Reviewing

I love the concept of reviews. To me, it’s creating art in response to art, which – as a person who struggles to “create”art from nothing, who is more comfortable editing and remixing and iterating – is the highest form of art I see myself producing.

But reviews have so many jobs to do. They have to establish the credibility of the author to even be reviewing the material (“who the fuck are you to criticize someone who can actually create?”). They have to convey the author’s feelings about the art under consideration. And they also have to be well-structured and well-crafted enough to stand on their own - after all, the vast majority of criticism is read by people who have not yet (and, in all likelihood, never will) experienced the original work themselves. And, bonus, if it’s a rave, I believe the critic owes a responsibility to find a way to convince more people to experience it on their own.

But reviews are also so much, always, about the reviewer as much as the title under scrutiny. Only a fool or a narcissist believes themself an objective arbiter of taste or quality, and so the reviewer must grapple with how much to reveal. Hide behind too many academic terms or in-depth readings and you lack vitality and relevance to anyone worth knowing or interacting with.

I am writing this alongside my review of The Three Lives of Cate Kay, because the book hit me I’m sitting at an outdoor cafe on the dock while the boat from Speed 2 is bearing down, except I’m actually in a Final Destination movie. There is no escape. Every dodge, every distraction only seems to bring it barreling toward me ever faster, looming ever larger.

I don’t feel destroyed by this book, I feel deconstructed into component parts laid bare. I need to have this wholly separate piece of work so that I might start trying to gather those pieces together, while still trying to write a useful review of the book that can do even a shred of work toward pushing people to read it. I feel like my various internal organs are scattered at my feet, and I need to step thoughtfully among them in order to write something important (to me), while taking care not to step on anything important.

I know this book is already somewhat to actually popular, so my piddly efforts amount to very little in terms of getting more people to read the book.

But to me, the act of reviewing is also reaching out, trying to connect. To show through my art (the review) how this art (the book) made me feel, so that we (whoever you are) might be able to connect in some small way, to feel less alone. Yet another job on the pile, I suppose.