on trial
This Week in Reading
Great House by Nicole Krauss
I adored The History of Love, but I found Great House to be cloudy and unfocused. Each chapter is told from a different perspective, each individual narrative theoretically interlinked through a majestic writing desk that seems to have come in and out of many peoples’ lives.
One of the characters writes as if speaking to a judge. Your Honor, she begins. “Yes, a deficiency of effect, born of a deficiency of spirit. That is the best way I can describe it, Your Honor.” Tribunal imagery pops up again and again throughout the book-- these are not stories but opening statements. The characters are trying to explain themselves, but moreover they are trying to excuse themselves. Perhaps every story we tell is a form of defense, a declaration of innocence. Perhaps every story is nothing more than a plea for forgiveness.
What am I trying to prove? Who am I trying to prove it to? It is exhausting, to constantly be proving a point. It is probably what others have identified in me as a “combative personality.”
It is possible to tell a story without an agenda? Even our most benign anecdotes are trying to prove a point: prove that we are funny or smart or interesting or a good person. We re-center narratives around ourselves because we have all learned that there is nothing more compelling than the first person. Growing up, I hated how my mother refit every story into a martyr/fool narrative. In each humorous retelling of my indiscretions she was cast as the wise, sage elder who had given me all of the appropriate advice that I, the willful, foolish daughter had promptly ignored, to my own downfall. In these stories, there was a guilty party (me) and an innocent party (her). She was the Good Mom and I was the Bad Daughter. My misfortunes were my own fault, a result of my disobedience. It was a way of condemning me, but it was also a way of being acquitted of any charges leveled against her, a way of proving that she was not a bad parent or person.
This irritated me, but in my own stories, am I not also attempting to prove my own innocence? Maybe all forms of communication are a cry for mercy. We speak assuming judgement, assuming that our audience is there not just to listen, but to pass a verdict. We live inside a confession booth— contrite, on our knees. We are vulnerable and accountable, but achieving those things required us to forsake all of our power. We are wrong and we are guilty and we seek forgiveness. We believe that we are continuously hurting other people, and that we are continuously forgiving them for hurting us.
What is the alternative? That there is nothing to be forgiven? This is Beyoncé singing that she is Not Sorry. Batten the hatches, double down, never apologize. But this too is an assertion. This is placing your right hand on a bible and pleading not guilty. You are still on trial.
We are told we should be compassionate to others because we don’t know what they’ve been through, the implication being that anyone can experience great suffering. Even people that look like they have it all might have undergone major trauma. The beautiful blonde cheerleader might have an abusive father, the valedictorian’s sister might have been checked into a psych ward. But perhaps compassion and forgiveness should be extended not for the biggest hardships we endure, but for the smallest. Shouldn’t the entry point for empathy be as low as humanly possible? Last week my astrology app told me the average room holds a hundred pounds of air, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Grace shouldn’t be reserved for those who have proven themselves most worthy. The big tragedies: death, mental illness, abuse are just further weights that some people bear, but we are all sitting under one hundred pounds of air. Even Taylor Swift. Even Caroline Calloway. We pardon people for potentially unseen mitigating circumstances, when the most compelling mitigating evidence is right at the surface: the endless burden of trying to exist as a human being in the world.
Compassion is most easily dispensed in theory. To strangers, to the unknown. It is easy to passionately argue for social welfare, feel sympathy for anonymous homeless figures sitting at the bus stop. It is harder to extend the same generosity to situations closer to home. Loaning money to a financially irresponsible sibling, empathizing with a friend who appears to have such few responsibilities. We know them too well to extend the empathy that we give to those we do not know at all. We know that there is no secret suffering hidden away. But competitive suffering has never gotten us anywhere; our tenderness need not be rationed. We do not need to save our generosity for the secret unknowns of other’s lives.
I would say I’ve lived a relatively charmed life—I would not describe anything that has happened to me as trauma. And so I find myself unwilling to allow myself to feel bad. I have been scrupulously avoiding self-pity for my undeniably privileged existence. How dare I feel overwhelmed when my job isn’t rigorous in the slightest, why should I feel stressed about money when I am free of the student debt that so many of my peers are being crushed by? I’ve put myself on trial and the verdict is in: I have not proven myself worthy of empathy. I am so tired. Everyone is so tired. Just because my exhaustion is not unique or not the greatest, does not mean it does not exist, does not mean it doesn’t needed to be tended to. Please have mercy.
I am a Good Oval, cut paper, 2019
Studio-ing
Months ago, a phrase popped into my head. “I am a good oval.” I don’t know where it came from, just one of those things my brain pulls out of the ether. You know what, I AM a good oval, I replied to myself. I started making these simple, childish paper collages. Just an oval filling up a rectangular frame. Portraits almost. I kept going to keep up with the endless stream of titles that kept popping into my brain. “A Bunch of Good Ovals.” “The Worst Oval I Ever Met.” “The Best Oval in the World.” “Some Ovals Weren’t Born to Be Good.” As I cut out each round, wonky shape I would have to decide if it was a good oval or a bad oval. What does that even mean? These decisions were at once incredibly loaded, yet completely arbitrary. Was I judging its aesthetic form? It’s quality? It’s moral character? Good and bad are both absolute, yet completely imprecise descriptors. All I know, is that I am a Good Oval. You can see the full documentation and my statement on my website, here.
It's also time for my annual studio sale. You can see everything available on my instagram, saved in the first story highlight.
I’m in a cool group show this month. Lolita Go Home organized by the Residue Collective at Art Share LA. If you would like to go, it is running through the end of the month in the Arts District downtown. There is free (!!!) parking onsite.
Further Reading:
Don’t read this book, but Krauss’s second novel, The History of Love, is incredible. Also I’m deeply obsessed with the bananas love triangle between her ex husband, Jonathan Safran Foer, her, and Natalie Portman.