š a correspondence with Susan Finlay
The novels of Susan Finlay, somewhat unsurprisingly - Arriviste, Our Lady of Everything, Objektophila, My Other Spruce and Maple Self, The Jacques Lacan Foundation. And jam jars and Dune Spice. Maybe.
Susan Finlay wrote one of my favourite reads of recent years, The Jacques Lacan Foundation. She made the terrible mistake of using her real name on Instagram, which allowed me to what was called stalk, and is now referred to as stan her, until she surrendered and replied. Her new book, The Lives of Artists, an unreliable meta autobiography (I think?) came out between starting this correspondence last December and finally finishing it this week. Ideally I would have published to coincide with the publishing of her new title as I did with the Will Ashon and Nicolas Royle interviews. But fail.
I have a copy on order, which, once read, will act as an excuse to message her another round of spurious accusations. Meanwhileā¦
Julian: The hipster is a generally mocked character, Iāve noticed in your novels, even though their tropes are pointed out ā drinking from glasses that are made to look like jam jars ā you write about them with a certain affection and understanding. Do you think hipsters are so universally derided because they are perhaps the only middle class (slightly older than) youth cult?
Susan: Yes! I do! I mean there is definitely affection there, and an implicit acknowledgment that I myself at times both fall within and am seduced by the hipster category. I suppose you could say itās a kind of āinternalised hipster-phobiaā, informed by growing up lower middle-class in the British suburbs - part of you is desperate to escape āthe normsā but simultaneously contemptuous of what you perceive as ābougie rebelliousnessā: the upshot being limited edition Nikes and an oh so ironic sneer about wearing themā¦
Julian: Youāve published five novels. I heard Llyod Shepard say at the launch of his third novel that he felt he could finally call himself a writer. Five is very prolific, plus poetry ā and yet you've described yourself as a visual artist.
(Actually Iāve just seen you say āwriter and artistā on your website which has fucked my question, but since itās been sitting in my inbox for four months Iām going to ask it anyway.)
Susan: Yes, I have published five novels, but at present I have all of five readers! I'm sure it's partly a symptom of our narcissistic, histrionic age of Insta, but I think I'll only feel like a novelist when I'm known as one (rather than being defined as a bookseller, a minute-taker, or indeed by any of my other numerous and varied day-jobs).Ā
And yes, I also write poetry, but I don't know how it works, only that I like doing it, in the same way I like writing on pistachio coloured notepaper, or watching perfume commercials. Maybe I'm a 'poet tee-shirt wearer' - i.e. the metaphorical equivalent of one of those yummy mummies with French slogan tops 'la poƩtesse' embroidered over a Breton stripe, that sort of thing?
In terms of identifying as a visual artist, this is more down to sensibility than output. I studied fine art (and still make paintings on a Sunday), and have always found the art world a much more exciting, open place to come from than the literary one, which has always struck me as very conservative. Two of my favourite authors, Deborah Levy and Tom McCarthy, have been pretty vocal about wanting to position themselves as 'art world writers' and this makes sense to me. I want to be in their gang.
Julian: Funnily enough I have been to a few of Deborah Levyās parties, it would be a good gang to be in. I can also see why you like Tom McCarthy. There is in your novels a fascination with language. The meaning of a word, outside of its narrative intention within a sentence. Words as signifiers. Characters either intentionally or you the author making them wear them as if a costume. The chapter titles in Our Lady of Everything suggesting some sort of alternative meta story. Particularly the use of formal styles like exhibition catalogues, film scripts. Most obviously with the dissonance between English and American in The Jacques Lacan Foundation. Did studying art rather than literature bring out this viewing words as symbols?
Susan: Okay, so first off, I wish I hadn't mentioned Deborah Levy who I've now gone off in quite a major way (although that's a whole other email chain of worms). Nevertheless, I can imagine her parties being fun and I'm envious to think you have been granted such insights into that particular literary milieu.Ā
But anyway. LANGUAGE. Yes. I like what you say about this and how expertly you have summed up my approach. And yes, I think that studying art definitely shaped the way I think about writing.Ā
I became very aware of this a few years ago, when I secured funding for a 'practice-based PhD' in quite a traditional English Studies department. Coming from the art world, many of the people there seemed almost comically not just uptight but also literal. Indeed, one of the most frequent questions my supervisor asked me, in relation to The Jacques Lacan Foundation, was "How is this literary?" My knee-jerk reaction was, of course, to say, "Duh! Because it's in a book!" However, as I was already in enough trouble, I would instead give examples of established literary movements that used objects and images to tell stories and/or saw the choice of words and styles as representative of larger socio-political issues, as well as an acknowledgement of the writer's every-changing subjectivity (for example proponents of the nouveau roman, or the new narrative, or certain authors deemed 'postmodern' ā writers who in almost all cases, have some relationship to the art world/art school).
And phew, that was a very long sentence!
One of my favourite visual artists, Paul Thek, used the language of catholic reliquaries (think heavily decorated casts of body parts and meat displayed inside a glass vitrine). He did so a means to express his queer sexuality and fear of the Vietnam War among many other things. Everything about the work is both immediate and implied. And for a long time, no other artwork looked like his, even though his artwork was full of borrowed things.Ā It might sound pretentious, but I am not pretending when I say that I want to write books the way Thek makes art.
And that art school was great, in part because no one would ever ask "How is this art?" In fact, if you did, you'd be laughed at for being such a fogie. There was an understanding that the very nature of making art was Oedipal, and that if you weren't striving to destroy the past in some way and makes something new from the ruins you were merely a craftsperson. Hence "How is this original?" was a common question, and "derivative" was a common insult. At the same time, the general consensus was that 'good' art usually refers to something other than itself - whether it be literature, popular culture, psychoanalysis - whereas many people in English Studies departments hold the opposite view, and think that you can't be a good writer unless you focus solely on literary theory leading to novels about middleclass people who contemplate having affairs.
Julian: Along with an affection for the much mocked hipster, thereās also an appreciation of surfaces. Of veneers. Of simulacra. The descriptions of America in The Jacques Lacan Foundation describe facades seen through the window glass of a car. Buildings don't exist in a 3D space but are flat projections, a movie screen, itās they who are moving past the car, while the car is stationary. Like the painted boards held up by struts in a fake cowboy town, they represent our preconceptions of America, while America itself erects buildings as symbols of its dream. Everything is second degree, referencing a greater mythical thing.Ā Ā
The two Blade Runner films come to mind, the original's philosophical core question self knowledge and identity (spoiler for anyone who hasnāt actually seen it, or only the voice-over version which cut out the scene that changes everything ā Deckard himself is a replicant but doesnāt know it). This is the great American novel, wanting to cut open the heart of the American dream. While the sequel skims over the implications of its central crux, acting as a hanger on which to drape over beautiful set pieces.Ā
Objektophilia too seems to imply these veneers, these set pieces, they are beautiful in themselves. They can be admired and loved for what they are. It isnāt the history of the object or an interior that matters, but its currency in being able to represent a whole class of objects in the now. Furnishing a stage set.Ā
Assuming you agree, again do you think originally training as a visual artist influenced this world view? The painting is as beautiful, maybe even more so, than the still life it represents. And this appreciation can be extended, letting the fictions of hipsterism have equal provenance, to be venerated in themselves.
Susan: Oh I love this, and perhaps I should just say yes, I agree with everything and leave it there (although being me I canāt resist adding an extra two cents). Your readings are the readings I hope for when writing, and the desire to depict a world where everything refers to another thing, and each experience is a mediated one is very much part of my modus operandi as an author.Ā
Iām also super chuffed by the references to Blade Runner. I think the first film is a masterpiece (and much better than the book). I was less keen on the second and that director generally for the very reasons you describe (although that said I went to see Dune three times in as many weeks āall those beautiful shots of the horizon after lockdown, and so obviously, glowingly filmed on film).
Itās also interesting to hear you talk about America and the American dream and how my books engage with this. My sense of identity ā which I think comes across in my work, and sometimes too much so ā is always that of a self-hating Brit, but many of the writerās I like best are North American. As I (implicitly) mentioned in the last answer, Iāve always been keen on new narrative writing and the way in which this deals with popular culture and class while also being clearly influenced by French literature and theory - something thatās ever really caught on in the UK. Big surreal, political books like Deliloās White Noise also appeal and are also very American (although not such a good film adaptation of this one).Ā
Objektophila, repeatedly references the film-maker Antonioni (who incidentally also wrote some wonderful short stories). Thereās a great book on his work, the subtitle of which is The Surface of the World. The blurb states that whereas ātraditional audiences have balked at the āopacityā of Antonioni's films, it is precisely their rendered surface that is so eloquent once one learns to read it. Not despite, but through, their silences the films show a deep concern with the motives, perceptions and vicissitudes of the emotional lifeā- which sums up a lot of my feeling with regard to making art (in the broadest sense). Your phrase āfurnishing a stage setā also seems to be another way of putting this.Ā
So, to finally cut to the chase, yes studying art has influenced this view in that my way of telling stories is through objects and images as well as language, and that the literal as well as metaphorical notion of (re-)framing is really important (however, Iād also add that my experience of fashion, film, advertising and so on also led to my interest in visual art, so in terms of influences itās kind of one big sloppy circle).Ā
And yes, often the painting is more beautiful than its representation (and as much for what it omits as implies).Ā Ā
And yes, this appreciation can be extended in terms of āfictions of hipsterdomā (another great phrase). Ā
Julian: A sort of melange as my final question. In the a-variety-of-miscellaneous-things meaning, rather than the Viennese coffee or Dune Spice drug sense.Ā Although feel free to go that way if you want. I want to draw a line from Arriste, through Our Lady of Everything to My Other Spruce and Maple Self.Ā Thereās a clear refining of the āFinlayā style in these three novels. Are you a Martin Amis fan? A little topical here. If he were an artpunk gurl upstart might he have opened a novel along the lines of Arriste?
Iām cheating a little as I know the answer to this already, Our Lady of Everything stands out with a much softer tone, the language games are there, but the formatting as technical template is reduced to paragraph level. Any comments? Also, it features Chaos Magic, something I love the idea of, who doesnāt want to be invited into a sex magik ritual. However, everyone Iāve ever met who professes to practise it are either plain olā mad or a sociopath at best. Did the use of Chaos Magic somehow alter the text?
Could Objektophila be a reaction to the mild conformity of Our Lady of Everything?, pushing to the fore an experimental use of film script, poetry, and faux essay. Finally we arrive at My Other Spruce and Maple Self which reigns in the overtly postmodern but ups the barbed with bdsm, drugs and porn as opening mood setters, formatted almost as if a research paper with headings pinpointing the focus of each section, something William Gibson is keen on too, although I can think of no other similarity with you. Other than probably watching Dune a lot.
Susan: Once again, Iām impressed by how thoughtful your questions are, as well as dense! So Iām going to try work my way through this one methodically, tackling each āmini-questionā as it appears.Ā
First off, yes, I am a Martin Amis fan (I also appear to be the only person in the world right now who thinks The Idol is both entertaining and artistic telly and if it was up to me, Iād give it all the classiest prizes). I actually read both London Fields and Money while writing parts of Arriviste, and the way that people have dismissed Amis in recent years simply because they equate a ānastyā character with nasty author, while awarding brownie points to stories that represent an idealised view of society rather than the truth of human experience is irritating at best. At worst it creates even more limitations for already marginalised authors in terms of how they are supposed to engage with āidentityā. In fact, I am getting increasingly French about this sort of thing the older and crankier I get. But anyway, yes, Iām very flattered by the Amis comparison, particularly because, like Amis, I like to be funny as well as dark (I remember laughing out loud at the bit in Money where the protagonistās parents invoice him for his childhood for instance). When Arriviste came out most people seemed to think it was dark only (as well as considerably more autobiographical than it was). But Iām a joker! And I like to joke around!Ā
Second, Our Lady of Everything was, as I think youāre hinting at, edited quite heavily, and I kind of want to disown it because I didnāt like either the edit or the hideous Cath Kidson style marketing (something I talk about in The Lives of the Artists in relation to why I havenāt put that book on my website). Yes, the tone in my original version was softer than my other books, but it was still a lot harder than the published one is. Also, in my original/preferred version chaos magic played a much larger role (it was actually the original title but the publisher insisted I change this as well), and Eoin, the soldier involved in war crimes never appears leaving the other characters to try and make sense of his actions via images and memories.
This (original) book eventually reaches a point where the rituals and the characterās actions overlap in such a way that you are left wondering whether they are in fact being controlled by some larger force, as well as whether this force controls the images of Eoin. This definitely altered the text in that the structure was much more important than it had been previously, and the characterās sense of agency (or lack of) was questioned in a very different way to how it is in my other work. In terms of people who practise chaos magic, my experience is the same as yours ā both in terms of initial attraction to the idea and ultimately disappointment as to the reality of its manifestation.Ā
Third, I actually wrote the majority of Objektophilia in 2010, and completed all the final tweaks a couple of years before Our Lady of Everything came out -Ā but no one wanted to publish it (the feedback was always the same, you write well but this is way too niche). It did seem telling that it got a much better reaction (and sales) to Our Lady of Everything though, and I felt somehow vindicated in being an experimental writer and vowed to never doubt myself from that point onwards (something Iām still working on).Ā
Fourth, My Other Spruce & Maple Self, is my favourite novel (interestingly, I gave Deborah a copy of the book when it came out, which was over two years prior to August Blue being published). I actually prefer this novel to The Jacques Lacan Foundation for the reasons you say (although as proofs went out at the height of lockdown, and I was too stressed to do much to promote it, it kind of sunk without trace). The style is partly because it didnāt really start off as a novel, but evolved from a series of vignettes Iād written, although I really like your interpretation and think yes, thatās why it (hopefully) works. I also think that I was gaining confidence as a writer as well as reaching a point in life where I cared a lot less what other people thought and this made me want to write something quite dirty and weird.
Ā Lastly, itās interesting that you mention William Gibson (who I have to admit Iāve never read) partly because I just looked at Wikipedia where I saw he had a cameo in Wild Palms (which I love), and partly because I am currently writing a sci-fi which is a bit of a departureā¦Ā
Julian: Lastly, do you want to form a fake Berlin Electroclash Duo called āSafewordā?
Susan: Totally!!!
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