Motherhood

The memoirist on her relationship with motherhood, immigration, and psychogeography.

The director on ritual, the pain of creation, and her new film, Madeline’s Madeline.

He used a specific verb, which I forgot to write down: screw.  With the bottles screwed into your breasts… It all started with screwing, what does he make of that.

Scientists, motherhood, and other probings of the female body.

When I was young, my mother told me that when she was a fetus in her mother’s womb, her own body already contained the egg that would one day be fertilized and become me. It’s an image akin to an infinite-loop motif—a Droste-effect woman in a woman in a woman

Dear J.

I’ve been meaning to write to you for some time, though I am sure you are surprised to hear from me. 

Technological distortion, motherhood, and painterly approaches to video.

Claire of the Sea Light and the mysteries the ancestors share.

Julia Guez explores the nuances of ambient translation at work in Aase Berg’s Transfer Fat.

This First Proof contains the an excerpt from the novel This Is The House That Horse Built.

Ay, the smell was swept up, stirred, and scrambled into the air when your father slammed the door; I had barely noticed it until he appeared in the doorway and raised his hand over his nose, covering his mouth. 

Two books titled Parallel Play were recently released by different publishers to the complete surprise of both authors.

“The first level of risk is very private; most of the time I feel I’m writing against a silence, against a taboo, against what has not been written; and if it has been written, there’s no reason for me to write it.”

“You don’t have to understand something for it to be a pleasure.” Kimiko Hahn

Family portraiture is the autobiographical pretext for two remarkable recent books of photography by Eri Morita (Ho and Stuart O’Sullivan (How Beautiful This Place Can Be), two New York-based 30-something photographers.

Shriver’s new novel, So Much For That, which deals with America’s health care crisis, is out March 9th.

That night, Sophonie conceived at the height of the downpour. 

I study the difference between myself and my mother. The family photographs have kept an accurate account of this, though their edges have curled and their colors have faded.

For a long time I had wanted a child, but the desire, attenuated, had passed, and other feelings had taken its place.

The stories our parents tell answer none of our questions.