model

Model: A Memoir, by Cheryl Diamond. (Simon Pulse, $10, 357 pages).

Why did I even read this book? I don't really follow fashion. I don't have a lot of patience for people of privilege. I don't even particularly enjoy memoirs, though I have been reading a lot of them lately. I think I picked up this book because it was on sale and because I was going to be waiting some place for a long time. It won out over Joel Osteen's latest thing about why God loves rich people (because everyone knows that) and over Jhumpa Lahiri's latest collection of short stories (because I'm cheap), so obviously I had some pretty high expectations.

What I was expecting, mostly, was conflict. Modelling is glamorous and cutthroat, right? I was ready for some violent, sexy drama. I glanced through the book before I bought it to make sure that's what I would see. I saw something about the mob and gangsters (really? in 2008? Italian gangsters? apparently yes.) and the word "rehabilitation" multiple times. This, I thought with unabashed voyeurism, was going to be good. Aside from voyeurism, I was also hoping to gain some insight into the mind of a person involved in the fashion industry. Why are women interested in selling their bodies, or in allowing their bodies to be used to sell other things?

Let me save you the trouble of reading this book. There was a gangster in her book named Giovanni that hit on her repeatedly. And her big issue from which she had to be rehabilitated? A bad haircut. I am not making this up. I understand that hair (especially her perfect hair) is a big part of a model's marketability, but given that she was maybe seventeen and given that she presents herself as a business-savvy person throughout the book, I am fully confident that somehow she might be able to overcome this tragedy and live a meaningful life. As it turns out, she was able to model again (this just in: hair grows back!) and, apparently, begin a career in writing.

I can't believe I bought this book. The back cover blurb promised me a story of "the triumphant rise, disastrous fall, and phoenixlike comeback," but did not deliver at all. I suppose it's an issue of audience, really. In what world is bad hair "a disastrous fall"? High school, of course, and, from the looks of it, high fashion modeling. Then again, I've lived through many, many terrible haircuts, so perhaps I've become numb to the true horror of them.

I don't get why she chooses to talk about the things she talks about. Her memoir is a really thorough presentation of what it's like getting started in the modelling industry, but as I was reading, I kept wanting to know more about the things she skipped over-- her family, her motivations (money, according to her, but there are more conventional ways to make money that don't involve gangsters, so I have trouble believing it was the only one), her neighbors. Why is it more important for me to read about how she had to run from one end of Manhattan to the other in stilettos or flip-flops than it is for me to know why this matters to her in the first place? I am disappointed at the lack of self-reflection in this memoir. There's a very competent reportage of events in a typically linear fashion. There is a gesture or two towards the explanation of emotions (she was sad when she lost her cat), but I don't see why those events or feelings remain significant to the I-who-is-writing.

For me, this book is a failure, but I don't think it's entirely the book's fault. I am not its audience. I care about different things than the author (or perhaps her editors or her possible ghostwriters) does. I don't find her account to be terribly believable either, but again, that may be only because I live in a very different world. The book isn't structured to place emphasis where I think the author would like it, so I'm left wondering what is actually important in this account. I think this is a major fault, but then, this is the author's first work and she has very little training involving the aesthetics of words. I really respect the courage (or narcissism?) of anyone willing to publish an account of themselves, but this particular work just doesn't speak to me. I suppose I should be glad that particular store didn't carry The Truth About Diamonds.

Girl Meets God

Girl Meets God, by Lauren F. Winner. (Random House (by way of Shaw Books), $14, 296 pages).


Let me start off with three important statements. 1. Most of the people I currently talk to about books have already read this book. 2. I don't actually talk about God with those people, though perhaps they think I do. 3. I think I like this book, but I'm not sure, and I'm not sure that it really matters whether or not I like it.

Buying this book, I felt like I imagine people who buy pornography for the first time might feel. I went to the store when I imagined it would be fairly empty. I took the long way around the store to get to "Christian Living" section, where this book was shelved. I didn't want anyone I knew-- or even people I didn't know, really-- to see me there, looking at "that type" of book. When I couldn't find the book on my own, I almost gave up rather than ask the sales clerk for help. When I did ask for help, I stammered and spoke so quietly that the clerk had to ask me (loudly, it seemed) to repeat myself. "I'M LOOKING FOR GIRL MEETS GOD," my voice echoed. "I DON'T KNOW WHO THE AUTHOR IS." The clerk was polite enough, I suppose, but I felt that further explanation was required. "I DON'T USUALLY READ THIS KIND OF BOOK, BUT MY FRIEND SAID IT WAS PRETTY GOOD." Heaven forbid this clerk think that I read this book's neighbors (Who Stole My Church?: What to Do When the Church You Love Tries to Enter the 21st Century was intimidating enough. Thank goodness the "Christian fiction" was on the next aisle.). I found the book, I bought the book (from the same clerk, the one who was already familiar with my "special purchase."), I read the book. A lot of religious writing feels like pornography to me-- essentially exploitative, slick and prettied up for sale, and aimed at providing the reader with a quick fix of a powerful emotion so the reader can avoid the hard work of experiencing the real thing for him- or herself. This book is not pornography.

Some of the problem I have with religious writing comes from the issues inherent in capturing the essence of the ineffable in words. I should not really hold the author responsible, artistically speaking, if he or she fails in this task. I have failed at this many times myself-- but then, I've never tried to publish my failed attempts, either, much less sell them. The "selling" aspect of religious writing might also be a sticking point for me. Coming from a background that embraces an entirely lay ministry and teaches (quietly) that being paid for preaching is priestcraft (which is a sin), perhaps religious writing is just too much like selling one's witness or being paid to serve God (which people should do anyway, like washing your hands after using the bathroom). I'm sure those are two issues that influence my reading of any religious writing, but at the heart of my distaste for the genre is the fact that so often it just feels false to me. Probably those two previous issues are part of why it feels false, but they don't fully encompass the issue. This book does not feel false.

I think I like Winner's book because it feels (mostly) true. I take issue with small things in this work-- tossed-off comments that are major doctrinal issues for me, or a particular tone, or her ethos in any given part-- but the part of this book I love, the part that makes me glad I asked for it, and the part that makes me willing to recommend it to other thinking human beings is irrelevant to these troublesome motes. The overall truth expressed here is more important. I find Winner's account to be truthful because her articulation of her conversion(s) feels like mine. Her account describes a continuing process of coming to know God. My particular faith, as practiced in the United States, seems to have as many homegrown believers as it does converts. Always it seems that these converts have a moment when they know the Gospel is true. They can point to how they were before and point to how they are after accepting Christ. They can see the difference. I value their experiences and am glad to hear them when they are shared, but I don't have any of that. What I have instead is a slow non-linear process of coming to know God. Though Winner does have lots of before-and-after she can describe, they are presented as before-and-afters that build and comment upon each other. Like so many people's, Winner's conversion account is no Pauline epiphany, but is one maybe closer to Peter's growing familiarity with (and temporary betrayal of) Christ and His mission.

Winner claims at one point that English doesn't have a word for "a complete turning around" the way that Hebrew or Greek do (212) and so I assume, well-read as she is, that she has rejected the word "conversion," though she does not explain why. Winner's book has caused me to consider again how I define conversion. What does my conversion look like? I think we (Latter-day Saints, that is, though possibly the same is true of other Christians) imagine conversion to be a one time thing. I think we think that conversion is something that happens before we're baptized and after baptism, all "turnings" are just repentance. I think we miss that repentance and baptism are both parts of what is essentially the life-long work of being converted from the natural human to a saint through the Atonement of Christ the Lord. I really appreciate the call for assessment suggested by Winner's text. Truth-telling is gutsy work, particularly when we have to tell the truth to ourselves about ourselves. Though I don't agree with all of Winner's conclusions, I appreciate her willingness to be gutsy.

What about video games?

So, obviously, I have not posted in a while. Now that I've finished my master's degree, I've resolved to post more often. I imagine this will be an easy resolution to keep, because even though I'll be teaching and whatnot, I won't have the same opportunities to discuss what I'm reading with people. I anticipate this blog taking the place of some of that. I'm just narcissistic enough not to mind the lack of response. :)

As I've been thinking about what I want to read and write about next, I've realized that instead of spending all of my new free time immersed in texts I never had time to read during the semester, I've played a ton of video games. So I've started thinking about how video games function as texts on different levels and whether it's worth talking about what kinds of stories they tell. I'm not going to argue their relative artistic merit, but I will state that many different skills are required for their production and they are intended to convey a certain aesthetic particular to their genre or subgenre. For my present purposes, they count as art. Given my generally expansive approach to defining my world and the things in it, I think I can go along with postmodern ideas that talk about anything being a text. Therefore, video games are a text.

I think the "reading" of a video game is more complex-- or at least very different-- from reading a traditional text. Reading a video game involves understanding the plot or object of the game as well as participating in the performative act of actually playing the game, but I don't think it ends there. I think to "read" video game, a person needs to consciously reflect on the context of the game. So a reader needs to understand what cultural and personal forces are influencing the creation and the individual instance of participation with the game. A reader needs to reflect on the success of this game, however success is defined. To get at what a particular game "means," the whole of the game's experience or influence should be considered, just as the understanding of a traditional text requires an understanding of extratextual elements. The reading of a video game can be as revealing as any other traditional text, and can be read for the same reasons-- can't it?

These are just some initial thoughts I've had. Surely critics have considered all of this before, since hypertext is becoming more and more of a focus of textual studies. If any of you know of any articles in particular, I'd appreciate it if you'd point them out to me. I probably won't include any thoughts on, say, "Oblivion" or "World of Warcraft" (pictured above) any time soon, but I thought it would be worth considering why I might.