The composition; the muted, almost drab colors broken by the gold and pewter; the white tablecloth (I judge artists by the way they paint “white” objects) and the mystery–Who dined here? Why was the table left in such disarray?: these are the things that bring me back to this painting every time I visit the MFA Boston.

Tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien was originally published by Christian Bourgois éditeur, 1975

Oulipo-mania is an ongoing series on Oulipian works, constraints, and more.

An Attempt At Exhausting a Place in Paris is, essentially, a list. Perec set out to catalog the infraordinary, “what happens when nothing happens other than the weather, people, cars, and clouds”; or, those things that are oft ignored or unnoticed. Attempt is the result of this endeavor, which Perec carries out from various vantage points in the bustling Place Saint-Sulpice. Over a three-day period in October 1974, he infers–“A priest returning from a trip (there is an airline label hanging from his satchel)”; he sees friends and a possible doppelganger; he finds a man who shares the same idiosyncratic manner of holding his cigarettes: between his middle and ring fingers; and sees a dog that “looks like Snowy” (Tintinophiles will recognize the young reporter’s four-legged sidekick, also known as Milou).

Illustration by Badaude

What you’ll recognize in this slim book is Perec’s microscopic attention to detail that figures in A Void (reviewed here).

tens, hundreds of simultaneous actions, micro-events, each one of which necessitates postures, movements, specific expenditures of energy:

conversations between two people, conversations between three people, conversations between several people: the movement of lips, gestures, gesticulations

And his wry humor: “(high heels; bent ankles)”; “A full 96 (perhaps I have only today discovered my true calling: ticket collector for the Paris City Transit Authority)”

In his afterward, translator Mark Lowenthal mentions Perec’s aim to become an absolute writer; “Perec’s legacy lies more in the effort he made in seeing and taking note of everything.” But, as Lowenthal notes, there are limitations, specifically cultural and temporal, that make this a noble but futile endeavor.

Perec’s observations of the hustle and bustle of Place Saint-Sulpice would differ greatly from, say, those of an American. Or even a fellow Frenchman of a different generation. And time, even a mere three days, works against Perec:

What has changed here since yesterday? At first sight, it’s really the same. Is the sky perhaps cloudier? It would really be subjective to say that there are, for example, fewer people or fewer cars. There are no birds to be seen. There is a dog on the plaza. Over the hôtel Récamier (far behind it?) a crane stands out in the sky (it was there yesterday, but I don’t recall making note of it). I couldn’t say whether the people I’m seeing are the same ones as yesterday, whether the cars are the same ones as yesterday. On the other hand, if the birds (pigeons) came (and why wouldn’t they come) I’d feel sure they would be the same birds.

And later

Yesterday, there was a metro ticket on the sidewalk, right in front of my window; today there is, not exactly in the same spot, a candy wrapper (cellophane) and a piece of paper difficult to identify (a little bigger than a “Parisiennes” wrapper but a much lighter blue.

Perec also admits to another limitation: his position, literally where he is situated in the square, prevents him from seeing all. He can only take note of what is happening in his line of sight. “(Obvious limits to such an undertaking: even when my own goal is just to observe, I don’t see what takes place a few meters from me: I don’t notice, for example, that cars are parking)”

The illustrations throughout this post are by Badaude, who set out to exhaust Attempt by making an infographic complete with a key that is, as she describes, “more complicated than the words it represents.”

Illustration by Badaude

In a panel where she notes her “angoisses,” it’s clear that, despite Perec’s attention to detail, there are still unknowns:

Illustration by Badaude

On one hand, you can’t help but wonder why Perec bothered to do something that was impossible and why readers would be interested in this effort. At points, the list is exhaustive and unenlightening–do we really care which busses passed through the Place?; however, the number of pages that “nothing” fills is remarkable. While full of the mundane, Attempt does give us a sense of how much we miss when we are oblivious to the space around those things that we deem important. It offers us a glimpse of what we might see should we choose to observe the things that would go by unnoticed. Undoubtedly, this is a book for the Oulipian enthusiast (guilty) but other creative types could benefit from emulating Perec.

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Many thanks to Badaude for allowing me to share her infographic, which you can see in its entirety in The White Review‘s Issue 3. If you aren’t familiar with her work, check out her website, where she blogs about fashion, offers comical “how to’s,” and shares the wonders/horrors of French cookbooks from the 70s and 80s (Cuisine de Meuh!).

Badaude also introduced me to the Ouvroir de Bandes dessinée Potentielle (OuBaPo), which is one of several offshoots of the OuLiPo. I hope to explore this group in the future as I find the use of constraints in illustrations fascinating.

Paul Gauguin’s Autoportrait avec portrait de Bernard, ‘Les Misérables’, oil on canvas, 1818

From W. Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence

To my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one’s admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of himself.

Ideal Bookshelf #183

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I swear, every time I look through Jane Mount’s Ideal Bookshelf shop, I find a kindred spirit and and want to meet every one of them. I’m looking at you, Harry Potter enthusiast (#44), foodie (#376), and Austenophile (#374). I haven’t found my literary soul mate yet, but if you’re out there, fellow lover-of-Danny the Champion of the World, hello!

Disclosure: I won #340 in a contest on Jane Mount’s Facebook page. What luck!!

Salvador Dali A (Dali Atomicus), 1948. Photography by Philippe Halsman

At a mind-blowing low of 35 books (especially compared to the 65 I read in 2010), the numbers don’t lie: 2011 was a year of distractions and discarded books. Not to mention infrequent blog posts. There were a few variables, expected or no, that I could pinpoint as reasons for this funk (work and personal priorities, a bit of a shift in focus late in the game) but I can’t help but think that my primary distraction has been that sly mynx, the Internet. Hello, TwitterFacebookPinterestETC. What’s really disconcerting is the number of hours I’ve chosen to spend in front of the computer when I could’ve been doing, well, anything else. I started, set aside, restarted, and set aside many books that required more time than I was willing to give. Those discarded books? They were good, funny, enlightening, challenging. I want to go back and read them with fresh eyes. Notably, Irmgard Keun’s The Artificial Silk Girl, Jorge Luis Borges’ The Book of Sand, Rene Gimpel’s The Diary of an Art Dealer, and Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet. It’s clear that balance is in order. While I can’t implement a complete social media/internet blackout week, I can certainly set aside a time when I read or write, especially if I can schedule time to exercise (bah!).

2011 wasn’t all gifs and memes. I found new favorites that I will reread and recommend to anyone who will listen. Have you read Alina Bronksy’s The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine, Peter Stamm’s Seven Years, and Georges Perec’s A Void. Why not?

See what I did there?

Now, on to 2012. I expect better.

Gilbert Adair // Photo credit: Faber&Faber

Gilbert Adair passed away on December 8. I knew him (in the way any reader can know a writer) through his translation of Perec’s A Void but was completely unfamiliar with his fiction, namely The Evadne Mount Trilogy, a pastiche on Agatha Christie’s detective novels, his column in the The Guardian, nor his screenwriting, for which it seems he was best known. Who knew that the screenplay for Berlusconi’s disturbing film The Dreamers was adapted from Adair’s novel The Holy Innocents and was partly autobiographical? I did not.

It’s inevitable that the passing of a creative person leads to a renewed interest in his or her work. Time will tell whether this will help introduce US readers to Adair (and to Perec!). I, for one, will be hunting down Death of the Author, Alice Through the Needle’s Eye and, if I can locate a copy, The Postmodernist Always Rings Twice: Culture in the Nineties, which consists mostly of his Guardian column in the 90s.

Botanique Circus was published just a few weeks ago in France and it looks like Frédéric Clément, the author and illustrator, is making the rounds at literary festivals, including the 27e salon du livre et de la presse jeunesse en Seine-Saint-Denis, à Montreuil, and Festival des illustrateurs à Moulins. It was by chance that I found out about this book. I subscribe to a few international newspapers with book coverage and, more often than not, skim the headlines for anything of interest. What caught my eye was this, from L’Express: “Le festival de Montreuil fête le cirque.” Interest, piqued, especially with the popularity of The Night Circus† by Erin Morgenstern in mind.

This is a forty page book about, you guessed it, a botanical circus. The cast of characters is odd and marvelous: there’s a giant with cabbage leaves for ears who can hear a mouse’s sigh; a wild strawberry tamer; a singer whose voice pierces crystal, and many more. From the publisher’s description, it sounds like the story is printed on a small booklet that’s housed just inside the cover, while the forty pages are dedicated to Mr. Clément’s illustrations of this botanical circus.

Look at the cover: the color palette is sophisticated with its golden yellows, pale pinks, and fine details. And oh, there are somersaulting fairies, a clown, and there’s the ringmaster, so to speak. Delicious. This looks like the type of illustrated book that compels you to pore over its contents, to hold far away and to bring up close in the hopes of finding another hidden object. And with a promised “peep show” by way of a pop-up panel in the back, well, just hurry up and bring this book to the US of A.

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Doesn’t Clément’s style call to mind ads and packaging from the 1800s, like the calendar below?

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†No, I haven’t read it but I do have the audiobook which I intend to listen to over Christmas break.

I love that they were working off the same idea–it’s reflected in the pieces on display.

Tell us about the work in this show.

YB: This collection is based on the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, and simple, rustic life in general. We are both drawn to the different aspects of this concept. I like Leonard Koren’s interpretation of wabi-sabi as “exactly about the delicate balance between the pleasure we get from things and the pleasure we get from freedom from things.” The idea is that all of these scenes, interior and exterior, belong to the same world

Kindling, Pen, watercolor, and gouache on paper // Artist: Yelena Bryksenkova

BS: It’s based on the Japanese concept, “wabi-sabi” which describes beauty and wisdom in simplicity and things that are imperfect.  This quote explains it well-” If an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi”.  We decided to make complimentary scenes and apply the concept to illustrations of quiet country life. I went with outdoor scenes, and Yelena with indoor, and we stuck to a muted, natural palette.

Lilly Pond, Gouache on watercolor paper // Artist: Becca Stadtlander

“Wabi-sabi” is a term that I’ve heard but never really looked into. An English equivalent would be “rustic” but there seems to be something more spiritual in wabi-sabi that doesn’t seem to translate. Separately, “wabi” refers to the spiritual and philosophical while “sabi” points to the fleeting and physical realm. It seems that Japanese aesthetics are based upon the idea that wabi-sabi “nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.”

Well, that is what’s frustrating and beautiful about just about everything.

I’ve signed up for the BSDA newsletter (you can, too!) and look forward to seeing more art in my inbox!

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† Synopsis from the publisher:

This is the story of the Willoweed family and the English village in which they live. It begins mid-flood, ducks swimming in the drawing-room windows, “quacking their approval” as they sail around the room. “What about my rose beds?” demands Grandmother Willoweed. Her son shouts down her ear-trumpet that the garden is submerged, dead animals everywhere, she will be lucky to get a bunch. Then the miller drowns himself . . . then the butcher slits his throat . . . and a series of gruesome deaths plagues the villagers. The newspaper asks, “Who will be smitten by this fatal madness next?” Through it all, Comyns’ unique voice weaves a text as wonderful as it is horrible, as beautiful as it is cruel. Originally published in England in 1954, this “overlooked small masterpiece” is a twisted, tragicomic gem.

Barbara Comyns was born in England, raised largely by governesses, painted and dealt in antiques, and published eleven books.

‡The Dorothy Project is dedicated to publishing novels written (mostly) by women. It was named after a Dorothy Traver, a library and book-mobile driver, art lover, “who on each birthday and holiday gave a book with an owl bookplate. “

INTERVIEWER

Do you have an audience in mind when you’re writing?

HARRY MATHEWS

I’ve always said that my ideal reader would be someone who after finishing one of my novels would throw it out the window, presumably from an upper floor of an apartment building in New York, and by the time it had landed would be taking the elevator down to retrieve it.

I suppose I must have had dreams of greater recognition, but I’ve always had the audience I wanted, and that was the audience that reads poetry. What I want is enthusiasm among friends and their friends, people who I know are serious readers.

From The Art of Fiction, No. 191, Henry Matthews interviewed by Susannah Hunnewell in The Paris Review