the blog of charlotte s. anderson:
gq producer, writer, film-fucker,
You all have no idea how excited I am to see Justin Long become a walrus
Filmmaker and artist Susie Sie translates sound—vibrational patterns—into intense visuals. The medium? Lycopodium powder and a subwoofer.
Woman Under the Influence
Walter Hugo & Zoniel, The Physical Possibility of Inspiring Imagination in the Mind of Somebody Living (2014).
An enormous tank of jelly fish has been installed in a warehouse in Liverpool
On Kawara has died today
illustration: Ryan Sheffield
Joyce’s letters to Nora prove my foundational theory, which is this: writers are patently perverse creatures. Everything written is already a fetishization, a separation of content from its material source. James calls her “my sweet little whorish Nora” affectionately. And she responds with an equal (perhaps greater) measure of filth. They write miles and miles away from one another. There’s pleasure in privation.
Think about having sex with the people you read about, or the people you read. Mark Twain creeps into my bedroom, late at night. Takes me into his embrace, and I gasp, ‘Oh! Mark!’ His whiskers brushing up against my neck, he clutches at my back, his elderly hands veiny and brimming blue. It becomes hard not to think about. When I consider my favorite authors I often wonder what type of partners they would be. I whittle down their personalities to the point of obscene specificity. Kafka: under a sheet and with a condom. Borges: excellent oral delivery. Nin: I’d call her late at night, feeling lonely.
This is why they can’t be trusted. Sexual feelings aside, I as reader have already developed a physical dependency. It’s my own fault; I pine after authors at the same time I consume them. I slump backward sedated, or sated; I don’t know. I fail to notice the day passing. We’re involved! You don’t understand him like I do. And yet I as writer perpetually enact my own disembodiment. I’m working. I’m disassociated. I’m calculating and unemotional. I’m taking myself out of the matter. At best: an impersonal seduction. At worst: a failed come-on.
“Never trust a writer,” I was once told—useful guidance, courtesy of my aunt, which becomes all the more convincing with the proper phonetic delivery: “ne-e-ever trust a writer.”
The ‘I’ that speaks in writing is always an invention, or more accurately an omission. A writer withholds, excluding undesirable elements—I hope I’m charming—rendering a bit of opacity—avoiding confession. But I don’t feel the remove. When I read, I am susceptive and involved, which sounds a bit like ‘in love,’ doesn’t it? ‘I’ reading (as opposed to ‘I’ writing) is visceral. It is consumptive and uninhibited, and (unlike Joyce’s letters and sex) lacks the quality of an exchange.