Author: Sarah Lawson

Sarah has lived in Charlottesville since 2002 - long enough to consider herself a local. In addition to graduating from UVa and co-founding The Bridge Film Series, she has worn a variety of hats including book designer, documentary film curator, animal caretaker, and popcorn maker. The opinions here are completely her own and unassociated with her work at Piedmont Council for the Arts (PCA). Sarah's interests include public art, experimental films, travel, and design.

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Arts Culture

A conversation around Black loss with author Jennifer C. Nash

Publicity photo.

As a writer and theorist, Jennifer C. Nash’s work is deeply connected to political and emotional realities of Black feminism, inviting readers to probe the space between theory and embodiment. She is the Jean Fox O’Barr Professor of Gender, Sexuality, and Feminist Studies at Duke University and the author of four books. Nash spoke to us about her latest, How We Write Now: Living With Black Feminist Theory. 

Jennifer C. Nash will discuss her work, and the prominent place of the photograph in contemporary Black feminist writing, on November 19 in UVA’s Bryan Hall.
Publicity photo.

C-VILLE Weekly: In your new book, you focus attention on Black loss in the age of Black Lives Matter, working to “disrupt prevailing conceptions of loss” by exploring slow loss through the work of Black feminist writers as well as your mother’s Alzheimer’s disease. As a Black woman who has spent your academic career immersed in Black feminist theory, did writing this lead to any disruptions or experimentation within your work? 

JCN: If in my earlier book I was trying to think about how often we saw politicians (especially on the left) reference a Black maternal health “crisis,” and how often we saw them turn to Black mothers as symbols of grief and pain, my new work wants to think about how the voice of contemporary Black feminist theory, one that is preoccupied with loss, is always thinking about loss through maternal figures. Sometimes this is about mother metaphors—the loss of motherlands, mother tongues—and sometimes it’s about mothers and foremothers.

In many ways, [this] project was born out of the subtitle: Living with Black Feminist Theory. I have lived with Black feminist theory for the entirety of my academic career, returning to books and articles not just as sources or evidence, but as resources and tools for living. That’s why I wanted How We Write Now to try on—or inhabit—the voice I argue has come to be so central to contemporary Black feminist writing. 

For me, the personal voice, the beautiful voice, that I take on in the book is one that moves me toward grief rather than treating grief as something to escape, to recover from, to get over. It is a voice that emphasizes that doing justice to loss requires offering it companionship, staying with it. It is a voice that insists that there’s no such thing as being “too close” to what we study, especially when it comes to loss. In a moment where so much writing on loss is about moving on, getting beyond, transcending, I am drawn to the ethics of a project that insists that we sit with loss, stay with it.

There is a tenderness and intimacy in this book that’s different from your past work. How did you conceptualize the risks of undertaking this?

It is definitely the case that writing about the people you are closest to is a risky endeavor, particularly when the writing discloses that which they might refuse. My mother, for example, would certainly contest her Alzheimer’s diagnosis, even as she has now lost many of the words she could have mobilized earlier to refuse the label of “dementia.” But it is also the case that my father finds a certain kind of freedom in seeing our story represented on the page. It has allowed him a way of talking to his friends about something that feels unbearable to name. 

I also know that the risk of not speaking is far greater—it felt important to me, urgent even, to document this moment, both the moment where Black feminists are collectively developing a voice to name loss, and the moment in which my mother becomes more unfamiliar to me, and the world becomes more unfamiliar to her. As I note in the book, I think the ethical grappling with the risks of disclosure, with what it means to tell stories that implicate the people you hold dearest, is actually very much at the heart of the Black feminist project I am interested in.

How did you work to avoid systems
that “peddle in Black grief” as you wrote this book?

I think the grief markets that have sprung up around Black grief have multiplied in the Black Lives Matter era. Samaria Rice—Tamir Rice’s mother—warned us about the costs of “hustling Black death.” Indeed, a lot of folks have profited from Black death—bestsellers have been born, talking heads have made careers. And I say that not to be cynical—Black death needs to be named and discussed and diagnosed. But we also have to recognize that there are new markets around that very death. 

I wrote a book that I argue is about Black loss that has none of the characteristics of the Black loss stories that proliferate in the present. This is not a book about a Black boy or man being murdered by the police, nor is it about the anticipated loss of my Black (male) child. It is not a book about the forms of violence that are regularized and anticipated, the state-sanctioned theft of Black children that ends with non-indictments and non-convictions. I am trying to lay claim to the frame of Black loss to think—not about the spectacular and expected death of Black children—but about the slow, endured, and quiet deterioration my mother experiences. I want to think about what it might mean to develop a frame of Black loss that can make room for her and the deterioration of her brain. In that sense, I think the story I want to tell is necessarily outside of the grief economies that I want to name and problematize.

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Arts Culture

Exploring communal ways of healing 

Stecopoulos will discuss "Dreaming in the Fault Zone" with poet Brian Teare on Friday, October 18, at New Dominion Bookshop. Supplied photo.

“Outside of biomedicine, relationships lie at the core of healing—between people and their ancestors, between microcosm and macrocosm, between qualities and elements,” writes Eleni Stecopoulos in her new book, Dreaming in the Fault Zone: A Poetics of Healing. A poet, essayist, editor, critic, and UVA MFA alumna, Stecopoulos’ previous books include Visceral Poetics, a work of criticism and memoir, and Armies of Compassion, a poetry collection. 

Dreaming in the Fault Zone is a deeply researched and heady collection of essays on illness and healing, written through the dual lenses of family history and personal chronic health conditions. Stecopoulos writes, “For twenty years I’ve contended with immune reactions to substances in both natural and built environments, assigned the diagnostic code of ‘environmental hypersensitivity.’” It is seemingly, in part, this diagnosis that sends her on the path that eventually leads to this book.

The author dedicates an especially effective essay in the book to a defense of sensitivity, noting, “Sensitivity is suspect to a masculinist society that mandates constant productivity and disembodiment.” Also countering that assumption by exploring how, simultaneously, “sensitivity signifies an exception that might be assigned value as social power, sacred dispensation, or creative gift.” It is in the space of this type of paradox or cultural clash that Stecopoulos is the most riveting. She draws influences and cites widely, from Asklepios, the Greek god of medicine, to Freud and Jungian analyst C. A. Meier, as well as modernist poet H.D. and feminist writer Silvia Federici, among countless other physicians, therapists, and historians. 

It is also in this space outside of Western, masculinist, capitalistic norms that she seeks alternatives for healing her own body. Stecopoulos writes, “My refusal came after living an extroverted life under capitalism, forced to compete when I did not want, to ignore my body’s needs and boundaries, to override my sensitivity to the point of damage.” As for so many others, it took pushing beyond her own limits to seek out new ways of healing as well as more connected ways of living in community. “You’re a person because of, and with, others,” she writes.

Her examination of and experiences with some of these alternative forms of healing shapes much of the book. “All over the world there were realities that contradicted the pathological strictures of health I knew,” writes Stecopoulos. Through lyrical passages that incorporate verse and mythology, the book offers a survey of healing approaches used throughout time and across the globe, cataloging practices used by Kazakh shamans and healers in Bali, Mexico, Bolivia, Guatemala, Egypt, Greece, China, and elsewhere. “Sacred or secular, secret or shared, many medicines exist and people are healed by them,” she writes. Later adding that, “It is possible to learn from the methods of other cultures without viewing them as precursors or simplifying them into alternatives that provide escape from the ills of the West.” 

Her examples tend to meander through these realms, mapping therapeutic landscapes, geo-mythologies, and geographies of healing, including spaces such as thermal baths, caves, natural springs, and other sacred spots. Alongside this, Stecopoulos offers insights into dream work and interpretation, rituals of purification, the laying on of hands, psychic surgery, somatics, remote acupuncture, and other methods of healing that are ultimately collective even as they appear to focus on an individual body. She also examines the healing properties of poetry, dance, music, theater, and experimental film, highlighting the idea that, like these artforms, medicine is a social practice. Considering the therapeutic properties of literature, specifically, she writes, “Words processed in the brain are felt in other organs.”

Eleni Stecopoulos’ “Dreaming in the Fault Zone.” Supplied photo.

The COVID-19 pandemic is unapologetically woven throughout Dreaming in the Fault Zone as something that has changed and continues to change the patterns of society and our ideas of health and healing. She also grapples with immigration, incarceration, decolonization, ableism, medical racism, capitalism, and ecofascism, and does not shy away from documenting her own psychoanalysis and hypnotherapy as she navigates chronic illness, pain, and grief. 

These specifics are shared in service to the author’s larger argument against toxic individualism and Western concepts of medicine and cures. She writes this section of verse early in the book:

“Healing is not

an accomplishment. victory.
the antithesis of illness. 

Healing cannot

undo the disaster. reverse time.” 

Stecopoulos is careful to distinguish between healing and cures, holding space for non-Western approaches that can be informed more broadly by the world we live in. “The plant speaking to the shaman is also empirical data,” she writes. Specifically, she positions healing as a continuum that is as nonlinear and collective as human life, in contrast to the idea of cures as an ableist construct that is unrealistically focused on eradicating illness and restoring a pre-illness self. The latter is often the primary focus of Western medicine, but Stecopoulos argues it is this steadfast focus on cures and quantitative data that ultimately harms many of the potential opportunities we have for the slower processes of holistic healing and building community. “Treating people requires, ultimately, treating the structures that form their person, tone their immune system, impoverish their gut flora, teach their nervous system a restricted set of responses,” she writes. 

An enthralling, existential endeavor, Dreaming in the Fault Zone is notable in its range and the depth of humanity and community conveyed through the author’s examinations of the most universal experiences we share: illness and healing. As Stecopoulos writes, “Healing is not an attempt to change history but an ongoing practice endemic to life. Healing is our condition.”

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Arts Culture

Poet CAConrad falls in love with a new world

CAConrad will read from Listen to the Golden Boomerang Return on September 7 at New Dominion Bookshop. Supplied photo.

As a poet, CAConrad is cosmic, their work unrestrained by the page, poems existing as art objects, ecological elegies, ancient technologies. In 2022, they received the PEN Josephine Miles Award for Poetry as well as the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. We recently interviewed them about their new collection of poems, Listen to the Golden Boomerang Return.

C-VILLE Weekly: This collection is more hopeful when compared to your previous. Given the fact that you began writing this book during the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, describe how you cultivate hope in your work and how this has changed over the course of your career. 

CAConrad: My previous book focused on extinct animals, and when I finished writing it, I realized that I needed to fall in love with the world all over again, but as it is, not as it was. I began writing my new book, Listen to the Golden Boomerang Return, in Seattle, working with crows, who visited me daily during the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown for nuts, fruit, and crackers. One of the crows started to bring me gifts, and the new book has a photo of the gifts. 

I also worked with coyotes in Joshua Tree, rats and pigeons in Rome, Italy, and squirrels and woodchucks in Massachusetts; animals thriving in our very polluted human world. COVID-19 made me think of the many loved ones who died of AIDS, and those memories find their way into the poems, but yes, there is much love in this new book. It is a beautiful world, and with whatever time I have left, I want to immerse myself in its beauty.

What went into your decisions about the form and structure of the poems in this new collection?

I don’t decide; I surrender. For thousands of years, poets and other artists have told us how they worked with spirits and ghosts, also known as muses. I believe they are real, and they whisper my lines of poetry into my ears. Whenever we think we are being ‘intuitive,’ it is because we are listening to our spirit guides. 

From 1975 to 2005, my poems were almost exclusively on the left margin, but when I began using (Soma)tic poetry rituals in 2005, I would feel like throwing up when finishing the poem on the page. I would walk away from it and feel better, but when I returned, I felt like vomiting again. Soon enough, I began “intuitively” moving the lines off of the left margin, and I no longer felt sick, and from that day forward, I surrendered to the process. We work together better with our spirits when we acknowledge their presence. Frankly, I love not knowing what the poems will look like.

You write that the title of the new book “comes from a poem, and the poem comes from a dream.” Describe the role of dreams and other mysterious forces—like numerology—in your life and your writing.

If we look at the number 9, we see its force moving up the stem and circulating in the crown. 9 represents realization or epiphany. All numbers multiplied into 9 heal back into 9, for instance, 2×9=18, and 1+8=9. 3×9=27, and 2+7=9, so it goes: 45, 54, 63, 72, etc. I always write with the number 9, and Listen to the Golden Boomerang was supposed to have 72 poems. Before handing in the manuscript to my publisher, I discovered that I had accidentally written 73 poems, so I tore one and fed its pieces to other poems. The night after doing this, I had a dream that I came home to find some of my new poems having sex on my bed, and when they saw me, they were angry and began shooting letters at me like bullets or arrows. The following day, when I woke, I realized that the poems having sex on my bed were the ones I fed the pieces of the extra poem to. This message was upsetting as if the torn poem was angry, but there are 72 poems in the book.

You’ve also had your poetry shared through public art installations in Greece as well as in galleries and museums around the world. When you think of the multiple ways that people might engage with your work, is there a shared aspect of what you hope they’ll experience through it?

I’m very grateful to have my poems published and also to have them installed in galleries as art. After my event for the New Dominion Bookshop, I will drive to Tucson, where I will install my newest show at [the Museum of Contemporary Art]. I trust the audience, so I never think about their experience. I overwrote my poems when I was younger because I wanted to be sure the reader understood exactly what I meant, and I’m grateful that I soon realized how impossible that was. 

Each human being is unique because our experiences cultivate us and shape the lens through which we view the world, meaning no one will ever understand exactly what I mean in my poems. Once I realized this, it was liberating! I no longer had to think about the audience because I could trust them to understand my poems on their terms. A thousand different people reading one of my poems will translate it into a thousand new poems, which is a beautiful gift back to the poet.

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Arts Culture

Jane Alison’s new novel explores modernist feud

Jane Alison will celebrate the release of her novel, "Villa E," on August 30 at New Dominion Bookshop. Publicity photo.

Jane Alison’s new book, Villa E, is an ecstatic examination of artistic obsession and self-embodiment, inspiration and legacy, memory and aging. The story revolves around Villa E-1027—the real-life modernist villa on the French Riviera created by architect-designer Eileen Gray—and the irreconcilably problematic relationship it created between Gray and the notorious architect, Le Corbusier. We recently interviewed Alison, a creative writing professor at the University of Virginia, about the new book. 

C-VILLE: How did you encounter the story of Villa E-1027, and which aspects of the story first grabbed you? 

JA: I learned of the story almost 20 years ago … when I was living in Germany with my then-husband, a professor of urban design. He attended a lecture about Gray’s villa and … the story intrigued me at once: Corb’s outrageous vandalism and theft of Eileen’s house, of course; the strangely indeterminate sexual undertones of his actions; Corb painting her walls naked, like a cave painter; the dark perfection of his swimming to his death in the cove below the house. 

An early image that turned out to be one of those intuitive kernels: Corb (called Le G in the novel) poised on the beach, about to swim that final day, observing his own footprint, and how that spoke to the swath of his ambition: leaving a mark in matter.

Your work consistently engages the mechanics of human desire and Villa E is no exception. What challenges did you encounter in getting under the skin of both characters?

Le G’s lusts, earthiness, and bombasticism made him pure pleasure to write. I wanted to be in his body and feel it as he guzzled cold wine and mussels, did sweaty old-man push-ups. … Eileen was harder because she had an aloofness and refused to wallow in herself. But her love of the senses, of being a human with a body alive to every atom of the world that might flow through: This is where I began to find her.

Describe your research and what it was like to spend time at the restored Villa E-1027. 

The compound of Eileen’s villa and Corb’s cabin is now a protected World Heritage Site, but it wasn’t when I began research in the early 2000s; I could simply walk into Corb’s cabin, while the villa was closed for renovations. By the time I did get inside the villa, I was well-steeped not only in photos and drawings of it, but in the many scenes I’d already written there in those early drafts. So it felt not-quite real, looking at the actual place through veils of other versions. 

Research itself had been extensive and leisurely: Reading bios and critical studies of both, as well as their works and letters; visiting as many of Corb’s buildings as I could; peering through a gate to try to see Eileen’s second house; looking at their furniture, paintings, collages, objects. Because of that primary image of Corb painting naked, I also researched cave-painting and visited some caves. One I did not visit but wish I could have is the underwater cave of Cosquer, not too far from the villa.

There are refrains throughout the book, from mantras of each character to sections that consider the roots of human expression. What led you to incorporate these interludes?

Cave-painting was central from the start, as was the idea of leaving a mark in matter. Among the wonderful aspects of the Cosquer Cave is that the people who painted there not only blew pigment around their hands to leave prints but also pressed their hands into the very soft stone high up. This is so exciting, pressing your hand into liquid, living stone. And it turns out that most of the hands that left marks in the cave belonged to girls and women. I wanted to dance from that earliest instance of pressing oneself into the natural world to other instances in the same area—the Ligurian Coast down into Italy—over several thousand years. So I included other refrains: ancient people pressing cockle shells into pottery; a man terracing the slopes; an Etruscan tomb painting of a boy diving into the sea.

In the time you were working on this novel, you also published Meander, Spiral, Explode. How would you describe the cross-saturation that occurred as you were researching and writing these books?

This novel took a long time to write because I could not find the right form or angle. So I threw the project out in about 2012. In the meantime I had to write a short nonfiction novel, where the main motions occur in the narrator’s mind, to get me thinking more about consciousness in this project; and then Meander, Spiral, Explode, to discover the form that had been lurking in my drafts all along: a spiral. The novel focuses on the last week of Corb’s life and everything we can know … comes from his jagged, unwilling memories and Eileen’s obsessive memories. I think that this kind of remembering can feel like spiraling, and in fact both Eileen’s villa and Corb’s cabin are structured by spirals. So the novel finally found its form as something like a double helix, with alternating sections between the two characters, as they wind around each other and wind into the past.

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Arts Culture

Discovering place, family, and memory in Annie Woodford’s poetry

Poet Annie Woodford will read from her work on July 19 as part of the Charlottesville Reading Series at New Dominion Bookshop. Publicity photo.

“Poetry allows you to preserve a certain moment, a certain place. It’s giving voice to something that otherwise I would just carry around mutely,” says poet Annie Woodford, author of Where You Come From Is Gone and winner of the Weatherford Award for Best Books about Appalachia. “Then, when you think about economic systems or environmental issues, I think [poetry] becomes some sort of small act against that destruction or that lack of attentiveness to places. It’s a way of honoring people and places and hopefully elevating things that are not normally seen.”

Since her childhood in Henry County, Virginia, as well as the time she spent elsewhere in Appalachia, Woodford has borne witness as the places she calls home have been subjected to forces of globalization and capitalism that undermine local cultures and ecosystems. From the outsourcing of jobs from Bassett’s furniture industry to the Mountain Valley Pipeline (MVP), Woodford addresses these head-on in her poetry, balancing grief over the losses with appreciation for the places and their people. 

Her poems should not be mistaken for nostalgia, though many can be read as eulogies. As one example, Woodford’s poem “In the Pipeline’s Path” is dedicated to Red Terry, a tree-sitter who lived in the canopy of a scarlet oak and maple near Bent Mountain to protest the MVP, which went into service earlier this summer despite a decade of community pushback: 

She took to her tree

because she knew she’d never see

any of this again—

the wayward field,

the water meadow filled

with late spring rain

filtering down through

karst-pocked caves

to the aquifer’s hidden well.

The way southeastern trees

turkey-call against each other

when they rub high branches

in high wind.

Her poems honor people and places, but also moments of light or sound. She doesn’t romanticize—she archives. With a focus on words as documentary, cataloging that which becomes forgotten, Woodford details regional realities that seemed immutable but have nonetheless begun to vanish. In “Quiet as It’s Kept,” amid nods to concealed carry, colony collapse, and other contemporary threats, she includes the stanza: 

“Things People Don’t Know the Names
of Any More”

Kudzu

Katydids

Chicken Hawks

Woodford’s landscapes ring true to those who know Appalachia, who have marveled at its red-tailed hawks and who have creek-walked for crawdads. Oaks, maples, vireos, serviceberries, pokeberries, aster, and catalpas all populate her work—yet these are not what could be called nature poems. Rather, Woodford’s attention to nature is inseparable from the generations of people living within these ecosystems. 

She often writes from a place of personal embodiment, deftly probing and questioning the idea of nature as separate from ourselves in poems like “Old Christmas,” from her earlier collection, “When God Was a Child:” 

Matted grass. The body flayed 

open like a milkweed pod. 

The body as muddy pasture. 

I think I was a field once 

… 

A bull lived in me. He liked to sleep. 

Herds of deer half darkness 

wavered across me. In winter

I froze. In spring I bled wet-

weather branches. Water witching. 

In addition to contemplating the personal, many of Woodford’s poems read like family scrapbooks with imperfect memories fluttering out from burst seams. In a poem titled “Ides,” she shares: 

I hear my mother struggle 

to breathe. She has COPD. 

She smoked her first cigarette 

at five years old & now holds

a vape pen tucked into her palm, 

her hand bent like a saint’s

as she sips its chemical sizzle. 

This is not a poem. It’s an ache.

Her mother is also a significant influence in her storytelling. “I have come to realize that my mother was a very intentional storyteller about family,” Woodford reflects. “A lot of those people are gone now, but she made sure that I heard those stories.” She adds, “I’m writing about family and stories and place, but I have really been thinking a lot about what it means to take an event or a story and write about it … Who gets to keep the stories, tell the stories, shape the stories … I’m fascinated by that.” 

A related question informing her work is about who gets to enjoy the poetry and art that is made out of daily life. In addition to her writing, Woodford has taught in community colleges for years, where she is committed to sharing the written word with students. “My dad’s a plumber and I believe that even the daughters of plumbers should encounter beautiful art,” she says. 

A lifelong reader, Woodford began writing poetry in fifth grade. “I actually have a very specific memory of writing a poem and really enjoying it,” she recalls. “Going out in nature and observing and then writing about it … I guess I’ve been doing that ever since. I was really lucky, I went to Patrick Henry Community College and had really great teachers. And then I went to Hollins and found poetry there.” Through her poems and her teaching, she shares in the collective work of attending to and holding space for beauty, humanity, and tenderness, even as—and especially because—the world around us seems to change more quickly than ever. Woodford’s work is a clear-eyed, meticulous, and unapologetic repository, excavating the precarities in our lives while invoking the wonderment of all that surrounds us. 

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Culture

Essaying our world

Nell Greenfieldboyce will discuss Transient and Strange: Notes on the Science of Life on June 8 at New Dominion Bookshop. Supplied photo.

Nell Greenfieldboyce’s debut book, Transient and Strange: Notes on the Science of Life, delivers on the promise of its title. A carefully woven and emotionally resonant collection of creative nonfiction essays, the book is as much a cabinet of curiosities as it is a glimpse behind the curtain of motherhood in contemporary America. 

“For nearly thirty years, I have made my living by writing about science … stories that are designed to inform or delight, [but] I never planned to write about private scenes,” writes Greenfieldboyce, a science correspondent for NPR. “I kept my job as a science reporter separate from my life at home.” Roughly a decade ago, however, that began to change when Greenfieldboyce’s friend invited her to contribute a personal essay to a creative blog run by fellow science journalists. “It felt risky,” she reflects. “A reporter traditionally remains somewhat anonymous, and I had been a reporter for more than half of my life … But once I wrote that piece, I began to write about other personal experiences, too—including ones that were more fraught … I felt compelled to experiment—to essay.”

The essays in Transient and Strange were born out of this experimentation, and their meticulously crafted and graceful narrative arcs showcase Greenfieldboyce’s talents as both a researcher and a storyteller. She writes, “Despite what’s taught in school about the scientific method, much of scientific inquiry, like poetry, involves play and metaphor and idiosyncratic obsessions and just plain fiddling around with mysterious things.”

The mysteries explored within this collection include but are not limited to: tornado chasers and modern weather forecasting, Moby Dick and Cold War fears, aging parents and dial-up internet, children and trauma coping, Stephen Hawking and black holes, abortion and miscarriage, flea circuses and the Black Death, the Black Stone in Mecca and Paleolithic cave art, room tone and polycystic kidney disease, and the eugenics of genetic counseling and fertility treatments. 

In each of these explorations, Greenfieldboyce invites the reader into her life and her family, sharing captivating facts about the science behind the phenomena as well as more personal reflections. For instance, writing about a funnel weaver spider who has taken up residence in her house, she muses, “I wondered about her inner experience, what she thought as she crouched in her funnel, whether she had dreams.” 

In another essay, on doodling, the author writes, “I think of this book I am writing, the one that’s now before you, another collection of black marks on white that I made in a state of half-aware compulsion … I told a writer friend that my exploration of doodling felt unsatisfying, that this effort wasn’t coming together in a way that made sense, and he reminded me that in an essay, unlike poetry and fiction, one can just come out and explicitly state the point of the piece, the underlying thesis or message. ‘But that implies that there is a point.’” 

Indeed, Transient and Strange revels in cultivating an appreciation for layers of reality that are often overlooked or taken for granted—that could easily be mistaken as pointless. But for those who are excited by the mundane—as Greenfieldboyce writes, “Maybe you’re my favorite kind of person, the curious kind, the kind who is intrigued by this unexpected experiment”—and for those who thrill at the chance to follow someone else down countless rabbit holes, the book is a wonder. 

For Greenfieldboyce, these rabbit holes are often as akin to science fair projects as they are thought experiments. In considering meteorites, she writes, “Scientists estimate that some 5,200 tons of outer space dust reaches the surface [of Earth] each year; that’s 14 tons per day, about the weight of three ambulances, drifting invisibly down.” You or I might underline this fact on the page, store it up to share as a weird factoid at a party some day, and carry on with our lives. Greenfieldboyce takes a different approach, recounting how she filled a plastic tub with water to place on her roof in the hopes of capturing some of this space dust. She writes, “Even if I’m lucky enough to have my plastic bin positioned out there to catch one at the right time, these spheres of molten-and-then-solidified space rock typically are only a few hundredths of an inch across. A micrometeorite could fit in the valley between two fingerprint ridges. Still, I go through the water in my bin with a strong magnet, to fish out anything that might contain iron.” Failing in that approach, she collects crud from her rain gutters, sifting it and hoping for a discovery that never comes, even as her family lightly ridicules her for her ongoing efforts. But that doesn’t seem to matter much to the author­­—it’s the search that holds the excitement. 

“Maybe I’ll find a meteorite, and maybe I won’t,” she reflects. “Maybe all I’ll ever do is quietly sift through a bunch of ordinary, sometimes beautiful stuff, searching for something ethereal that I’m not equipped to recognize and probably won’t ever truly understand.” In a metaphorical sense, this act of sifting is where the true magic of Transient and Strange lies. Greenfieldboyce writes to reveal the ephemeral and extraordinary nature of our world, sharpening our senses and helping us recognize novelty in the everyday.

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Arts Culture

Worthy journey

Emma Copley Eisenberg will discuss 'Housemates' with Carmen Maria Machado during a virtual event on June 11, hosted by Charis Books. Details can be found at charisbooksandmore.com. Publicity photo.

Though Emma Copley Eisenberg is known for her acclaimed true crime memoir, The Third Rainbow Girl: The Long Life of a Double Murder in Appalachia, she received her MFA in fiction from the University of Virginia, where she was a Henry Hoyns/Poe Faulkner fellow. Her new novel, Housemates, is a queering of the classic road trip story, exploring personal and political expression through art, the transformative potential of community, and the joy and pain that we experience through our bodies. Given the breadth of the author’s inspirations and considerations in writing Housemates, this interview was edited for length.

C-VILLE Weekly: What inspired Housemates, and when did you know that your protagonists would be re-imaginings of Berenice Abbott and Elizabeth McCausland? 

Emma Copley Eisenberg: “Sort of by accident, I turned to reading this plump biography of American photographer Berenice Abbott. I knew she was a lesbian and had lived a glamorous queer life in Paris in the 1920s and had had an older man mentor who reshaped her life. I was stopped in my tracks by this section about her meeting her life partner, Elizabeth McCausland, a hot tall fat butch lesbian … Pretty quickly the two set out on a road trip across the southeastern U.S. with Abbott making large format photographs and McCausland writing about it. The two left single and creatively adrift and came back wholly together, romantically and creatively, with a clear sense of the project they wanted to make, which became their famous collaboration Changing New York. What happened on that road trip? I needed to know, yet knew I never would, as those intimate details are lost to history. 

“It didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t want to write a historical novel, but rather wanted to know about this duo of the past because of what they might be able to offer me about the present—halfway through Trump’s presidency, and in a moment where America was even more hostile to queer people and artists than ever. How to be a queer woman who was also trying to be an artist in America? How to both appreciate and get free of the old men artists who shaped you? How to be both a separate person and together with someone? These were the questions that kicked off Housemates.”

This is a very corporeal book. As someone who has written about fatphobia, describe why it’s important to you to show bodies, and ways of using bodies, that often remain uncelebrated. 

“I always come back to one of my north star truths about writing: If it is part of the experience of being alive, it is worthy of examination in fiction. Having a body is at least fifty percent of being a human being, yet we forget about it in books. And more than fifty percent of Americans are now fat people. If you are writing fiction about America, you are writing about fat bodies, yet I recently ran the numbers about The New York Times’ annual lists of notable books in all categories, and less than one percent of their picks from the last five years have a fat person in them. One percent! 

“I’ve noticed that when books, especially fiction, do have fat characters in them, the fat characters are almost always treated with derision or disgust, or their fatness is treated as the central problem the book is trying to ‘solve.’ This is not how my fat body exists for me—it is one important part of who I am, but I also struggle with many other things. So it was important and interesting to me to write a fat main character whose body is on her mind a lot but who is, fundamentally, struggling with other things, like what to do with her life. I wanted to show her in all her complexity—including how good she is at sex and how at home she feels in pleasure, something that is usually denied to fat people. I think both main characters are interested in having a body, so I wanted to show them talking and grappling with that … They talk aloud about picking their noses, which I have been waiting my whole life to do in fiction.” 

Describe your research process.

“I did a lot of research for this book, which differed from what I did for The Third Rainbow Girl in that it focused on understanding emotional truths and putting my body in the places that appear in the novel. I did things like visiting the Flight 93 memorial in Stoystown, PA, eating at an Amish smorgasbord in Lancaster, driving up and down the Susquehanna River, and reading Galway Kinnell poems.”

Describe the responsibility you felt weaving together questions of morality, despair, and art’s life-saving potential.

“This book is as much about the costs and rewards of making art as it is about Bernie and Leah … [asking] the question of whether or not art can save your life. I went into the book with that question as an open inquiry, and I think all of the characters would have different answers to it … Yes, it can save your life in the sense that it can make a life more alive, more pleasurable and it can open up seams of love and connection that sustain people, especially marginalized people who have often had less access to material resources. But at the same time, in no way is art a substitute for money, jobs, or healthcare—if you are sick or poor or mentally ill or being discriminated against or harmed on a systemic level, art is not going to save your life … just as America fundamentally does not support healthcare in this country, America fundamentally does not support the arts. We have decided, apparently, that neither taking care of the body nor the soul is important to us as a country. That leaves every person out there on our own to muddle through and build the best, most alive life that we can.” 

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Arts Culture

Ecological wonder

Greg Wrenn will discuss his book, Mothership: A Memoir of Wonder and Crisis, on Saturday, April 13, at 7pm at New Dominion Bookshop. Photo by Matt Mendelsohn.

“To tell you about the beauty, I must also speak of threat,” writes Greg Wrenn in Mother­ship: A Memoir of Wonder and Crisis. A complex exploration into personal and ecological trauma that also investigates alter­native healing and the cultivation of wonder, this book is as much a prompt for personal reflection as it is a call to climate action.

A survivor of childhood abuse, Wrenn spent decades in denial about and dissociating from his trauma. Much of Mothership is focused on processing relationships (especially that with his mother) and attempting to come to terms with his past. “It felt impossible to write about climate change without discussing my upbringing, to medi­tate on our future without thinking about my past,” he writes. “Denial leads many Americans to tell themselves pollution is a sign of progress and climate change is a hoax. It leads perpetrators to rebrand abuse as no big deal. … Whether we’re talking about abusers and victims—or people and the planet—it’s all part of what’s known as our extraction mindset.”

Built on a series of experimental eco-­essays that Wrenn composed before he fully undertook the work of trauma processing, Mothership is rooted in his formal education as a poet as well as a love of nature. A self-described citizen scientist, he first explored coral reefs on a fourth-grade snorkeling trip in the Florida Keys, and has taken countless diving trips since, including repeat visits to the Raja Ampat Islands of Indonesia, which he describes in detail. Still, when sharing these experiences in his initial essays, he says he “wrote from that place of [environmental] concern, but wasn’t ready to make it personal yet.”

This avoidance aligns with his earlier work. “For me, poetry was an escape,” says Wrenn. “I hid behind symbolism and metaphors. In the kind of poetry that I was trained to write, fragmentation was praised … and a traumatized brain struggles to tell a story about the past because it is in fragments. For some, it’s a craft element but, for me, it’s my lived experience.”

That shifted when Wrenn began participating in ayahuasca ceremonies as a way of coping with suicidal ideation and addiction that resulted from C-PTSD (complex post-traumatic stress disorder).

“Ayahuasca helped me shift my identity from that of a poet to that of a prose writer, from a victim and an addict to someone empowered, who took responsibility for my brain … and in taking that responsibility, I realized I had a story to tell,” he says. Combining earlier essay themes with newer memoir work in Mothership, Wrenn reflects on the ways that silent meditation retreats, forest bathing, and medicinal use of psychedelics kept him alive and helped turn his attention to global concerns of impending climate collapse.

Indeed, after enduring ineffective attempts to address his trauma through talk therapy and psychopharmacology, Wrenn’s journey with ayahuasca led to dramatic change. From his first experiment with DMT, “in Tennessee at a multiday gathering of Radical Faeries, a group of back-to-nature queer folks,” to more focused medicinal use of ayahuasca at more than 30 private ceremonies held in places as varied as a Peruvian retreat center, the D.C. suburbs, the Amazon, rural Virginia, the Catskills, and—perhaps most stereotypical of contemporary ayahuasca culture in the U.S.—a Brooklyn loft. Wrenn reflects, “I was a patient, not a thrill-seeking tourist blind to the realities of cultural appropriation.” He expresses conflicted feelings about the colonialist power structures that are part of ayahuasca use among many, while nonetheless relying on these very structures for his own healing. However, he sees this as necessary after all other attempts to recover failed. “In healing myself, what awakened in me was the need for us to heal the planet,” he says. “So many of us receive healing from nature and it only seems fair that we should return the favor. … What we’re facing amounts to global C-PTSD.”

Alongside statistics about the severity of the climate cataclysm humans have wrought, Wrenn’s literary lyricism infuses Mothership in poetic phrasing and devices, including a chapter written as a letter to Adara, his “seventh or seventeenth great-niece,” a nod to the Iroquois’ Seventh Generation Principle. Here he grapples with one of the core ethical questions of our times. “As coral elsewhere is bleaching and dying, I’m here to document reefs that are still healthy and gorgeous,” he writes. “My carbon from my flights on this trip will melt Arctic sea ice about the size of my office.” Wrenn continues, “I did that to you, Adara. … No apology I could offer would be enough, but I want you to know I’m sorry. Sorry and ashamed you inherited the planet you did because of our inaction.”

Without looking away from the complicated and dark reality of climate collapse, Wrenn’s work is a project of inspiring wonder, sharing the beauty of reef ecosystems as a reminder to care. In this, he conjures coral textures and fleeting flashes of fish. He evokes an awe in the world, which might be more ephemeral than we know, if we continue to live with an extraction mindset.

“I tell myself, etch the shark and the coral into your mind’s eye. Hold these memories close like the philosopher’s stone for when you’re an old man and the ocean isn’t the same,” writes Wrenn. “Share them with anyone who will listen and believe.”

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Arts Culture

Pandemic dwellings

The pandemic-themed collaborative novel Fourteen Days features characters written by a list of accomplished authors including John Grisham (above), Celeste Ng, Tommy Orange, Mary Pope Osborne, R.L. Stine, Nafissa Thompson-Spires, Monique Truong, Scott Turow, Luis Alberto Urrea, and Meg Wolitzer. Photo by Carol Harrison.

Drawing inspiration from The Decameron and One Thousand and One Nights, Fourteen Days is a “collaborative novel,” which brings to mind thoughts of exquisite corpses and shared Google Docs with a slew of anonymous animals. However, it is effectively a collection of short stories by 36 American and Canadian authors, edited by Margaret Atwood and Douglas Preston, and connected through a framing narrative by Preston.

Taking place between March 31, 2020, and April 13, 2020, Fourteen Days is set in an apartment building, the Fernsby Arms, on the lower east side of New York City. Here, a diverse collection of residents gradually come together to build community and support each other during nightly meetups on the building’s roof, where they drown their sorrows in cocktails, bang pots and pans for essential workers, and share stories from life before COVID-19. The building superintendent, Yessie—a Romanian-American lesbian with asthma whose father is in a nursing home when lockdown begins—frames the story as its narrator and supposed archivist, recording and transcribing the rooftop storytelling sessions of the building’s tenants as a way to pass the time and distract herself from the raging pandemic.

Though the residents were strangers before these rooftop sessions, they quickly develop a rapport and routine, even painting a mural together to honor their shared experience, their shared trauma. They are a multigenerational group, described as “the left-behinds.” Yessie reflects, “Naturally, anyone who could had already left New York. The wealthy and professional classes fled the city like rats from a sinking ship, skittering and squeaking out to the Hamptons, Connecticut, the Berkshires, Cape Cod, Maine—anywhere by New Covid City.” Still, there’s little desperation or struggle for day-to-day survival described among the neighbors, and they appear to be faring well with the Fernsby Arms to protect them from the circling sounds of sirens outside, the refrigerator trucks for the dead, and the tent hospital in Central Park, all of which Yessie notes only in passing.

Fourteen Days is annoyingly rose-colored at times, as the real-life stresses and trauma of lockdown only lightly impact the residents, who appear to be mostly protected from the world even as they acknowledge protests in the streets and nursing home outbreaks. Everyone pretty much agrees to mask up, making masks out of scrap fabric or Hermès scarves. Instacart and toilet paper jokes are made, but no one ever has to make do without. The cancellation of Eurovision 2020 appears to be as traumatizing as the pandemic itself for at least one character. Tensions rise enough for minor verbal sparring every now and then, but ultimately everyone forgives and forgets, positioned as being stronger for it in the end. Indeed, the only real tension in the book might come from a reader’s own memories of those two weeks of lived experience, mapped onto the characters and premise of this fictional version.

Of course, within the framing narrative, the reason for these simplifications is eventually explained, but the twist ending falls a bit flat and does little to alleviate the cognitive dissonance around this pandemic privilege. In a year when The Washington Post and other news outlets report that COVID-19 is once again surging in the U.S., this book feels, at times, like an attempt to forget or at least to remember something far better than what was.

As characters, the Fernsby Arms residents often seem flat, largely identified through referential nicknames and other shorthand nods at personality in lieu of character development. Many characters feel as though they were plucked out of a COVID lockdown stereotypes bucket, with little attention given to emotional motivations or history, though others have some depth and nuance. Similarly, the stories shared on the rooftop—including tales related to the Vietnam War, 9/11, the Iraq War, polio outbreaks, Trump’s presidency, ghost stories, and curses—feel like an exercise in checking off lists of trauma and coping.

Some of the individual stories contributed by the collaborating authors offer moments of inspiration and healing: De’Shawn Charles Winslow’s story of the love and pain experienced by a father and daughter; Tommy Orange’s about a man who seeks revenge after a hit-and-run, only to find himself forever changed by the realization of his own capacity for violence; Celeste Ng’s about a family matriarch full of superstitions and the ability to curse someone with nothing more than a piece of paper and an ice cube; Joseph Cassara’s story of rabbits and trauma bonding experiences. All of these examples startle the reader out of a stupor, wrestling with real questions of human existence in unpredictable and challenging ways. Unfortunately, these are in the minority, despite the excellent credentials of the contributing authors.

In the end, Fourteen Days succeeds as an escapist beach read that just happens to be set during two traumatic weeks in recent history. Despite the potential in the premise, it is a mostly forgettable collection of stories that feels off-key in a world still attempting to address the same public health issues as the book’s characters, despite the intervening four years. With little dramatic tension and stories that are inconsistent in their vast but often surface-level breadth, Fourteen Days is more of a novel-by-committee than a collaborative one.

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Arts Culture

Honest and direct

Ben Sloan will read from his work as part of the free Charlottesville Reading Series on Friday, February 16 at New Dominion Bookshop.

Ben Sloan’s second book of poems, Then On Out Into a Cloudless Sky, is a collection of work that speaks to various themes and eras, highlighting the far-ranging interests of its author. As an object, the book is a delight, an elegant pamphlet with a cover that captures the bright blue of sky and a wisp of cloud, assembled with a five-hole stitch of orange thread along the fold. The work within is dedicated to Sloan’s students at the Fluvanna Correctional Center, and features an epigraph from Abdulrazak Gurnah’s novel The Last Gift: “Sometimes I’m struck with amazement when I consider exactly how I have found myself here. But then I suppose many people can say that about their lives.”

After speaking with Sloan, a man whose path in life has taken its own unique shape and whose career as a teacher has influenced countless students’ trajectories, that epigraph seems a fitting way to begin.

Sloan grew up on a farm in southeast Missouri and, while his family had books at home, his hometown was so small that it lacked a public library or even a school library. According to Sloan, “It wasn’t until I was about 16 that I started going to a local public library in St. Louis,” where his family had moved. He quickly found poetry and remembers discovering Margaret Atwood, whose work made a strong impression on him. “I bought a paperback copy of her poems and was amazed by them,” he recalls. “This short form, in a very condensed way, really opened a door. It just seemed remarkable to me. I remember trying to figure out, ‘How did she do that?’”

At college, Sloan took creative writing classes and enjoyed reading widely, earning his MFA from Brooklyn College, where he studied with the influential poet John Ashbery, eventually working as his assistant for a year. “He was a very sweet and generous person,” says Sloan, who also has a Ph.D. in American literature from the City University of New York Graduate Center.

From 2003 to 2022, Sloan taught at Piedmont Virginia Community College. While there, he got involved in the Higher Education in Prison Program, which offers opportunities for incarcerated learners to earn an associate degree while at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women, the Buckingham Correctional Center, or the Dillwyn Correctional Center. Sloan taught in both the Fluvanna and Buckingham programs, building on past experience teaching in a prison setting when he lived in North Carolina. “As a culture, we’ve decided to hide prisons from ourselves. … I have always been interested in working with marginalized and disenfranchised students,” he says.

All told, Sloan taught in prison programs for more than 15 years, and found it to be meaningful work despite limited computer access and the often frustrating protocols that shaped the experience—especially during the early COVID-19 pandemic. However, Sloan remained committed to the work, adapted, and found that, even as he influenced his students in their writing, they also influenced him. “Their writing was often so honest and direct. … Some of what I’ve learned over the years, in college and graduate school, I realized I needed to drop in order to get to the point … not to mess around with a lot of filler,” he says.

This directness shows up in his recent collection, where poems function as a direct transfer of his perspective to the reader—unadorned but insightful ways of thinking about the everyday. Though some of the poems in Then On Out Into a Cloudless Sky are historical in nature, those that stand out with the most personal style are the ones that examine small moments and fancies, such as in “Hunched Groups.”

Trying to figure out what it is I am thinking today / I eventually just give up and decide to let it all go, / and when I do I see the day sitting out there / all around me like a murder of crows peering down / from power lines, backs pressed up against / the surrounding blue, hunched groups of them / puffing on cigars and arguing with one another / in the same gravelly voices heavy smokers use / when they talk together on their coffee breaks.

Ben Sloan, “Hunched Groups”

Other poems suggest a thematic influence from his students, sharing perspectives from the back seat of a police car in “Arriving,” and of a girl about to be taken to juvenile detention in “Departing,” which contains this excerpt:

…But before being taken away / to juvenile detention, just to break one final rule, what the hell, / she chases from his chain-link cage, and into the woods, / their dog, Jimi Hendrix, who, stunned, not knowing what else to do, / starts to run, teaching himself how it’s done as he goes.

Ben Sloan, “Departing”

As in Sloan’s own early interest in Atwood’s work, his poems spur the reader to pull them apart, to dig into the power of the poet’s concise phrasing. “When I read, it opens up a new space inside of me,” he says. “I just hope that when people read my poems, it opens up a space for them, a new way to see things.”