August Picks
The Queens of Sarmiento Park, Camila Sosa Villada, translated by Kit Maude
Reviewed by Ruby ConwayWe were all to be queens - Gabriela Mistral
Camila Sosa Villada’s staggering debut, The Queens of Sarmiento Park, is a dark and exuberant mythology of Tranvesti life on the streets and in and out of the pink boarding houses of Sarmiento, Argentina. This book is sold as a colourful story of a rag-tag, gender-bending, non-conforming crew, but it is full of Latino grit, black magic and the abuse that plagues the trans experience, as opposed to the RuPaul’s Drag Race exuberance you may expect from the blurb. But perhaps my own preconception and this branding is revelatory of an ignorance and limited perception of the trans experience (or to use the term the author prefers, Travesti) and the vulnerabilities and emotional depth of sex work. Villada writes in the author’s note, ‘Once again Northern academia was being thrust upon us while down here we were busy surviving, living, fucking, and eating, even if all there was on our plates was dirt. […] I don’t use surgical vocabulary, cold as a scalpel, because the terminology doesn’t reflect our experience as travestis in these regions, from indigenous times to this nonsense of civilisation’. In lieu of this, Villada’s work is highly visceral and audaciously real.
The Queens of Sarmiento Park focuses on narrator Camila, Auntie Encarna and a lost baby found in a park ( it feels a bit Winter’s-Tale-esque), who is subsequently named Twinkle in Her Eye , while also spotlighting a range of exuberant and troubled tranvesti characters, embued with mythological-like qualities and tendencies. In the wealth of mythology and beautiful language that Villada uses, the individuality and magicalism of each character is revealed and excelled in.
Growing up and in adulthood, narrator Camila uses sequins and acrylics to escape the pain and trauma of her alcoholic, abusive father and the bitter poverty of existence, of being born into the violence of a male body, of a life of persecution and oppression. Villada explores the space between internal and external experiences, lived reality and perceptions, the ways we use performance both to escape and exist.
This is a novel of contrasts. Travestis are the heartbeat and scorn of the city. The dirt and the glistening light. This absurd fairy tale is full of dark beauty. And Villada’s grasp of language is staggering, gritty and beautiful, all at once.
Six Days in Rome, Francesca Giacco
Reviewed by Madeleine KnowlesImpossibly stylish and totally transporting, Francesca Giacco’s summer release is the perfect summer read; enchanting, effortless, and empowering.
Giacco’s irresistible novel follows Emilia through the streets of Rome, as she surrenders to the beauty of the city that she was intending to explore with her partner. As the sudden end of her relationship transforms these six days in Rome from a romantic trip to a remedial one, Emilia uses her solitude to explore her situation, both literally and emotionally, and to finally pay attention to her ever-changing moods and interpretations.
Inescapably sensorial, Emilia walks up and down the streets of Rome, switching between being captivated by the bustle of life that surrounds her and consumed by memories and musings about her past relationship. So when Emilia meets John, an American living a seemingly idyllic life, I was apprehensive at the prospect of a neat, happily-ever-after summer romance; but, without giving too much away, all I’ll say is that I needn’t have worried.
Giacco’s transporting novel is, from beginning to end, an empowering read that charts the vulnerable act of rediscovering ourselves after an experience of loss. And one thing is for sure – whether or not you find yourself in a similar predicament to Emilia – Six Days in Rome will most certainly make you want to escape to Italy for a period of perfect solitude.
Big Brother, Lionel Shriver
Reviewed by Ruby ConwayI returned to Lionel Shriver this month and her 2013 novel Big Brother: an exploration of obesity, diet culture, addictive behaviour and relationships. It follows Pandora: successful business owner, wife to touchy and constrained Fletcher, step mother to his two children and daughter of a narcissistic soap opera celebrity. When her brother Edison comes to stay for two months, to Fletcher’s dismay, he is unrecognisable, weighing in at 386lb. Pandora is torn between staying with her husband and step children and helping her big brother in his food-focused crisis. But what follows is much like another addiction, the obsession with food swapped for calorie counting.
Shriver is consistently witty, astute and intelligent in her observations. The novel feels highly thought out, contained almost, moving at a rigidly consistent pace. It is measured, at times a little laboured, much like the diet that Pandora and Edison embark on.
With a dark ending, what Shriver really illuminates is the tangled nature of familial relationships, the guilt, the obligations and the possibilities for intimacy, and when it can overstep the line.
