Reading Aisha
Sabatini Sloan’s Borealis was a jolting reminder of what an essay can achieve.
It is reflective while being surprising and deeply personal, reaching for grounding
in points beyond the individual.
اضافة اعلان
The creative
nonfiction book-length essay is set in Homer, Alaska — which the author molds
into a cluttered landscape comprised of glaciers, memories, eagles, and
anxiety. Homer becomes a lens through which Sloan sees what it means to be
black in a white space, be an artist viewing nature, and be in areas past
lovers once stood, and strangers presently occupy.
Borealis was the
first book commissioned for Coffee House Press’ Spatial Species series. It puts
pressure on the tension between the activation of space through language.
Zooming in on Homer, where Sloan has spent multiple summers, the book is an
intimate inspection of all that is hidden and personal in the wilderness.
In its ability to shape-shift, the essay is
more a living piece of writing than an autobiographical compilation of facts.
Sloan’s work is highly dependent on the physical act of looking. She recreates
vivid snapshots even with moments she finds difficult to remember. Her tone
remains clear, and time starts to feel spatial rather than linear. In an early
passage, she recalls being near a bridge “on the edge of the road between
cities.” She insists “there must have been” a moon, and it “would have been an
off glow”. She writes in a way that depicts what she believes happened, and is
certain of her remembrance but does not deceive the reader into thinking her
words are true to anyone save herself.
In its ability to shape-shift, the essay is more a living piece of writing than an autobiographical compilation of facts.
This writing for
the self rather than the reader never falters. Central to the author’s journey
is Lorna Simpson’s “Ice” series featuring glacial paintings. The art is never
inserted. Instead, Sloan describes Simpson’s images: what was once meant to be
consumed as a visual has become an interpretation on the page. This is to say,
our own thoughts on Simpson’s work are framed by Sloan’s. Perhaps by doing
this, the reader understands more deeply how Sloan perceives herself through
how she perceives art. Such care, such a personal eye is used earnestly and
emotionally rather than critically.
In essence, Borealis is a work of collages; the writer weaves poetry into her prose and jumps from letters to art to observation, all of which urge us to create meaning.
There are questions
raised: “Metallic rock faces. Like a poorly developed photograph, brown sheen.
What is it about the intractability of the past? Why does the mere fact of
having been younger once feel so excruciating?” There is also frustration: “I’m
feeling territorial about glaciers today. The drip in one of Simpson’s images
feels dramatic compared with what I see across the bay.” Sloan understands
Simpson’s work as a part of her reality, as a facet of her moving through
Alaska.
In essence, Borealis
is a work of collages; the writer weaves poetry into her prose and jumps from
letters to art to observation, all of which urge us to create meaning. The
passages are laid out so that each additional reference or description
complicates the context. The impact is then found while reading the book in its
entirety rather than in singular lines.
The meandering of
Borealis does not go unnoticed, nor do the sometimes inaccessible cultural
references assumed to be understood by the reader. Yet there remains,
throughout, closeness with a physical place that is accessed through Sloan.
Her meditative
contemplations are cracked open with the reminder of reality, shocking the
reader into the present. She writes an observation: “Russia is so close to
here. When Sarah Palin said it, well, you remember that. But I dare you to go
to Alaska and look at a map without saying something equally inane.” Then, she
saturates it completely: “In our minds, which are collapsing, Russia can’t
possibly be this close. And by Russia, I mean a lot of things.”
Sloan’s exploration
of self through solitude brings the clarity that accompanies the quiet. This
allows the author and reader alike to sit in the revelations of what is already
known within but needed silence to surface. In the struggle for self-discovery,
there are breaths of fresh air. There are bright moments when we witness Sloan
finding pieces of herself. In them, the purpose of her writing becomes clear
and the result we feel is something akin to relief.
Borealis is a
reflection of consciousness, albeit highly polished, that feels pure. Sloan
presents a view of a space tinted with the tangible and intangible, with the
present and absent. When she writes, “I moved through two worlds at once. I
mean — at least,” I find this to also be a description of her writing. She
shows us that most things are not singular, but multitudes.
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