If I wasn’t reading as a kid, I was playing with dolls. I still find dolls fascinating and beautiful. I love the variety of dolls, from baby dolls to fashion dolls to artist’s mannequins. I love the rich history of dolls and how entwined doll history is with culture. One of the world’s first and most popular dolls, the paper doll, continues to thrive in new ways with doll enthusiasts of all ages. Since paper is such a delicate art form, not many whole pieces have survived history. However, paper art and paper dolls can be traced back thousands of years.

The first paper dolls of Europe appeared in Slavic countries, where paper crafts continue to thrive. Paper cutting folk art, or wycinaki in Polish, began to appear around the 15th century. As popularity rose, more figures began to appear in the art. Wycinaki is and was part of home decor, toys, furniture, and gifts.

French jointed puppets, called pantins, were first fashioned after famous 17th century figures. This satirical figures were among the first mechanical toys in the west. Other common pantin figures were Commedia dell ‘arte characters, like Harlequin, Pulcinella, and Pierrot, the clowns. The early hand painted pantins were simplistic, but as printing technology progressed, more detail could be added to mass production pantins. Printed pantins and paper dolls had the advantage of intricate detail over their manufactured porcelain cousins. Mass produced pantins were printed on a sheet, much like current paper dolls, with limbs separate from the bodies. Each piece was to be cut out separately, then strings, brads, or other fastenings attached to limbs to make the dolls jump and dance. Early paper toys share a similar look to contemporary paper dolls, but even pantins, dressed up like their contemporary counterparts did not come with an assortment of paper fashions and accessories.

July 24, 2022

I live in LA, but I’ve just flown in from New York after a month away, so I wake up early, too early, at 4 A.M., and read a book called Healing Back Pain. The author, John Sarno, is a doctor who argues that most back pain is psychological—the result of tension, which arises from repressed emotion. He makes his perspective sound like the most obvious thing in the world, and makes the common explanations, like sitting too much, sound completely idiotic. Most people have been taught to think of chronic back pain as arising out of an inciting incident and to think of the spine, especially the lower spine, as very fragile—even though, he explains, bodies are resilient and spines exceptionally strong. I want to believe him, because if I do believe him I’ll never feel back pain again, or if I do, I’ll have my delicate psychology to blame, as opposed to an innocent object like my chair. Sarno has a cult following; I google him, careful to read only the testimonials about how the book has changed people’s lives. Then I fall back to sleep.

I wake up again, at 7 A.M., make tea, and open all the mail I got while I was away—health insurance bill; traffic ticket; copies of Dogs of Summer by Andrea Abreu and A Woman’s Battles and Transformations by Édouard Louis; the new Paris Review; and a couple of issues of the London Review of Books. I read a review of Either/Or by Elif Batuman, a book that made me very angry. I was nevertheless gripped by it, as I was by The Idiot, probably because both present a problem that I’m still working out and which I’ve encountered in many novels that I might otherwise be inclined to say I enjoyed. I always feel betrayed by characters with whom I begin to identify—not necessarily because my life or psychology is like theirs, but because I can understand the contours of their journeys and want to follow them through—who then, in brief and passing moments, reveal the limits of their worldview, ushering in black people or poor people or people who speak in halting English as props to signal the boundaries of their otherwise astounding capacities for empathy. I have no interest in reading about characters who are likeable, or about characters who are inclined to like people like me, but I have a hard time not seeing it as a failure of a book’s attention to detail when people are turned into metonyms for cultures and ideologies with which the novel is unwilling to engage; it feels almost like the opposite of virtue signaling: a brief and passing confession that the protagonist is (of course!) burdened by the ugliness of her social class. Almost every review I’ve read of Either/Or mentions Selin’s naive and enthusiastic embrace of great works of literature, which she reads as instruction manuals for how to construct a life; none mentions her stated difficulty in appreciating hip-hop, which she summarizes as an altogether alienating genre of music defined by a man “saying ‘Uh, uh’ in the background.” (“Killing Me Softly” by the Fugees proves, for Selin, to be the exception to the rule, because “the man, despite several false alarms, never did start rapping, and instead a girl sang an old song with beautiful harmonies.”) But I don’t know—obviously Either/Or wasn’t going to be entirely about Selin’s problematic relationship to hip-hop. That would be a horrible book.

Edits on my novel are due next week, so I’ve vowed to do nothing and see no one until I finish. I spend the rest of the morning line editing, and then do a YouTube exercise video that involves flailing my limbs around as if I were lifting and then dropping a series of heavy objects. The couple in the video tries to be motivational and in the process takes a very derogatory stance on exercise, emphasizing how difficult it is and how happy we’ll all be once it’s finally over. Every time they demonstrate something especially excruciating, they repeat that “there are thousands, maybe millions” of other people suffering alongside me, which seems like a gross overestimation of their audience.

The seventies and eighties were a high point in American dance, and consequently, dance on television. As video technologies advanced, one-off performances inaccessible to most could be seamlessly captured and broadcast to the masses. Like all art forms, dance at this time was also influenced aesthetically by this new medium, as cinematic techniques permeated the choreographic (and vice versa). Today, many of these dance films are archived on YouTube. My favorite is a recording of avant-garde choreographer Blondell Cummings’s Chicken Soup, a one-woman monologue in dance that aired in 1988 on a TV program called Alive from Off Center. The piece is set to a minimalist score Cummings composed with Brian Eno and Meredith Monk. Over the music, a soft feminine voice narrates: “Coming through the open-window kitchen, all summer they drank iced coffee. With milk in it.” Cummings repeats a series of gestures: sipping coffee, threading a needle, and rocking a child. She glances with an exaggerated tilt of the head at an imaginary companion and mouths small talk—what Glenn Phillips of the Getty Museum calls her signature “facial choreography.” Her movements are sharp and distinct, creating the illusion that she is under a strobe light, or caught on slowly projected 35 mm film. She sways back and forth like a metronome, keeping time with her gestures.

This particular performance placed Cummings in a detailed set evocative of a fifties household. But when she performed Chicken Soup onstage, accompanied solely by piano music, there was no set at all aside from a wooden chair. In this recording, for example, of a 1989 live performance at Jacob’s Pillow, her movements themselves seem endowed with greater importance, and the barrier between storyteller and audience feels gauze thin. Chicken Soup is an invitation inside, into a conversation that is both private and familiar. “They sat in their flower-print housedresses at the white enameled kitchen table,” the voiceover continues, “endlessly talking about childhood friends. Operations. And abortions.” The work premiered in 1973, the year the Supreme Court ruled on Roe vs. Wade, but Cummings’s kitchen could be any woman’s—anytime, anywhere.

—Elinor Hitt, reader

I first met Patrizia Cavalli in 2018, in her apartment near Campo de’ Fiori, where we drank tea with honey and talked from early afternoon until sunset. Every surface was covered with books, papers, notebooks, scissors, and scarves, and each bore the same handwritten note, a warning to visitors: “Do not move! If you move anything, I’ll kill you.” Over the course of two years, we had three more conversations, speaking for five hours at a stretch. The apartment had been her home for decades: in the late sixties, as a twenty-year-old philosophy student, she rented a single room there; she had just left Todi, the town in Umbria where she grew up, and in Rome she felt unmoored and lonely. In 1969, through a mutual friend, she met the writer Elsa Morante, who was then working on her novel History. Morante was the first person to look at Cavalli’s poems, and after reading them, she called to say, “Patrizia, I’m happy to tell you that you are a poet.”

More than fifty years later, Cavalli’s poems are translated and loved across Europe and the United States. Her first collection, My Poems Won’t Change the World (1974), signaled the forthrightness and disregard for authority that would characterize all her work. Cavalli examines the causes and conditions of pleasure and pain, and the moments in life, often imperceptible at the time, that herald change. Her work explores infatuation, boredom, deception, conflict, grief—all in a poetic voice whose nonchalance belies its artistry.

When Cavalli died in June, it felt as though all of Rome wanted to pay tribute. A beautiful ceremony took place at the Campidoglio, where flowers were piled upon flowers. Her admirers and friends crowded the stairwell, and the room where her body lay in state. Cavalli might have criticized the extravagant floral arrangements, but she would have been moved by the words her loved ones chose to speak—some of them her own.

June 5, 2001

When I wrote this, I was living full-time in an idyllic southwest German university town where I had been a familiar figure since the eighties, spending money saved up from fifteen years of menial work elsewhere while sharing a small apartment with two other women. My last job had involved documenting C++, so people were leaning on me to learn to code.

My diaries are rife with shorthand made up of proper names. People stand in for their lifestyles, values, and even for chance remarks. For example, the Christe doctrine refers to a principle casually formulated by the heavy metal critic Ian Christe circa 1994. He felt that people should move where they want to live and look for work there, instead of the other way around, because people always give the really plum jobs to their friends. At the time he was making a living beta-testing video games.

The words in this entry are also abbreviations. Settle means to abjure free love and live with a partner again, likely tripling my household income. Computers means a full-time tech job. Tü, of course, is Universitätsstadt Tübingen, the notoriously livable earthly paradise where I was working my way through a friend’s list of sexual recommendations. Having slept with basically every man she knew, she had informed opinions as to which ones I’d enjoy. During the day, I wrote letters and blog entries (e.g. https://shats.com/AR/Previous/NellNovember2000.htm#Bruno). I was having a good time. Did I really want to “settle?”

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School board elections are crucial. They have always been important, but in a time of increased censorship, with big money funding campaigns by right-wing activists at the local board level and newly-elected board members choosing to overreach in their power to remove books, there has never been a more vital time in American history to know who is representing your tax money and values.

While we know what school boards do, how do we know the rest of what is necessary to elect qualified, competent individuals for school boards? What if you happen to be a person interested in running for school board?

Enter The School Board Project.

Thanks to the help of volunteers and partners, we’re building a massive database of every school board, school board election, and related information for anyone to access. This simple database provides information that is challenging to find in isolation, let alone in a large, collective, searchable, and sortable way. Because this is the work of a small group of individuals with limited time, it is and will be a slow process, but we’ll release information in batches. The methodology for determining which states to prioritize is both an art and a science: these are states with high censorship rates, active censorship groups, and upcoming elections worth preparing for, either as a voter or a candidate.

The School Board Project allows anyone to download the spreadsheets and add any relevant information that helps them. For example: individuals or groups may include the names and stances of those running for boards in the sheet to help guide voters and/or as a means of tracking the kind of topics that are producing the most discussion in those districts. It can be useful for those considering a run for school board to collect information about what they need to do to become eligible or how long they have to prepare for a run. The possibilities here are wide open.

So you’ve seen Jordan Peele’s Nope and you’re looking for what to read next? Here are a few ideas. Warning: minor spoilers connected to the themes of the movie Nope to follow.

You’re probably here because, like me, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about Nope, the latest film from everyone’s favorite horror director Jordan Peele. There are a lot of moving pieces in Peele’s latest film that all add up to one thought-provoking and terrifying whole. It’s a surprising take on alien invasion/UFO horror. It’s a monster horror film that includes social commentary about media spectacles, exploitation, and more. It’s a horror film about the art of filmmaking. And of course, because it’s Jordan Peele, there are also plenty of moments that are funny.

Part of the reason Nope is living rent-free in our collective minds at the moment is because it is such a unique film. There’s nothing out there that’s exactly like it. However, there are lots of novels that you’re sure to love if you’re looking for fiction that contains certain elements of Nope. So if you’re looking for smart alien invasion/UFO fiction, monster horror with social commentary, or horror novels about filmmaking, I’ve got quite a few recommendations for you! Nothing will be quite the same experience as watching Nope for the first time, but these books come close. And they’re also just excellent in their own right. Read and see for yourself!

Smart Alien Invasion Fiction

Should we still study Shakespeare? There isn’t a simple answer. For one thing, it depends what is meant by “study” — perhaps a better question, at least as far as answerability goes, is should we still read Shakespeare? Yes, read Shakespeare if you want to. Essay over.

Should academics still analyze and interpret and research Shakespeare? That is a little less easy to answer. Certainly there are not likely to be new discoveries made at this stage, but why limit new people from asking “Who was Shakespeare?” as if he didn’t write his own dang plays, as if we haven’t been down this road a million times. But why not, right? Academia does not inherently object to repetitiveness in subject. If anything, it thrives on it.

Should Shakespeare still be taught in high school? Now that is interesting. And the answer is: Maybe. But I would argue that the value of his writing is not as much its historical importance (though that exists) but its lasting influence. What can we learn from Shakespeare? Quite a lot, actually. Should we still read Shakespeare? Eh, whatever. Should we still learn from his work? Actually, I don’t think we can avoid it.

I truly cannot overstate the influence Shakespeare’s work has had on the English language. He invented — or is the first recorded usage of — over 1700 words, some of them compound words or verbed nouns, others wholly original; these include eyeball, bedroom, and…kissing? Was he the first person to call a dog pup a puppy? Apparently!

But he also invented common phrases and idioms. If you’ve seen better days, you’re quoting As You Like It. Haven’t slept a wink? Cymbeline. If what’s done is done, Macbeth, but if it was a foregone conclusion, Othello.

Many readers, when they hear about audiobooks for the first time, or when someone encourages them to try them out, often show concern about the medium. They worry that consuming a book in this manner will be something difficult to do, or not give them the same joy reading in print does.

I completely empathise with this worry, and I accept that audiobooks aren’t for everyone. While several readers rejoice about how audiobooks made it possible to have a reading life again by helping them focus on a story when print became too demanding, many others claim exactly the opposite: that they can’t seem to be able to focus on what they’re listening to.

Both experiences are valid, and although I am a massive audio fan, I can envision how and why it may not work for some.

In my own personal experience, listening to audiobooks wasn’t an entirely straight path either; I even wrote about that, and how I found ways to practice my focus, going from radio comedies and dramas to podcasts, all the way to audiobooks.

There is a reason why we at Book Riot have written several articles giving tips to those who wish to pick up audiobooks but don’t know how, or tried it and found out they couldn’t. Because, sometimes, it indeed requires practice and persistence.

Every year, a ton of queer books come out during Pride Month. I lost track of how many it was this year, but a quick glance at my new release spreadsheet (yes, I have one) reminded me that there were 10 queer releases on June 7th alone that I’d either read or was planning to read. And that was just one release day, and just the books that interested me, one reader.

All of these new queer books are very exciting, but, news flash: queer people exist year round. The deluge of queer books in June sometimes feels a little bit like publishers appeasing us — like as long as they release a ton of LGBTQ+ books in June, they can ignore us the rest of the year.

No, no, no, no. Around here, we read queer all year. And, happily, there are tons of amazing queer books coming out this summer and fall, even if they haven’t all gotten the buzz they deserve. These are 20 of the ones I’m most excited about. Some I have already read and fallen head-over-heels for, and some are at the top of my TBR. A few are already out (July 12 was a big day for queer books!) and the rest are ready and waiting for your preorders and library holds.

As always when I make lists like this, I am amazed and delighted at the breadth of queer lit we’re being treated to right now. From poignant family dramas and middle grade retellings to fantasy adventures and environmental essays — there is truly something for everyone.

Hopeful stories for kids are so necessary right now. After all, it isn’t an easy time to exist in the world. I feel perma-stressed, and it gets worse each time I check Twitter or look up the news. And I’m not alone. I see the tension in my friends’ hunched shoulders and dark-ringed eyes. Many of us aren’t having the easiest time coping with the world — dealing with the harsh realities of COVID, racism, and the environmental crisis, plus much more — and kids can feel that stress in us.

As a librarian, patrons constantly ask if I have any recommendations about books that can gently, intelligently, and honestly explain to kids about all the Big Scary Topics. You know, those big themes that we adults still barely comprehend. But the good news is that the answer is yes — there are hopeful stories about difficult topics and this list holds a few of my favourites.

I’m defeatist when it comes to taxes (meaning: I don’t understand deductions and pay whatever TurboTax tells me to), but I’m fascinated by those who aren’t. In 2001, for example, eighty thousand Black Americans filed for reparations with the IRS. Some made this their actual business. For $500, you could pay a self-taught financial advisor named Vernon James to apply on your behalf for a “Black Investment Tax Credit,” as he did for more than three hundred clients. James, who is Black, had a capacious “yes, and” attitude that bound together the case for reparations with workaday “Taxation is theft” libertarianism. Speaking to CBS in 2002, James asserted that Americans, whether Black or white, didn’t have to pay up come April. “The IRS took money from slaves. They are taking money from Americans. That is an investment. They have a right to get it back.” The IRS cut a number of claimants their requested checks, ranging from $40,000 to $100,000 per return and totaling more than $1 million. On realizing what had happened, the agency swiftly demanded their money back. James was sent to prison for six and a half years for tax fraud.

I discovered James in the midst of a depressive spell—that is, post my filing in 2015. It was a summer of right-wing memes about white slavery. After Dylann Roof’s attack on a church in Charleston renewed opprobrium of the Confederate flag’s public prominence, Southern Cross supporters began trotting out claims about Irish ancestors in American bondage. “At some point, you just have to get over it,” a Mississippi man told a Washington Post reporter at a rally in support of the banner of Dixie, the you being Black people, the it being slavery’s legacy. 

It was also the summer of Rachel Dolezal. Sometimes, especially when you’re broke, your brain attempts a haphazard alchemy with the elements at hand: why not appropriate and invert James’s enterprise? One could set up a fake service, analogous to James’s: the White Inheritance Tax Credit, for which, for a mere $500, the supposed descendants of Irish slaves could apply—only, rather than filing their IRS Form-2439s on their behalf, one would just keep the service fee. The WITC has remained a speculative exercise. Every year after tax season—while recovering from the handover of my ill-begotten gains—I’ve found myself instead doing some ritual tinkering with a half-formed novella about a Vernon James figure serving white customers. (He’s usually white in this telling, for some reason, though he doesn’t have to be—perhaps it’s a nod to Dolezal.) 

Over time, I’ve compiled a five-page document collating my research that I should probably retitle. This year, I made it through the reading list in SHIT ABOUT WHITE SLAVERY.docx to John Hersey’s 1964 novel White Lotus. Like many works of alternate history, the book concerns an American populace vanquished, the victor in this instance not Hitler’s Germany or Hirohito’s Japan but warlord-era China. The titular narrator recounts her experiences following the U.S. defeat in the “Yellow War,” beginning with her capture as a teenager in Arizona, where her village is ransacked by a group of white jazzbo musicians in a Packard touring car, blasting “Stormy Weather.” She’s marched to Los Angeles, where captured whites are billeted in abandoned film lots before being shipped across the Pacific. In Hollywood she sees a Chinese person for the first time, describing his skin as “the underside of the stretching foot of a desert snail” and “the color of curds.”

At my old job, I wrote descriptions of objects; at my new job, I write descriptions of talks, concerts, classes, Jewish holiday services, and other events.

Once I was in the business of selling matter. Now I am in the business of selling time.

But how to use it?

“For me as a kid,” writes Darryl Pinckney in a memoir in the Review’s Summer issue, “the film had everything I couldn’t have: cigarettes and train stations, late nights and drinking. Sex.” The film in question is Paris Blues (1961), directed by Martin Ritt and starring Sidney Poitier and Paul Newman. In honor of Pinckney’s essay, the Review and Metrograph cohosted a screening of the film on the evening of Sunday, July 10—the first in an ongoing series of cohosted evenings. Before a sold-out theater, Pinckney greeted the enthusiastic audience with a talk that spanned the glory of Sidney Poitier, the changing role of race in postwar cinema, and dreams of integration and artistic integrity. Today, we are publishing his remarks in full.

The black character entered mainstream postwar cinema as a social problem. This is the milieu of Sidney Poitier’s debut, in Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s No Way Out in 1950. He is a doctor, and the black community beats off the white mob come for revenge on Poitier’s character after a bigot’s brother dies in his care. Two decades went by before a network television station was willing to air the film in prime time. In Richard Brooks’s Blackboard Jungle (1955), Poitier is thirty-one years old but completely convincing as a bright, ambivalent black student at a high school troubled by violent ethnic rivalries and nihilistic juvenile crime. In The Devil Finds Work (1976), James Baldwin recalls that Harlem audiences bayed at the Sidney Poitier character at the end of Stanley Kramer’s The Defiant Ones (1958). A black convict is suddenly free of the white convict he’s been chained to for more than an hour on-screen, but he falls off the train he hopped on to escape, because he extended his hand too far to the white convict, who had been giving him such an awful, racist time. Poitier found a film world opposed to the Hays Code, segregation, and McCarthyism by temperament as well as from principle. He fit right in. He worked with the best people right off. These films were made with studio commitment, if not entirely wanted by them. The black director Lloyd Richards made a Broadway hit of Lorraine Hansberry’s play A Raisin in the Sun in 1959, but he was passed over when it came to the making of the film, which featured the original cast, including Sidney Poitier. The film came out in 1961, a few months ahead of Paris Blues.

As the sixties went on, Poitier’s characters saved white women: a blind girl in A Patch of Blue (1965); a suicidal woman in The Slender Thread (1965); a rich girl who doesn’t need saving in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967); and the peace of mind of the widow of a murdered factory owner in In the Heat of the Night (1967). No wonder Poitier went in for comedies in the seventies, light detective fare, his version of the blaxploitation film that provided professional relief from social-problem dramas, not to mention a chance to project images of black characters formed by pressures not having to do with a white executive’s ability to accept them. But we identify Poitier with those daring social dramas. He embodied the moral superiority of—what to call it—blackness, black spirit, black people when in conflict with the dupes of their own white racism. His intelligence and good looks and poise and strength left race theorists on their own ground. Like Paul Robeson, Poitier didn’t have to be accounted for. He was box office magic.

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