Surradia (2019-20)

Surradia: A Retrospective. Musée National d’Art Moderne, 2019–20. Admission €14.00.

Reviewed by Gwen C. Katz

Portrait of Three Women with an Owl

PARIS, France: Some artistic movements are not fully appreciated until after the artists’ time. Some enjoy immediate fame, only to fade from the spotlight as the years pass. And then there are the movements that, through no fault of the artists, never quite have their moment in the sun. Into this third category falls the subject of the Musée National d’Art Moderne (MNAM)’s excellent new exhibition, Surradia: A Retrospective.

Abeda & Zorne, Velocity of Inertia (2019)

Adel Abeda (and Rika Zorne), The Velocity of Inertia. London: Bloomsbury, 2019. Pp. 237. ISBN 978-1-4742-9927-5. $20.99.

Reviewed by J. Moufawad-Paul

There are times when a novel’s mythology precedes its publication. Adel Abeda’s The Velocity of Inertia is precisely this kind of novel and, as such, it is difficult to review. Edited and rewritten by Abeda’s wife, the critically acclaimed photographer and poet Rika Zorne, the literary presentation of Velocity is beyond reproach; you cannot read this book without being impressed by its style. But Zorne’s participation in the publication contributes to its mythology since the awareness that every sentence of Abeda’s draft was rewritten by Zorne immediately makes the reader suspicious of the quality of the original manuscript. Moreover, it reminds the reader of Abeda’s absence and the fact that the authorial void might be more interesting than the novel.

Finch, Lake Wildwood (2020)

Robert Finch, Lake Wildwood. Labuda Books, 2020. Pp. 101. ISBN 2-402-68110-7. $12.00.

Reviewed by Djibril Ayad

This slim novel, published posthumously from the notes of long-retired and recently deceased author Robert Finch, is billed as “a natural mystery,” and indeed bears many of the hallmarks of a crime or noir story (although as I’ll argue, I don’t think it succeeds as either). With a cast of characters straight out of Thoreau, a narrative that can’t decide if it’s bleak realist or supernatural horror, and choppy prose that veers wildly from rich, velvet poetry, via overwritten identity crisis, to Tolkeinesque naivety, this book ultimately disappoints, and does no service to Finch’s reputation.

Ambiguity Sky (Summer 2019)

Ambiguity Sky, ed. Rhea Chidiebube. Special Issue: Outsiders Extirpate Dark Fantasy (Summer 2019). Pp. 198. $9.99 (formerly online at ambiguitysky.com).

Reviewed by Michael M. Jones

One of the oddest publishing stories of 2019 was the brief resurgence of Ambiguity Sky after an eleven-year hiatus—a return which came and went so quickly, it was painfully easy to overlook. Long-time fans might remember this magazine, which ran from 2000-2008 with a focus on dark fantasy and Lovecraftian aesthetics, and ceased publication abruptly after editor Rhea Chidiebube accepted a full-time job managing a local Nigerian-American cultural outreach program in Detroit. Even after that program was shuttered due to budgetary cutbacks in 2015, Chidiebube showed no inclination to return to Ambiguity Sky, or to the science fiction/fantasy community in general, turning her attention to political activism with a side of cupcake recipes on Twitter.

Foucault, The Birth of Free Will (2019/1974)

Michel Foucault, The Birth of Free Will, translated from the French by Pierre Menard. Routledge Focus, 2019 [1974]. Pp. xvi + 48. ISBN 978-6-472649-45-8. £46.99 hb/£15.99 pb.

Reviewed by Fabio Fernandes

When reviewing a dead author, one must be an archaeologist of sorts. One must read beyond the mere narrative, and open before oneself the text like a map, being careful about the paratexts and everything that surrounds the text. This Genettean approach is very useful in cases like the chapbook I have in my hands: The Birth of Free Will, by Michel Foucault. This is a very special book, because, among the whole work of the French philosopher, this is the only one he explicitly asked that be published only after his death. The fact that it took so long to finally see the light of day probably has to do with the fact that it’s about a book that doesn’t exist. Or rather, about a book that does not quite exist the way Foucault tells us. An alternate book, so to speak.

Grangeri, Non sorrideva mai (2002)

Antonia Grangeri, Non sorrideva mai. I Libri dell’Orsa Edizioni, 2002. Pp. 240. ISBN 1-31-221017-X. €14.00.

Reviewed by Scirocco

The first novel by Antonia Grangeri (now published in English translation as She Never Smiled. Syncerus Books, 2018. Pp. 261. ISBN 978-7-3492-2998-8. £12.99) brings vampire stories from dark and foggy castles to the sun-burnt and desolate landscapes of the South of Italy at the beginning of the 20th century. The introduction of supernatural events into the everyday life of a closed rural community might be described as “magic realism.” However, the reader shouldn’t expect the heart-warming tenderness of Garcia Marquez’s or Udhari’s prose. Grangeri’s style is close to an unexpected encounter between Antani’s horror tales and Zola’s social realism.