‘I think I need to not live in a fairytale like that. I think I maybe need to just snap out of it and be a little more realistic. What I want isn’t possible.’ – Kim Kardashian, 2012.
Full Disclosure: Haven’t met Riviere. Thought 81 Austerities had both its moments and its flaws. Review copy provided by Ben Wilkinson.
Review: Between September 2011 and December 2012, Riviere wrote 54 of the 72 short poems (accoring to this post) that were published on a password-protected blog in 2013 over the course of 72 days, mirroring the 72-day-long marriage between Kim Kardashian and journeyman basketball player Kris Humphries, and which in February 2015 has been published as a full-length collection. There has been much discussion of the project online (Charles Whalley and Frith Taylor have provided valuable insight), and an appearance on Radio 4 as part of a conversation on language and the internet.
The decision to publish these pieces now seems strange. In the meantime Kardashian has re-married – a reader unfamiliar with the project’s history might assume the book referred to her relationship with Kanye West – and its appearance in print drastically alters its significance. As Whalley points out, the project revolved around its formal transience; as ‘a sequel to 81 Austerities’ Riviere may be lampooning the very idea of a follow-up collection, the difficult second album, and yet here it is, from the hallowed halls of Faber & Faber. Which for Riviere might be part of the joke being played on poetry at large, or maybe just a useful circumstance; there’s good reason to glom on to a famous master of SEO (a Telegraph review was RTed by @KimKardashNews_), while occasioning precisely the kind of amused disdain that seems to fuel BBC programming on cultural marginality. Faber is not Tumblr any more than Steve Buscemi is a tween.
The politics at work in making a metaphor of Kardashian – who is, among other things, a highly successful businesswoman of colour – are fraught to say the least. Taylor says it best in her review, which is incidentally also the best analysis of the book as a book of poems that I’ve read:
‘Kim Kardashian is fair game because she courts publicity, because she is regarded as trivial, because she is staggeringly wealthy. It is difficult to see what is gained by using poetry to make simple criticisms already so well covered by gossip columnists. […] There is also the gender disparity in Riviere’s poetry to consider: in the majority of his poems, women are girlfriends or pornstars. Riviere is parodying a kind of male response to women in writing these poems, and they do hold an element of criticism. It is difficult not to wonder if Kim Kardashian would be made to seem quite so ridiculous if she were male. To put it another way, what are we laughing at when we laugh at Kim Kardashian? ’
Here, Taylor raises the question at the heart of the collection. Riviere is absolutely right in the BBC interview to describe Kardashian as ‘an emblematic figure whose private life is a commodity’, but there is a difference between the symbiotic (read: mutually profitable) relationship between Kardashian and celebrity magazines and Riviere’s (Faber’s?) appropriation of her as a recognisable marketing device. Does this not make Faber absolutely complicit in that commodification, and without paying the usual fee for use of her – however text-based – image? Though neither poet nor publisher have, of course, a fraction of her cultural heft, not that much is needed in the low-return realm of UK poetry.
RIGHT I’LL TALK ABOUT THE ACTUAL BOOK FINE
The poems are divided into eight sections, each headed by a step in a make-up routine. Some of these seem to play on a connection between art and fashion: a ‘Primer’ is also an introduction, a ‘Gloss’ is a list of difficult words or concepts (or the elision of the same). Considering the book’s attitude to its own regularly inane content, however, it is difficult not to read these headings as participating in a pervasive trope regarding make-up as vain, dishonest or superficial. Again, the play between the respectability of a poetry volume and the triviality of a beauty regime seems to highlight their differences more than their similarities, with poetry on the side of the angels.
The book was written by googling the title of each poem and rearranging (or ‘curating’) the results. The general effect is an authorless or multi-authored semi-randomness, which makes the moments of declarative speech somewhat disorienting, such as in the opening ‘spooky berries’:
‘my little lens wasn’t cutting it.
So I popped on my big lens
and got it all.’
The stanza seems to harness the freudian language of capitalist image-creation to Riviere’s own practice. If the little lens of personal experience isn’t enough, maybe the big lens of internet searches will be. The persona’s confidence in telling the whole story, or even considering ‘the whole story’ legitimately achievable, feels aggressively misplaced.
The issue of locating the ‘true speaker’ in the collection is fascinating if ultimately unsolvable; by ‘true speaker’ I mean a voice that might reasonably be assigned to an early 30s white male British poet, allowing for a certain amount of ironic distance. Hence the problem. But there are genuine moments in Kim Kardashian’s Marriage when such a voice seems to appear. The central conflict in the book, far as I can tell, has little to do with Kardashian, America, or even the internet; as in 81 Austerities, the most emotionally charged moments come when the poet asks how – maybe why – the important things of life might be differentiated from the overwhelming dross. (Questions about the nature of that dross are part of the book’s less admirable aspects, tending as they do to be located in objectified women, in the ‘Hey guys! Keryn and I went swimming!’ insignificance of young women’s speech, or in the consumption of these tropes by the book’s male figures: ‘I spied on my sister / and her girlfriend tanning // after running / last summer. / HOLY MOLY.’ As Taylor says, there’s an element of criticism here, but the lines’ depiction of harassment and cutesy swearing let the scene off the hook, almost participates in its ‘boys will be boys’ narrative. Again, these are threads that were to the fore in 81 Austerities, and have not gained nuance here.)
There are moments, however, where the cut-up and hide-the-author techniques permit a certain degree of Romantic lyricism, in the right light if you squint a little. This latent lyrical tendency might be a motivating force behind the collection, the lamentable absence of meaning that implies a need for meaning (for ‘meaning’ perhaps read ‘god’: the book’s interaction with scripture is fascinating). There are occasional lines where this shines through: ‘I don’t wanna feel the emptiness’ (‘grave sunsets’), ‘God does not force anyone to heaven’ (‘american heaven’). A couple of poems could even be read as committed critiques or self-critiques:
lacking new ideas
unpleasant and sometimes rude
who used to delve
into this unique entertainment industry
by paying homage
to strange and frightening experiences’ (‘spooky sincerity’)
‘When will disreputable nihilism become boring?
Hopefully never. They flatter with their tongue.
What explanation can you offer to me for pretending
in matters of importance style is the vital thing?’ (‘grave sincerity’)
I don’t think it’s an accident that both pieces concern, however obliquely, the question of sincerity, perhaps integrity. In Riviere’s essay ‘Unlike’, the poet says this about tradition and style:
‘If we can say that in poetry the genuine tradition is anti-tradition, and that continual overthrowing of entrenched styles is desirable, then it is worth looking at exactly what form of interruption this new strand of poetry proliferating on the internet takes, and how valid it is in it positing itself as alternative writing.’
How revolutionary can a change of ‘style’ be, and what is meant by the word? ‘Style’ in the sense of fashionable, insubstantial surface seems to be what the collection parodies; ‘style’ meaning the manner in which a poem is formed/created, on the other hand, might be closer to his intent. I’d argue that overthrowing entrenched prejudices and oppressions would be more desirable than altering the manner in which those prejudices are communicated, though I may well have misunderstood Riviere’s terms.
However convoluted the provenance of Kim Kardashian’s Marriage, I still want to credit Riviere’s unwillingness to play the game of poetry careers, to make things easy for the blurbs of the national dailies – even if this book seems to have been printed with an eye to just such an audience – and I do genuinely believe his work reflects the faith in satire noted by David Wheatley in his review of 81 Austerities, even if Riviere tends towards the pessimistic end of the scale noted in Wheatley’s essay on the topic from last year. On the other hand:
‘His wife’s graveside service
was just barely finished,
when there was a massive
clap of thunder, followed
by a tremendous bolt of
lightning, accompanied by
a sunflower’s pollination.’ (‘grave weather’)
Is Kim Kardashian’s Marriage really an embittered jeremiad? Is the poem’s echoes of ‘What the Thunder Said’, of the renewal of natural cycles, really so unlikely? Moments like this are few and far between, but arresting nonetheless. The quote at the top of this review comes from the same Daily M**l interview as the collection’s epigraph (‘I want that forever love’). In context, Kardashian’s words acknowledge the impossibility of such a thing, a need for sustainable pragmatism. True, this would appear to have played out in terms of a more effective business plan, but in terms of the collection, I can’t imagine the quote’s broader significance is accidental. What is poetry’s ‘forever love’? Does Riviere suggest poetry’s pretensions to authority are phony as a ten-week marriage? I think part of the book’s joke is that such possibilities are there to be read, but are also potentially indefensible; the absence of an authorial voice ensures its intentions are finally elusive. And yet look at ‘beautiful dust’:
‘Yes, the Lord giveth but he
has come a long way since then.
Reserved, faithful, melancholy,
to dust I shall return. I have.
Which is not something you get
to say every day to those
that prefer to use their disguise.
Believer, enjoy this amazing dust.’
On a personal note, I’m a lapsed presbyterian, and this kind of wry, embattled, semi-ironic belief does chime for me. But here it is, a call to faith in the middle of one of the most resigned collections of poems I can remember. Or maybe it’s not and the joke’s on me. Fine. Everything about Kim Kardashian’s Marriage is a kind of provocation, and that’s where my reading ends up; dust, yes, but amazing anyway.
Tl;dr: If it’s possible to dislike a book and be fascinated by it regardless, this is the one. Doing a bunch of stuff I can’t stand and still itching away at something inscrutable. I still suspect marketing shenanigans are at the heart of bringing these poems to paper and ink, but that hardly makes it unique. No doubt I’ve already egg on my face, but if that’s the price of effective satire, I’ll happily cough up.