There should always be room for books which introduce us to different cultures and the backwaters or extremities of history. On occasion it may be that they can be fiction – although in general it must be asked why a documentary account would not serve understanding better; if only on the grounds that truth is in reality stranger than fiction.
There's something quite sculptural about We-Vibe's products – no doubt there are other artistic comparisons to be made – but I was reminded of Niki de Saint Phalle or Babara Hepworth. Like little maquettes of larger pieces, they are beautifully crafted and feel great to the touch. Made of high grade silicone, they are rechargeable, waterproof, silent and powerful.
When at my first advertising agency I worked in Media. Back then weekly women’s magazines sold in tens of thousands and, knitting and cookery apart, majored on short stories and romantic serials. The formulae were predictable: the serial would be a heavy-duty drama (often period) modelled on the Brontës, today's equivalent being Poldark. Short stories would feature some contemporary drama of love, betrayal and redemption. It was chicklit, but not as we know it now.
Radical feminists have historically sometimes characterised marriage as essentially prostitution; wherein a woman sacrifices her autonomy and her sexuality to a man in return for security. In these more enlightened times we might all hope this to be a reduced, if not yet out of date, interpretation. We might hope, but optimism must be based on the increasing power of the female voice in legislatures around the world, rather than a paradigm shift in male attitudes.
The great challenge for most aspiring contemporary authors (aspiring to awards or prizes that is, rather than ‘merely’ publication) is to create meaning and significance.
Saskia Vogel’s debut about a young woman finding closure after the loss of her father seizes you by your tenderest parts and tosses you headlong into the sea. From the first page, the ground beneath Echo, the novel’s main character, is shifting: she ‘knew the landscape would not hold’. And it is this landscape that we must navigate with her, praying that the journey will not prove as treacherous as her father’s.
Throughout Fucking Law, Brooks wants you to fuck. She calls for an ‘orgy of destruction’, for the destruction of ethical and sexual codes ‘that are not our own’ . For too long, she argues, your fucking has been determined not by your body but by someone else’s head. ‘Everything has become a concept,’ she writes, ‘and thus falls within the possibility of being known by philosophers’. But fucking can’t be known; knowledge of fucking can’t be discovered without first-hand experience—without doing it.
The concept of ‘the male gaze’ has become a powerful signifier in the feminist struggle for parity of esteem. It is more than a description of masculine carnality – rather a crucial component of the taxonomy that divides the human species into male and female. It is a conundrum and issue that is unlikely to be resolved easily for many reasons. One of these is to do with the difficulty (for men at least) of identifying ‘the female gaze’.
It has always seemed to me that a good short story should appeal much more to the reader’s sense of film than of prose. It should act as finished screenplay rather than elaborate narrative in terms of the stimulus and response. Much has to be conveyed in a short space and a complete way without overloading the text. Of course film has the ability to mix and match sound (including silence), vision and word, which enables the medium to condense or stretch narrative content at will.
Exposed: The Naked Portrait has brought full-frontal nudity to Newcastle. A bold move in the face of the icy winds that howl along the Tyne. I might be an adopted daughter of a city on the same latitude as Copenhagen, but the mere thought of getting my kit off here when there’s an ‘r’ in the month chills me to the bone. Perhaps it’s not a surprise, then, that the Laing’s latest offering left me – if heartened by its intentions – just a little cold.