Posts filed under 'male friendship'

What’s New in Translation: November 2023

November 13, 2023  |  in New in Translation, Reviews  |  by Samantha Siefert and Sofija Popovska

Discover new work from Brazil and the Basque Country!

In this month’s round-up of new and noteworthy titles from around the world, our editors dive in to a lyrical, transcendent, and multidisciplinary collection from the founder of neoconcretismo, Hélio Oiticica, and a sensuous, genre-bending queer love story of from José Luis Serrano. Read on to find out more!

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Secret Poetics by Hélio Oiticica, translated from the Portuguese by Rebecca Kosick, Winter Editions/Soberscove Press, 2023

Review by Sofija Popovska, Editor-at-Large for North Macedonia

How can we eternalize the moment without petrifying it? How can words convey its temporal unfolding while retaining the anatomy of that process, a duration that has no discernible borders? A possible answer can be found in Hélio Oiticica’s Secret Poetics, translated from the Portuguese by Rebecca Kosick. In this collection, the reader is invited to experience a gallery of the ephemeral: the motion of a plunge into water; the cold, vexing, soon-to-be-over wait for the arrival of a lover; the tidal separations and interlacings of limbs and lips in an amorous embrace… Like a gifted translator, Oiticica recasts the transient into another medium—words and silences—while remaining true to that fleeting essence: to, in his own words, “immediacy that becomes eternal in lyrical poetic expression”.

In the preface, where she thoroughly examines the correspondences between Oiticica’s poetry and his visual work, Kosick reveals that his output has been termed “unclassifiable”. Its hybridity goes deeper than the blurring of genre distinctions (Oiticica’s practice “included painting, sculpture, installation, performance, filmmaking, and writing”), and this artistic output itself constitutes moments of coalescence and transformation. While his earlier pieces, a series of paintings, contained “a suggestion of movement, even dance,” Kosick notes that his “later artworks would literalize this proposition”. In 1959, Oiticica and a group of his contemporaries launched the “neoconcrete” movement, creating three-dimensional art installations designed to be interacted with by the audience. Composed of objects that could be rotated, worn, opened, and reached into, these installations “not only dissolved the distance between spectator and art object but collapsed the very binaries structuring the differentiation of subject and object”. Kosick explains that the experiences of the pieces redefined “the work of art as ‘a being’ whose meaning would ‘flourish’ via phenomenological encounter with its audience-participants”. READ MORE…

The Shrouded Force of Fate: Anja Kampmann’s High as the Waters Rise

December 10, 2020  |  in Reviews  |  by Xiao Yue Shan

High as the Waters Rise fills the great blank canvas of loss with a precision that nourishes the fine contours of emotion.

High as the Waters Rise by Anja Kampmann, translated from the German by Anne Posten, Catapult, 2020

In the rich silt into which Titusville, Pennsylvania sinks its foundations, there was only one spot where it was possible to strike oil at the extraordinarily shallow depth of sixty-nine feet. On August 27, 1859, a small group of men, at the last-ditch orders of one Edwin Laurentine Drake, sank their pipes into the ground—guided by that unknown intuition which, in retrospect, looks terribly similar to fate—and black gold flowed forth. It is how the world flows forth from a single life, from one man’s fortune to a new forever, a radically altered world.

The idea of fate, its shrouded force, is perhaps the only abiding salve for the more devastating consequences of self-awareness. We look back on our times to construct an architecture of experiences, arranging fragments by our available logic to see what structure rises from the flood—what materializes in the aftermath to become that one reference by which we can define, or justify, our lives. For some reason, we always urge towards a singular narrative, despite sharing in the overarching suspicion that the life one leads is not one, but always many. The salvaging of this steadfast, solitary lesson is a comfort—that it indeed has all been for something. Without it, there would be only darkness, that eternal torrent, that deafening collapse.

Because Anja Kampmann begins High as the Waters Rise with an ending, we arrive at the temporary space between the shock of happening and the proceedings of salvage. Waclaw and Mátyás are longtime companions working on an oil rig, sharing in a rare and profound intimacy that dissipates the customary subscriptions of male camaraderie. When Mátyás vanishes from the ship in an incident so abrupt and absurd that it seems almost mystical, Waclaw is stirred into a potent, hypnotic grief—a grief that necessitates the sea, the infinity it conjures, which Kampmann calls upon in the vignette that opens the text: “There would only be sea, piling up and up. There would be no north or south. The water would swallow even the cries of the storm, which no ear would hear.” In the midst of these tides—which overwhelm the daily rituals of work, care, and thought—is the solitary island of memories, visions in which Mátyás is frayed at the edges by recall. Only these mirages anchor Waclaw: these small footholds of before, in the vast midnight of after.

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