Laurel Zuckerman's Paris Weblog

Paris Novel Workshop with Nicola Keegan

Nicola Keegan at a booklaunch for Anne Korkeakivi

In Paris this summer some lucky writers are in for a treat. As part of the Paris Writers Workshop Weekend, Nicola Keegan, the uber-talented author of Swimming and one of our favorite people, will be teaching a Master Class on the novel. 

Bonjour Paris just published a terrific interview with Nicola on writing and teaching.

"I would describe my current novel as a living nightmare," she tells Dimitri Keramitas, with typical honesty. "It makes my toes curl."

It's hard to describe Nicola Keegan because 1) I adore her, and 2) she is disarmingly unique.   Fortunately, shortly after the publication of her first novel, which received rave reviews and was translated into numerous languages, we did a little interview which, I think, offers a pretty good portrait of the artist.  So I'm republishing it today. I hope you enjoy it.

PWW Writing Weekend: June 28-29-30. A master class in novel writing will be taught by Nicola Keegan, the author of Swimming (Alfred Knopf), which received rave reviews from the New York Times, Washington Post, and other publications. The novel has been translated into several languages and was named a Top Ten novel by Time Magazine. Nicola is renowned for her inclusive and enthusiastic style of teaching. 

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BOOKS Nicola Keegan on SWIMMING (reprint of Paris Writers News interview from September 2009)

Authors interview Authors:

 

Nicola Keegan is a unique talent and an amazing person. Her debut novel Swimming was featured by Time as one of the top 10 novels the year it was published.  I have been rereading Nicola's novel this summer with absolute astonishment at the brilliance, humor and humanity of her prose. Swimming is one of those works of art that only gets better with rereading. Interview with Nicola Keegan from 2009.

LZ  In reading Swimming I was struck by the narrator’s powerful and unique voice. 

Judy Bloom said “It’s the most original novel I’ve read all year. I can’t get Pip’s voice out of my mind.”

Where does PIP’s voice come from?

NK  Writing is not living but sometimes living annoys me so deeply, I pretend writing is living which injects a certain type of energy into my work because everything becomes essential, necessary, important, and real.

LZ  You claim that you started to write “bad poetry” because you couldn’t find a writers group in Paris that would take you and finally ended up with a bunch of poets. One of the most remarkable things about Swimming is the language, which I have to suspect is influenced by your intense exposure to poets and poetry. What is the relation between prose and poetry in your writing? Should we all hang out with poets?

NK  People talk about that a lot; prose and poetry, poetry and prose. I don’t know what the relationship is honestly—perhaps how you hear the words in your head and hanging around with poets does affect the way one hears. It affected me anyway. Poets help you listen which makes you think which makes you pay attention which helps you see—so yes, we should all hang out with them…but something tells me they have other things they’d rather be doing. On another note, I didn’t think anyone like Alice Notley existed until I actually met her so that was a surprise. I think poets should have their own special house and they shouldn't have to pay for anything and they should be revered and taken care of and read they should be read. They are the opposite of what is wrong with the world right now.

LZ  James Joyce’s The Dead is one of your favorite works. Why?

NK The snow. I must have been about 18 years old. I was reading in bed. Christmas had just passed and I had a couple of days before going back to school. It was late, way after midnight and I kept reading although I was tired. My bedroom had a long rectangular window that overlooked an empty swimming pool and the dense forest beyond. I was reading smoothly, you know when you read with interest but a certain sense of detachment--like that. The story took over my senses in a wave felt even more intently due to the silence of the house, the insulation of winter,  the visibility of the sky, sharp winter stars, a low moon. I had a physical reaction; my heart beat faster and my mind quickened, I looked out the window--the snow was falling slowly, I went back to the story, the dinner table was breaking up, the wife was weeping, the husband was realizing something about the human heart. Both worlds, the real one, my pillow, the central heating purring in the background, and the James Joyce world sort of muted together. Falling gently gently falling. It was the first moment in my life I felt consciously connected to the whole of the human race. I think of James Joyce often, whenever I see a tall thin man, whenever light flashes off someone's spectacles, whenever it snows, when I'm in Ireland. Sometimes I write what he wrote just to see what it feels like.

LZ  The humor in Swimming is little short of ferocious. God, death, sibling love and hatred, priests and even nuns—nothing is spared. Is there any subject we can’t laugh at?

NK  Oh there are subjects I cannot laugh at, but you have to admit being human is often funny. And the Irish are the WORST by the way. Poor old Michael Jackson's body wasn't even cool yet and the jokes were flying. Horrible awful jokes; something about turning his body into legos so children could play with him for once. See? Awful stuff. Does that mean that they don't give a damn about poor old M. Jackson. No, they care. When they finished laughing they said “poor old sod.” Humor is just a way of dealing with things, a form of decompression and an expression of the meaningless misery and ridiculousness of being human. It often gets misinterpreted as a type of hardness, but it’s the contrary. I once sat on the steps outside a funeral and laughed myself into cramps. I couldn't go in. It was horrible. How many terrible moments of high drama did I catch my sister's eye and just lose it. More than I can count. I know it's awful. A curse. Very black etc. But I just cannot help it.

LZ  Why an Olympic swimmer? What is it about high level sport that attracted you?

NK  An elite athlete begins as a child who loves something and I think that kind of love is good. I’ve always admired people who try really hard and swimmers try really hard every day for years and years and years. When I started to study water I loved the language that scientists used to describe it. There’s a lot of water in SWIMMING in all its forms; it rains for months, it snows in spirals, people sprout like fountains, feelings evaporate. I like the fact that in water people are unburdened by gravity. I like the image of swimmers flinging themselves into water and pulling as hard as they can. I like the idea of beating the clock, being your own principal adversary, human velocity. And there is a solitary lonesomeness about spending so many hours in an element in which you cannot breathe that I found deliciously melancholic. I love female locker room talk, any sort of ridiculous chatter about body parts, the fact that success is a temporary flame. Also, and I might as well admit it--when I started studying swimmers, I grew very attached to them, and when I continued to follow them, I fell in love. That's what happens I guess.

LZ  An admirer of yours told me that, in early drafts, you wrote “like an animal”. How did you manage to channel this intensity into story? By what process did you make your themes, which are rooted in profoundly personal events, comprehensible to the reader?

NK  Yipes—the Big Questions. Yes, I wrote like an animal. The intensity is there naturally so I didn't have to conjure it--it just sort of channeled itself into the work. I had some hard knocks while I was writing this novel and it is at these moments that one must decide what is important. It’s easy to have a good philosophy when things are fine, but when you get your mettle tested and things are a mess, it’s a bit more problematic. I had to choose. Writing anchored me—I felt like giving my best. That's the job of a writer I think--to make deeply personal feelings accessible to people. If they are incomprehensible then I'm not doing my job. I spent a lot of my life being incomprehensible, even to myself, so I know. Actually, when you meet someone one-on-one and talk to them, you can make anything comprehensible—even your most craziest story because bottom line; we are all human and understand human things so I talk to people. And I listen. And, not to sound like a dork, I care, so empathy seems a prerequisite.

LZ  What role did your agent play in your writing?

NK  My agent, Bill Clegg, is the first person who connected to my creative mind in a way I'd always wished for. He sort of obliterated this intellectual loneliness that one can accidentally find themselves locked in. The mind is a vast complicated affair that to find someone with whom you can work in such an effortless funny respectful loving way, honestly, is the biggest gift this whole process has brought me. I love working with him.

 

Nicola Keegan is currently working on her second novel.

 ---

What book reviewers wrote about Swimming when it was published:

Radhika Jones at Time Magazine (top 10 fiction of 2009) 

 Catherine Taylor of The Guardian.

Ron Charles at Washington Post

 

---

For more on  Paris Writers News Interviews

Twitter: @pariswriters

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ParisWritersNews/

 

 

 

Authors interview Authors:

 

Nicola Keegan is a unique talent and an amazing person. Her debut novel Swimming was featured by Time as one of the top 10 novels the year it was published.  I have been rereading Nicola's novel this summer with absolute astonishment at the brilliance, humor and humanity of her prose. Swimming is one of those works of art that only gets better with rereading. Interview with Nicola Keegan from 2009.

LZ  In reading Swimming I was struck by the narrator’s powerful and unique voice. 

Judy Bloom said “It’s the most original novel I’ve read all year. I can’t get Pip’s voice out of my mind.”

Where does PIP’s voice come from?

NK  Writing is not living but sometimes living annoys me so deeply, I pretend writing is living which injects a certain type of energy into my work because everything becomes essential, necessary, important, and real.

LZ  You claim that you started to write “bad poetry” because you couldn’t find a writers group in Paris that would take you and finally ended up with a bunch of poets. One of the most remarkable things about Swimming is the language, which I have to suspect is influenced by your intense exposure to poets and poetry. What is the relation between prose and poetry in your writing? Should we all hang out with poets?

NK  People talk about that a lot; prose and poetry, poetry and prose. I don’t know what the relationship is honestly—perhaps how you hear the words in your head and hanging around with poets does affect the way one hears. It affected me anyway. Poets help you listen which makes you think which makes you pay attention which helps you see—so yes, we should all hang out with them…but something tells me they have other things they’d rather be doing. On another note, I didn’t think anyone like Alice Notley existed until I actually met her so that was a surprise. I think poets should have their own special house and they shouldn't have to pay for anything and they should be revered and taken care of and read they should be read. They are the opposite of what is wrong with the world right now.

LZ  James Joyce’s The Dead is one of your favorite works. Why?

NK The snow. I must have been about 18 years old. I was reading in bed. Christmas had just passed and I had a couple of days before going back to school. It was late, way after midnight and I kept reading although I was tired. My bedroom had a long rectangular window that overlooked an empty swimming pool and the dense forest beyond. I was reading smoothly, you know when you read with interest but a certain sense of detachment--like that. The story took over my senses in a wave felt even more intently due to the silence of the house, the insulation of winter,  the visibility of the sky, sharp winter stars, a low moon. I had a physical reaction; my heart beat faster and my mind quickened, I looked out the window--the snow was falling slowly, I went back to the story, the dinner table was breaking up, the wife was weeping, the husband was realizing something about the human heart. Both worlds, the real one, my pillow, the central heating purring in the background, and the James Joyce world sort of muted together. Falling gently gently falling. It was the first moment in my life I felt consciously connected to the whole of the human race. I think of James Joyce often, whenever I see a tall thin man, whenever light flashes off someone's spectacles, whenever it snows, when I'm in Ireland. Sometimes I write what he wrote just to see what it feels like.

LZ  The humor in Swimming is little short of ferocious. God, death, sibling love and hatred, priests and even nuns—nothing is spared. Is there any subject we can’t laugh at?

NK  Oh there are subjects I cannot laugh at, but you have to admit being human is often funny. And the Irish are the WORST by the way. Poor old Michael Jackson's body wasn't even cool yet and the jokes were flying. Horrible awful jokes; something about turning his body into legos so children could play with him for once. See? Awful stuff. Does that mean that they don't give a damn about poor old M. Jackson. No, they care. When they finished laughing they said “poor old sod.” Humor is just a way of dealing with things, a form of decompression and an expression of the meaningless misery and ridiculousness of being human. It often gets misinterpreted as a type of hardness, but it’s the contrary. I once sat on the steps outside a funeral and laughed myself into cramps. I couldn't go in. It was horrible. How many terrible moments of high drama did I catch my sister's eye and just lose it. More than I can count. I know it's awful. A curse. Very black etc. But I just cannot help it.

LZ  Why an Olympic swimmer? What is it about high level sport that attracted you?

NK  An elite athlete begins as a child who loves something and I think that kind of love is good. I’ve always admired people who try really hard and swimmers try really hard every day for years and years and years. When I started to study water I loved the language that scientists used to describe it. There’s a lot of water in SWIMMING in all its forms; it rains for months, it snows in spirals, people sprout like fountains, feelings evaporate. I like the fact that in water people are unburdened by gravity. I like the image of swimmers flinging themselves into water and pulling as hard as they can. I like the idea of beating the clock, being your own principal adversary, human velocity. And there is a solitary lonesomeness about spending so many hours in an element in which you cannot breathe that I found deliciously melancholic. I love female locker room talk, any sort of ridiculous chatter about body parts, the fact that success is a temporary flame. Also, and I might as well admit it--when I started studying swimmers, I grew very attached to them, and when I continued to follow them, I fell in love. That's what happens I guess.

LZ  An admirer of yours told me that, in early drafts, you wrote “like an animal”. How did you manage to channel this intensity into story? By what process did you make your themes, which are rooted in profoundly personal events, comprehensible to the reader?

NK  Yipes—the Big Questions. Yes, I wrote like an animal. The intensity is there naturally so I didn't have to conjure it--it just sort of channeled itself into the work. I had some hard knocks while I was writing this novel and it is at these moments that one must decide what is important. It’s easy to have a good philosophy when things are fine, but when you get your mettle tested and things are a mess, it’s a bit more problematic. I had to choose. Writing anchored me—I felt like giving my best. That's the job of a writer I think--to make deeply personal feelings accessible to people. If they are incomprehensible then I'm not doing my job. I spent a lot of my life being incomprehensible, even to myself, so I know. Actually, when you meet someone one-on-one and talk to them, you can make anything comprehensible—even your most craziest story because bottom line; we are all human and understand human things so I talk to people. And I listen. And, not to sound like a dork, I care, so empathy seems a prerequisite.

LZ  What role did your agent play in your writing?

NK  My agent, Bill Clegg, is the first person who connected to my creative mind in a way I'd always wished for. He sort of obliterated this intellectual loneliness that one can accidentally find themselves locked in. The mind is a vast complicated affair that to find someone with whom you can work in such an effortless funny respectful loving way, honestly, is the biggest gift this whole process has brought me. I love working with him.

 

Nicola Keegan is currently working on her second novel.

 ---

What book reviewers wrote about Swimming when it was published:

Radhika Jones at Time Magazine (top 10 fiction of 2009) 

 Catherine Taylor of The Guardian.

Ron Charles at Washington Post

 

---

For more on  Paris Writers News Interviews

Twitter: @pariswriters

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ParisWritersNews/

 

An Encounter with Jimmie Durham at the 58th International Art Biennale of Venice

 by Dominique Godrèche

Jimmie Durham and his wife Maria Thereza Alvez (photos: Dominique Godrèche)

 

 

AN ENCOUNTER WITH JIMMIE DURHAM

AT THE

58^TH INTERNATIONAL ART BIENNALE OF VENICE

“May you live in interesting times”

_______

a Paris Writers News interview

by Dominique Godrèche

 

Jimmie Durham, American poet, activist, artist, attended the International Venice art Biennale, «May you live in interesting times», curated by Ralph Rugoff, to receive the Golden Lion Award for lifetime achievement.

Born in the United States into a Cherokee family, Jimmie Durham studied art at the École des Beaux-Arts in Geneva, and had his first solo shows in 1965.  He later joined the American Indian Movement during the confrontation with US federal forces at Wounded Knee in 1973, and became Director of the International Indian Treaty Council and its representative to the UN during the 1970s. He moved to Cuernavaca, Mexico in the 90’s, and to Europe in 1994. He now resides in Naples, Italy, and Berlin, where, with his wife Maria Thereza Alves, they created a design company, Labinac, supporting the crafts of Latin American Indigenous populations, and the access to education for Indigenous students. While in Venice, he shared his thoughts with Dominique Godrèche about the Golden Lion Award, Native American art, Beauty, and living in Europe.

Dominique Godrèche: How do you feel about receiving the Golden Lion at this Venice Biennale?

Jimmie Durham: They probably think I am going to die soon! (laugh) I am very honored to be recognized, not as a prize recipient for making art, but for seriously making art. This is my 7th Biennale. I love being in big group shows, around other artists, and this art show exhibits so many people: it gives a chance to see what is going on in the world. I always loved Venice, where I taught art and history at the university: it is a beautiful city. So I am always happy to be here.

 

How did you select the pieces for the Arsenale, and Giardini?

Ralph Rudolph came to Berlin, and told me what he wanted for the Arsenale and the Giardini: I had the skulls of animals from my previous show in Zurich, a year ago, which  he was pleased with. Then I told him about a new piece made of serpentine stone for the Giardini, which he approved.

The eyes of the skulls, shown at the Arsenale, are made of Murano glass: did you work there?

I had a show a few years ago at the Querini Stampalia Museum, and I used broken Murano glass; as I have a friend who works there, and took his left over. I love broken glass, the pieces which are not quite “good”. In Murano they can do anything with glass, except a not good looking piece! Their glass work is too nice, it is made for the bourgeois; I love this beauty, but I know that you cannot make art with beauty, unless you are a really  good artist! Broken glass has so much energy: it vibrates in front of my eyes.

 

Can you elaborate about “art cannot be realized with beauty”?

Art is an intellectual enterprise. I don’t know what is meant by “creative”: I cannot create anything, but I can change the language, by talking, or creating poetry. -My first life was poetry-. But I don’t create language: I make poems, I answer an interview. As artists, we know that what we do in art is not translatable into language, and you cannot say what you mean. Art is important for human society; we need it as much as we need language.

 

But why did you mention that art cannot be beauty?

Because it is too easy, too incomplete. If I write or read a poem only made of beautiful words, it is not enough: there needs to be more complexity. And beauty takes over the complexity.

 

Since how long have you been living in Europe?

We moved here in 1994, from Mexico, and I had previously lived in Geneva for 4 years. I never feel at home anywhere, but I want to be able to participate to the intellectual and artistic life in Europe. As the United States is a colonial country, where people are racist, violent, not interested by culture, - just by money-. So now we have fame and money as a standard, and it comes from America.  When you hear about an American writer, actor…You only hear about how much he makes: that is not the right standard of success, as money has nothing to do with it. But that is the colonial idea of success; and is not good at all for art. In Europe it is still not as bad.

 

Why did you choose to live in Mexico?

We lived in Cuernavaca, as the most magical man, Ivan Illich, was there; and his ideas are more and more meaningful.

And why Naples today?

I never imagined to live in Napoli; we were living in Berlin and Rome. But a friend brought us to Napoli, and we fell in love with the city!

 

Do you identify yourself as Native American?

Yes, I am a Cherokee; but it is not a big deal. It becomes a big deal when craziness, or the media pick it up. What is important is that I never stopped being an activist and an artist since long ago, and I don’t make a separation between the two: if you are an activist and an artist, you don’t choose one over the other.

 

Do you think that your Native American identity reflects in your art work?

The same way Marcel Duchamp’s identity reflects in his art work. When we lived in New York, my art work was about the situation in the United States and the Native culture. Because we are colonized, we cannot make decisions on our own, and it is intolerable. I did not make art to instruct people; I made art that would be liked, and at the same time show a reality abou  racism. It is a sardonic type of art, with as much humor as possible, to show the stupidity of racism in everyday life; but I would not say it is Native American as such.

 Would you consider living in the United States again?

No. It is too frustrating to do art there, as the standard is money, and you cannot get beyond that; and it applies to everything.

 

Are you still concerned with Native American art, and issues?

I never was interested by Native contemporary art from the point of view of the United States: we are cheated by colonialism, and told, as Native American artists, that we should portray our lives, or ways of being, which means being oppressed, not free. And that gets boring very quickly, as they want us to create their romanticized image of ourselves; which is a cheat, and also not good for us.

An issue frequently mentioned by Native American artists…

Yes, but it is a difficult situation, to make art there, and fight colonialism: it is a hard task. You cannot do it directly; and not in America.

 

 

Will you continue to live in Berlin and Napoli?

I do not  like to be “at home”. Berlin is like Los Angeles: big, spread out, nowhere. So it is a good base. I like to live in a place until I reach a point where I hate it so well that I have to leave.

 

The Venice Biennale runs through November 24, 2019

 

Dominique Godrèche, ethno psychologist, writer, journalist, author of "Santana", Albin Michel editions, Awardee of the literary Prix de la Villa Medicis Hors les Murs, is a contributor for various medias (Télérama, le Monde Diplomatique, Geo...) She has published "Mad about God", "the Jerusalem Syndrome", in Paris Match, “Ultra orthodoxy and fashion”, in Le Point, “Religious fiction and Reality” in ça m’intéresse.