanished Smile by R. A. Scotti:

“When the Mona Lisa slipped out of her frames, she seemed to change from a missing masterpiece to a missing person. She came alive in the popular imagination. The public felt her loss as emotionally as an abduction or a kidnapping. Captivated by her mystery and romance, crowds gathered outside the Louvre each day, awaiting word from the prisonlike fortress that had failed to keep her safe.” (40)


Of course, no artwork is forever safe. It has an upkeep; it has to be retouched and met with again and again to fight off the decay of time. This is just to keep the object itself, not to mention the difficulty of maintaining the object’s safety. Returning to Mirrlees’s vision, we can pick up the theme of the disappearance-over-time, the movement of the poem’s narrator away from these locations and associations:

The Louvre is melting into mist

It will soon be transparent

And through it will glimmer the mysterious island

gardens of the Place du Carrousel. (14)

And on the next page another signifier of Paris is removed from glory, turned into a hollow representation:

The Eiffel Tower is two dimensional

Etched on thick white paper (15)

Against the sky and the natural world, the structure (then the largest man-made structure in the world) becomes a sketch, just as images turn in memory from full movies into flashes; snips of the past to reassemble. Man, the future, the plastic world holds only as the “frail shell” described by Mirrlees. Even in moments of glory, as Mirrlees would probably qualify the Louvre, there are to be found the most unfortunate things:

But behind the ramparts of the Louvre

Freud has dredged the river and, grinning horribly,

waves his garbage in a glare of electricity. (21)

(I keep thinking of the small world of Bloomsbury. A literary scene, just like the later music scenes of the 1970s and 1980s, is so small when you view it through time!) Freud was being published by the Hogarth press in editions by James Stratchy, relative of Lytton Stratchey, biographer, who was once engaged to Virginia Woolf. The view of Freud as dredging up nastiness recalls the vulgarity saddled upon him by H. P. Lovecraft in letters. The undercurrent, the repressed, the darkness under the surface, becomes dredged up and put on display in the second sun of the electric light, the perpetual noon harnessed to make the modern world.

I believe that there is a more explicit representation of the two-dimensionality in the Eiffel Tower in the narrow strip falling through two pages like Alice down the rabbit hole: “Thereisnolilyofthevalley.” Spelled out one letter at a time, this cumulative effect of letters building into language reworks and plays with the linear experience of words—learning them, seeing and knowing them, expecting them to run one way and find them running in another direction. In the same way, there were the earlier pronouncements of the run-together “Messieuretdames” of men and women as a single phrase. Through everything, there is the meeting point of the beautiful and the grotesque, the crash of sound on paper. I am reminded of my favorite piece of Modernist correspondence I’ve ever come across, a letter from Dorothy Richardson to Bryher estimated to be from around 1924. The letter includes many typographical marks that suggests the author was less than sober at the time of composition; yet I wonder if perhaps these mistakes in spelling and spacing so that “literary style will change completely” led to actual changes in the way writing was written, as Stein might phrase it.

A Letter from Dorothy Richardson to Bryher, available through Dorothy Richardson: An Online Exhibition

And Mirrlees did change her literary style. One of the recurrent remarks, borne out by reading her later work, is that nothing she wrote followed in the stylistic footsteps of Paris, just as she never wrote another novel after Lud-in-the-Mist, and just as she published one biography before her death. Like Djuna Barnes, she turned to the world of poetry and published less and less. Unlike Barnes, she had money enough to keep her in comfort for the rest of her life.

She went back to older forms of poetry and writing in a style removing itself more from Modernist experimentation. As time progresses, it becomes harder to find information about her. While nothing else in Mirrlees resembles the structure and form of Paris: A Poem, there are moments where one can see the glint of connections—themes flashing in the sunlight.

And in my ears the eerie voice still sings.

Then under the electric light

I saw a sallow vitreous heap

Of sodden, trodden, frost-nipped willow leaves…

Or were they just an insect’s fallen wings?

(from “Et in Arcadia Ego,”)

Or in her exploration of listening in and overhearing from her essay, “Listening in to the Past”

Do you like listening in? No. But I am very fond of a kaleidoscope. Indeed, it surprises me that this taste is not universal, for a kaleidoscope is the prettiest toy ever invented, and the most entertaining of all the thieves of time. It is a beautiful word, too, and sounds like the name of one of the Muses. However, I do not think the toy was known to the Greeks. If it had been, Plato would surely have founded upon it a cosmographical myth.

In Collected Poems, the editor, Sandeep Parmar does a wonderful job scraping together the kaleidoscope of the author’s life, giving due respect to an author who seems to have constantly stepped away from public view. (I have heard that Parmar is at work on a full biography of Mirrlees and I cannot wait to read it.) A conversion to Catholicism forced a move in her poetic style—leading to her refusal to allow Paris: A Poem to be reprinted in the 1940s over content she now viewed as blasphemous. (These passages would be changed or removed altogether when she allowed a republication of the work in an academic journal at the end of her life.) Her close—some rumor romantic, some label merely intense—relationship with classical scholar Jane Ellen Harrison, and Harrison’s death nearly fifty years before Mirrlees’ own, might explain the move to more traditional forms and the move of classical themes, works, and references to the forefront of the poetry.

I began these thoughts by saying that Mirrlees represents a particular kind of Modernist writer—a woman who creates something astonishing and interesting who disappears. But more than this, she is a writer who changes gears, who finds different voices. When I have read people who are dismissive of her work (and there are quite a few up until the last decade or so), I think about the program set out in Joanna Russ’s fantastic exploration of misogyny in criticism, How to Suppress Women’s Writing, particularly the belittling tone that the woman writer only managed to create one good work. (This is an extremely common remark made against Mirrlees.) There is, I am certain, more to be found in the few works that are available to us now, and yet more to discover in the works out-of-hand.

Dec. 2019-May 2020