Monday, March 28, 2016
Joe Brainard and John Ashbery, The Vermont Notebook broadside (signed and numbered by Ashbery, 2001)
This broadside by John Ashbery and Joe Brainard is currently hanging in our kitchen (which recently got decked out with some new cabinets!). I bought this for my wife (then-girlfriend) back in 2006; it was our first year in New York. I remember going out to an old church on St. Mark's Place in Manhattan to the offices of the Poetry Project to pick it up -- this was the last broadside they had for sale, and is number 115/125. Before I left the apartment, the girl who helped me on the phone described the Brainard illustration as "kinda like a landscape, but kinda like a salad" and I was absolutely sold -- it was a great gift and, looking back, somewhat of a beacon previewing the collectors we'd become (we've since acquired a lettered copy of The Vermont Notebook with an original ink drawing inside).
The broadside was made to commemorate the Granary Books / Z Press edition of The Vermont Notebook and was printed by Soho Letterpress (whom I coincidentally work with now at my office). The poem is fantastic (and appropriately kitchen-y) and I'm very pleased to share it with you. Be of good cheer.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Last Thursday I had the pleasure of seeing Howard Jacobson and James Shapiro talk about The Merchant of Venice at the 92nd Street Y. Jacobson is an absolutely fantastic writer, and he and Shapiro each read some of their own work and discussed Jacobson's recently published Shylock Is My Name, and in, general, the portrayal of Jews in Shakespeare's plays. I reviewed Shylock Is My Name at Run Spot Run and while I didn't think it was as brilliant as I knew Jacobson was capable of being, it's still a worthy effort. What was most fascinating about this talk was that Shapiro and Jacobson both addressed the limitations of Shakespeare and how the Bard's plays are by no means flawless (save Hamlet, I suppose). The Merchant of Venice is full of strange moments that a more casual reader might fault Jacobson's Shylock for including. I realized, that night, that many of my nitpicks about Shylock stem from the source material, and that Jacobson did a better job with the uneven hand he was dealt that I had ever imaged.
After the talk, I went to get my books signed and I told Jacobson that his novel J absolutely floored me and that I hope he wanders back into that novel's strange territory again. Sadly, he told me he wasn't sure: "it didn't do as well as we all had hoped", he said, and seemed genuinely surprised and humbled that anyone actually liked this book. This was one of my favorites from a few years ago, and I'm honored to get the "J" in my name crossed by the man himself.
While I am only one small voice in the reading and review community, I can't help but feel like I failed with regards to J. So, for one last time, here is a review I wrote back in January 2015 for About.com. I sincerely hope some of you go pick it up.
J Howard Jacobson
Review by Jeff Alford
Howard Jacobson's J is a dystopian novel of a rarely seen complexity, in line more with Samuel Beckett's Endgame than The Hunger Games. Set in the damp, rustic village of Port Reuben, J follows the paranoid woodworker Kevern Cohen's courtship with Ailinn Solomons, a local paper-flower florist. Cohen describes his own temperament as "heavy, ornate and unwelcoming" and "out of place", which is almost perfect for their village. Port Reuben feels lost in time, the near future stuck in a cultural leap backwards. Something happened here, recently or eons ago, that seems to have reset the world's cultural progression. Elsewhere, a cast of characters secretly keeps tabs on Kevern and Ailinn: for some reason, their union has placed them on a watch list of sorts. Perhaps Kevern's secret trove of illicit jazz records and historical documents he inherited from his father is to blame, or maybe something from his mother's side. Maybe his lineage has done him a grave, unspoken disservice.
J is a novel of suppression. This suppression is most noticeable at the start of the book, where Kevern Cohen is seen twitchily crossing his lips with two fingers while speaking. A tradition of his father's that he neurotically picked up, Kevern manually attempts to block the "J" sounds of certain words from exiting his lips (this is actually rendered typographically in J with a crossed letter). He seems to speak carefully, circuitously avoiding J words so as not to activate his tic, but later it's apparent that there are not many J words to speak about. His jazz records, for instance, are "not banned...[but] simply not played," and the dystopian landscape of Port Reuben seems not the place for cracking jokes, championing justice, or much of anything else. Those who have read Jacobson before will immediately sense the absence of another J, whose suppression is later revealed to be the chilling core of this peculiar novel.
The characters of J speak of a drop-capped, central cultural event, referring to it as WHAT HAPPENED, IF IT HAPPENED. Jacobson spirals around this event with careful omission, revealing the shadows of a social horror without brightening the center. Of the world before, "Kevern couldn't remember what they were like, only that everything was like something else, as though what had destroyed the city was not disease or overpopulation or an asteroid but a fatal outbreak of febrile fantasy-fiction metaphor." What Happened is strangely contemporary, and seems to have been driven by social media and the ease of transmitting messages to an entire population. One local scholar, who is secretly employed to watch over Kevern in Port Reuben, refers to what happened as Twitternacht, a reference (surprisingly obvious in a book so hazy) to Kristallnacht, the 1938 pogrom. The name "Twitternacht," the holocaust-denying vibe "IF IT HAPPENED," and the suppression of the J's all point to the atrocities of some 21st-century ethnic cleanse.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
For the past month and a half, I've been reading David Foster Wallace's outstanding Infinite Jest in tandem with the online reading community Infinite Winter. The website is maintained by a rotating core group of six "guides" who work to keep Infinite Winter up-to-date with daily ideas, discussions, recaps and more. On Sundays, they hand the microphone over to a guest blogger to weigh in with something of their own. I'm honored to be included among this group of bright and passionate readers, and to be honest, a little nervous to see my guest-blog post go live today:
This piece considers a lot of ideas about addiction that have been swirling around Infinite Jest since page one. I consider that the act of reading, especially getting lost in a massive tome like Infinite Jest, might simultaneously function as an intoxicating, addictive distraction and the means to wake up from such a thing.
Infinite Jest has already been such a revelatory read for me and I've still got around 600 pages to go. If you've ever thought about taking this book on, I highly encourage you to take the plunge.
Roberto Arlt, The Seven Madmen
David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest
Nick Drnaso, Beverly
Sunday, March 6, 2016
[Photo by Ryan Muir]
This is my living room, and above the sofa is a fantastic 15-color silkscreen by Harland Miller from 2013 (we just got it back from the framer's yesterday). It's number 39 from an edition of 50, and signed and numbered along the bottom edge of the print. My wife and I discovered Harland Miller's work through Other Criteria and quickly fell in love with his colorful, sarcastic twists on classic penguin book design.
Harland Miller, "Blonde But Not Forgotten", 2013
15-color silkscreen from an edition of 50, 53 1/4 x 43 1/4 inches.
Astute readers will see that "Blonde But Not Forgotten" is in the traditional format of a vintage penguin mystery. Miller's books are all fictional titles (and often, like Overcoming Optimism or A Fist To Cry On, quite cheeky) but he manages to give them a similar textual charm and mystery as Ed Ruscha. To me, the structured color fields of Miller's vintage penguirs blur into the realm of Mark Rothko -- here are some comparatives I've pulled from some recent Sotheby's auctions so you'll see what I mean. Combine these in your mind:
Ed Ruscha, "She Gets Angry At Him", 1974
Egg Yolk on moiré, 36 x 40 inches
Mark Rothko, "Untitled (Lavender and Green)", 1952
Oil on canvas, 67 1/2 x 44 1/2 inches
I think Harland Miller's absolutely fantastic and a great additional for any book collector's library. We've wanted one for a long time and found an incredible deal on eBay from a seller in Norway who had an accident with its frame and I think decided to part ways with it instead of put a chunk of money into framing it again (this seems particularly likely now that we've seen, first-hand, how much it costs...)
Man on Fire by Stephen Kelman
The Seven Madmen by Roberto Arlt
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
Beverly by Nick Drnaso