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<\/strong><\/p>\nEd Atkins, Old Food<\/em><\/a> (Fitzcarraldo Editions, 2019)<\/p>\n Old Food<\/em> \/ by Ed Atkins \/ a contemporary artist \/ known for his video art \/ uncanny 3D models and esoteric mutterings \/ is a compact \/ dense \/ hybrid work \/ that reads as if written in a singular fit of mania \/ scrawled haphazardly onto the page \/ triggered by poisonous madeleine cakes \/ What’s at stake with the sandwich?<\/em> \/ language spews forth \/ seemingly unfiltered \/ guttural and half-formed \/\/<\/p>\n The text exists \/ like this review \/ somewhere between \/ prose and poetry \/ ambiguous zone \/ where the font size is large \/ maybe 14pt or 16pt \/ columns thin and long \/ left-justified \/ the space between paragraph and stanza \/ difficult to define \/ both flow down the page \/ lines or sentences enjambed \/ dimensions of the space utilized as a means of hybridizing \/ the format rendered in a super-position \/ where you cannot know if it is \/ stanza or paragraph \/ until you expand the page \/ and reveal where the author has clicked the \u2018enter’ key \/\/<\/p>\n Atkins’ book \/ as the title suggests \/ is infected with mentions \/ of food and drink \/ that trigger memories and tangential thoughts \/ appearing mid-sentence \/ only to re-vitalize \/ the narrator \/ sending him down another line of memories \/ not unlike Proust’s madeleine cakes \/ where the narrator inhales the aroma \/ and an onslaught of memories rise to the surface \/ Drinking used to be as basic as upending an animal’s open neck into your mouth.<\/em> \/\/<\/p>\n An endless stream of images \/ is evoked \/ tall plates of food packed onto wooden tables \/ marshlands and rural towns \/ fat parents hunched over their meal \/ often a with a grotesque nature to the language \/ depicting a dilapidated pastoral \/ We slept gross and happy at night while mum gathered a nocturnal yield of forced rhubarb\u2026<\/em> \/ atemporal \/ anachronistic \/ the narrative flows between almost medieval settings \/ and jarring appearances of technology \/ as if all timelines have collided in the same marsh \/ the past a mystical place \/ unbarred by \/ the confines of the present \/\/<\/p>\n Further mentions of food \/ further dampness and familial dialogues \/ The body and its food begin \/ to muddle together \/ swaying between remoulades \/ and John Carpenter’s The Thing <\/em>\/ There’s the sense that \/ everything can be consumed \/ everything can be minced and garnished \/ over yoghurt \/\/<\/p>\n You begin to feel as if \/ the author is drowning you in food \/ pouring each mentioned dish \/ down your gullet \/ until you are unable to move \/ stuck in your seat \/ stared at \/ with an unsettling expression \/ fork and knife in hand \/ ready to portion you into different cuts \/ boil you in salt water \/ saut \u00e9 you with onions \/ dress you in various vinaigrettes \/ Those days we knew how to eat a witch: with gloves on and in one go.<\/em> \/\/<\/p>\n Old Food <\/em>conjures a uniquely uncomfortable environment \/ uncomfortable on a physical level \/ reminiscent of Aleskey German’s film Hard to be a God <\/em>\/ specifically in regards to the mise-en-scene \/ where everything is made out of wood \/ and it is always raining \/ or always had just finished raining \/ a universe without dryness \/ where your socks are always drowned in sweat and wintery slush \/ your fingers are always pruned \/ rendering your flesh tediously fragile \/ so easy to tear \/ Atkins expertly has crafted a world that is almost medieval in its lack of hygiene \/ summoning a visceral response in my body \/ making each page feel \/ as if it is being \/ spoken into my ear \/ by an unkempt stranger \/ with food particles leaping from his lip \/ with every syllable \/\/<\/p>\n This is not the first collaboration \/ between Fitzcarraldo Editions and Ed Atkins \/ A Primer for Cadavers <\/em>(2016) \/ collects many of the artist’s short texts \/ each oozing \/ guttural \/ bodily \/ flesh \/ rendered into text \/ the first piece \u201cA Tumour (In English)” \/ erases a round space from the center of two columns \/ the first sentence \/ Reading this text will conjure a tumour up inside you.<\/em> \/ each additional sentence adding to the incantatory atmosphere \/ as if the distorted flesh of the creator \/ is rising off the page \/ crawling from the portal that \u00a0\/ you<\/em>\u2014the reader-\u2014has summoned\/\/<\/p>\n Old Food <\/em>by contrast \/ summons itself \/ after a set of simple stage directions comes the title \/ PERFORMER <\/em>\/ the rest of the book follows uninterrupted \/ in one sense the text is seemingly made to \/ be read aloud \/ by an actor or the artist themself \/ the acknowledgments mention \/ related exhibitions in England and Germany \/ but in another sense \/ the text feels as if it is capable of uttering itself \/ the page as the performer \/ speaking to the reader \/ projecting its voice into your skull \/\/<\/p>\n This sensation is \u00a0\/ possibly \/ the result of the unending flow \/ the performer speaks forever \/ with no need to stop \/ to take a breath \/ line breaks breaking the running column \/ into manageable segments \/ but they never quite feeling complete \/ as if they are interrupting one another \/ starting and ending before they are ready \/ this is a \u00a0book that begs \/ to be read in one sitting \/ making the reader feel \/ they are not \/ allowed to stop \/ that there is always more to hear \/ more to read \/ the performer mouth agape \/ mid-sentence \/ when you are ready to stand up \/ you feel obligated to remain seated \/ to listen \/ as saliva pools in your mouth \/\/<\/p>\n Sentences are rife with unique grammar \/ \u201ca” often replaced by \u201can” \/ um<\/em>‘s<\/em> appear mid-thought \/ There is no margarine at all on the lid of the tub that rests against one um grey sock\u2026<\/em> \/ almost as if the book \/ is written in a different dialect \/ one constructed using the English language \/ but repurposing \/ an ill-fitting lexicon \/ until it can be tooled into something \/ new and useable \/\/<\/p>\n This constant flow \/ can turn the book \/ into an ambient kind of literature \/ where the reader enters a trance \/ is carried through the text \/ not quite reading \/ really just looking at the words \/ grasping onto different anchors \/ familiar words \/ um’s<\/em> \/ the unexpected appearance of a name \/ Hannah or something similar \/ entering the dreamscape of the text \/ there is no true chronology \/ only the streaming rhythm of the sentence-structure \/\/<\/p>\n Memories resurface \/ half-formed \/ the text’s ambience marked by a certain \/ quasi-comprehension \/ as if the repetition of a name will convince you \/ that you know someone \/ the deluge of food marked by its ability to connect the past \/ long dormant \/ ambient reading accentuated by a sense of familiarity \/ familiality \/ an experience that sometimes \/ feels like waking up \/ with part of your last dream still in the forefront of your mind \/ right before it has disappeared completely \/ into the unconscious \/ or the oddness of \/ having a dream \/ of arranging plans with a friend \/ or having a random conversation \/ only to wake up \/ and find that no one else remembers it \/\/<\/p>\n If A Primer for Cadavers <\/em>is \/ a metamorphosis from text to corpse \/ Old Food <\/em>is a metamorphosis from text to wetlands \/ to clammy chicken breast \/ raw meat \/ expired cheese \/ it is a beautiful landscape of grotesque and soggy dreams \/ the resurrection of memories \/ an altar made of food \/\/<\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> This constant flow \/ can turn the book \/ into an ambient kind of literature \/ where the reader enters a trance \/ is carried through the text \/ not quite reading \/ really just looking at the words \/ grasping onto different anchors \/ familiar words \/ um’s<\/em> \/ the unexpected appearance of a name \/ Hannah or something similar \/ entering the dreamscape of the text \/ there is no true chronology \/ only the streaming rhythm of the sentence-structure \/\/<\/p>\n Mike Corrao<\/b> reviews Old Food<\/em> by Ed Atkins<\/b>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":98760,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-98759","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-criticism"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98759","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=98759"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98759\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":98763,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98759\/revisions\/98763"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/98760"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=98759"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=98759"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=98759"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/01\/mike-headshot-color_orig1.png\")
<\/p>\n
\nMike Corrao<\/strong> is the author of three books, Man, Oh Man<\/em> (Orson’s Publishing), Two Novels<\/em> (Orson’s Publishing) and Gut Text<\/em> (11:11 Press), one chapbook, Avian Funeral March<\/em> (Self-Fuck), and many short films. Along with earning multiple Best of the Net nominations, Mike’s work has been featured in publications such as 3:AM, Collagist, Always Crashing<\/em>, and The Portland Review.<\/em> He lives in Minneapolis. Learn more at www.mikecorrao.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n