Rose Dialogues #002
with Christopher Norris

Christopher Norris, author of the second Rose Books title The Holy Day, talks with Rose Books publisher and editor Chelsea Hodson.

Chelsea Hodson: I know you as someone who has seen thousands of movies—can you say a few things about how you think film inspires your writing in certain ways? Are there certain films that stand out to you as potential companions to The Holy Day?

Christopher Norris: It’s true! I've seen a few movies. I love movies. My one true enthusiasm. An ideal and efficient delivery system of all the arts frankenstein’d into one. I like the submission in watching movies. The best way to give up is to give in to a movie. I like that a movie can be a trap, feeding a viewer—sometimes forcefully fast, sometimes painfully slow—an organized set of moving images. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always an enjoyable way to spend any free time I have. I see both of my books as movies I’d have made if I made movies. But I don’t know if I have the temperament to actually make one, so I try to translate what I love about movies—the temporal impressions, the languid shifts, the tight jumps, the sprung traps, the immaculate vistas, the busted flats, etc.—into writing.

Oh yes! Here is list of movies that inspired The Holy Day: The Green Ray (Eric Rohmer, 1986), Identikit (Giuseppe Patroni Griffi, 1971), Une sale histoire (Jean Eustache, 1977), I Know Who Killed Me (Chris Sivertson, 2007), Death in Venice (Luchino Visconti, 1971), Bimbo’s Initiation (David Fleischer, 1931), Nightmare Beach (Umberto Lenzi, 1989), Morvern Callar (Lynne Ramsay, 2002), Wavelength (Michael Snow, 1967), Whistle and I'll Come to You (Jonathan Miller, 1968), A Gentle Woman (Robert Bresson, 1969), Vendredi soir (Claire Denis, 2002), The Black Tower (John Smith, 1987), Warnung vor einer heiligen Nutte (Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1971), Mansion of the Living Dead (Jesús Franco, 1982), Du côté d’Orouët (Jacques Rozier, 1971), Lady on a Train (Charles David, 1945), The Ladies Man (Jerry Lewis, 1961), Malibu High (Irvin Berwick, 1979), Sérail (Eduardo de Gregorio, 1976), Tropic of Cancer (Edoardo Mulargia & Giampaolo Lomi, 1972), The Wolf Knife (Laurel Nakadate, 2010), Landscape Suicide (James Benning, 1986), Keep Your Right Up (Jean-Luc Godard, 1987), Wild Grass (Alain Resnais, 2009), La corta notte delle bambole di vetro (Aldo Lado, 1971), Yield to the Night (J. Lee Thompson, 1956), Belly (Hype Williams, 1998), I Start Counting (David Greene, 1969), L'humanité (Bruno Dumont, 1999), Variety (Bette Gordon, 1983), India Song (Marguerite Duras, 1975), La Rose de fer (Jean Rollin, 1973), Agatha et les lectures illimitées (Marguerite Duras, 1981), A Visitor to a Museum (Konstantin Lopushansky, 1989), Emanuelle in America (Joe D’Amato, 1977), Twentynine Palms (Bruno Dumont, 2003), The Ox-Bow Incident (William A. Wellman, 1942), Bahía blanca (Jesús Franco, 1984), Manhattan Baby (Lucio Fulci, 1982), La mansión de Araucaima (Carlos Mayolo, 1986), Crimson Gold (Jafar Panahi, 2003), An Unsuitable Job for a Woman (Chris Petit, 1982), Duelle (Jacques Rivette, 1976), All That Jazz (Bob Fosse, 1979), Night of the Seagulls (Amando de Ossorio, 1975), Mon Oncle (Jacques Tati, 1958), Playing with Fire (Alain Robbe-Grillet, 1985), and Pola X (Leos Carax, 1999).

Chelsea: I love that—"a movie is a trap." Especially in a theater—you're thinking, "I came all the way here and paid for my ticket, I might as well see this through to its end." But if a book relies on the reader to turn each of its pages, how do you make a book into a trap?

Christopher: Books can feel like a trap: if it's required reading for a course/assignment, or if you're a book club person and it's the most annoying member in the book club's turn to pick, or if you’re someone who's firm about finishing something started (which I only apply to movies, I'll burn a book so quick if I’ve no interest), or you're trying to impress someone by reading (suffering through) a thing you've no business trying to attempt, or you are a fan of an author but they've taken a turn for the worse and you just can't quit their art, or, the baddest of the bad, it's a series of books you can't stop reading. Like if you got sucked into the Harry Potter stuff and your clock is getting drained by late-era sucker money-grabbing spell guide minutiae or some shit.  

Chelsea: In thinking about a book as a trap, I'm reminded that you described The Holy Day as a "closed loop" in some of our earliest correspondence about the book last year. What about this structure appealed to you for this book, and at what point did you decide on that structure?

Christopher: I have to trick myself into thinking whatever I'm working on is not the thing it is supposed to be. I need a gimmick to get me off the blocks. For The Holy Day, it couldn't just be a book. Boring. "Who fucking needs another story written at them?" I love and hate repetition in life, miserable shit but also helps set routine, which I am a fan of. I need routine or I’ll drift too much. But the real terror that extends from that repetition, the scariest possibility, is living the same day over and over again, which brought me to the closed-loop structure of The Holy Day (which I cribbed from Robert Bresson's A Gentle Woman). So, yeah, The Holy Day is designed to be a bit of a trap! This book could be a trap.

Chelsea: Can you ever see yourself writing within a more "traditional" structure, such as a screenplay or a novel that looks completely different from The Holy Day and your first novel Hunchback '88? Or would something be lost if you were to constrain your writing in specific ways?

Christopher: I’ve been describing Hunchback ‘88 as my scrappy indie (fumbling in the dark, wild, maybe stupid) and The Holy Day as my first studio picture (still amateur with some lessons learned). The next two things I’ve started (a screenplay and a novel) are definitely clearer, cleaner, and closer to being civilian in their voice. I think they are anyway. So, 100%. Yes. I’m working on getting traditional. Normal. If everything goes how I’d like it, if the journey of demos is to turn into operas, and I don’t lose interest in writing (highly possible), I’ll be writing dry, tight, regular novels (and movies, or more books that are pretending to be movies) by at least my sixth. Mostly I want to be doing Jackie Collins impersonations in my twilight years. So close.

Chelsea: When I was on Dan Ozzi's podcast, Reply Alt, recently, he expressed his shock that you had said you were considering doing an author photo because I had encouraged you to get one for any potential future press. Is it too meta to ask you about your resistance to self-promotion in the middle of an interview? I'm curious to hear more about what's important to you in terms of maintaining "artistic integrity" (I would doubt you think of it that way). Do you think most writers are cheesy?

Christopher: Yeah, definitely writers are cheesy. Really, anyone who makes anything is cheesy, corny, and arrogant. Like, why bother? Everyone has too much of everything. Variety, as it turns out, is not the spice of life. How many times are we going to hear about some new movie/record/book/painting/etc. being a "fresh take on a well-worn trope"? I hear it all the time and think no one (when hitting a certain age) is going to ever be truly surprised by anything (more just mildly elated about a new paint job on something familiar). Nothing anyone makes is going to make real waves anymore. Any artist thinking their work is more than shooting arrows into the fog is a total idiot. Everyone is swimming in a drained pool.

So why do it? Ego? Attention? Fulfillment? Legacy? My eyebrows raise when someone says "for fun", "I'm doing it for myself", and/or my least favorite "I make art because I'll go bananas if not". Fuck off to all of that. Bullshit. Just admit that you're looking for glory. Everyone's looking for glory. Glory in whatever form it can manifest. But, also, glory is overrated. Exposure is a lie. Fan bases become nostalgic footnotes. Any money you grab is gone in a snap. Social capital expires quickly, and any dent you may be fortunate to make heals even faster. And artistic integrity is a joke. The only possible way to have artistic integrity is to never show anyone anything you do and to make sure it's destroyed before you die so no one ever sees/hears/whatevers it. Artistic integrity is never making a mark. I always think of this quote from Chinatown when I hear about any honesty/purity/integrity: "... most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and right place, they're capable of anything."

So, again: Why bother? In the case of me continuing making things, now on the other side of youth, with zero wonderment feeding the engine? Well, past obvious financial needs/wants, past wanting glory or whatever, I make work to pass the time until my time ends. Which could be a normal ol' death or the fall of society (the more likely candidate from this vantage point). And also, again, I think the world has too much stuff. But I love excess, on all levels, truly, and I love making matters worse any chance I get, so why not do my part to make everything even stupider? I have the means and it's fun to be a low-grade villian.

On the flip, I'll quote an interview I did a few years back for House of Vans, where they asked me about Good Advice for "wanting to be artists" artists, and I believe this to be true and in duet with all that wrong, oversimplified, near edgelord, deflating, stupid chatter above: "Don’t say ‘No’ to anything. Do it all. Be available. Be willing to collaborate. Make work. Build. Don’t worry about what anything is, what it means, where it gets you. Shut up and do it. Do it to keep your powder dry. Don’t steal, just borrow … or … whatever, steal it all. Who cares? It’ll help you find your style. Just make sure you lie about the stealing. People are weird about stealing. And stay up on trends. Try trends out. Then avoid those trends. But definitely do not do political work. It’s boring. Or, do political work but know that it doesn't make any social or cultural difference, and it dates your legacy (if you care about legacy… which you shouldn’t because everyone gets forgotten eventually so why prolong it?), and is just cheap therapy. Don’t argue with me about that, political art is not art… or it is art, and, again, who cares? Plus, also again, it’s boring. And don’t doubt yourself because doubt is boring. Don’t be boring ... unless your art is intentionally boring, then be as boring as fuck. But also, be aggressive, cocky… but don’t be a dick. Being nice, or at least well-mannered, is upper-hand shit, and having the upper hand is a wonderful manipulation/navigational tool in life. You'll need it. Understand that talent is not as important as connections. It’s even better if those connections are talented connections. Quality is subjective. Make work that you think is beautiful. The world values beauty but probably not yours. Also, know that claiming to be an artist is the most overused thing to say you are. Everyone is an artist and everyone is stupid. Including you. Understand that next to no one has had, or has, a sustainable career as an artist. Get a day job. Be alright with the struggle. You will struggle. Know your value even if you know that value to be mediocre. Be honest. If you’re a milquetoast hack and/or are a straight sucker? Do your part. Keep at it. Let it ride all the way to a dark goodnight. Mediocrity is an essential facet in helping The Great be viewed as so. Not everyone can be great. Be the Don’t Be This example needed. But, most importantly, be curious, consume, and get free, even if it isn’t “your thing” - film, history, theatre, theater, dance, art, writing, culture, fashion, design, etc. A preternatural perspective is better than a short-sighted preference. An exploded view is key and will only help you in the long run ... And then, once, or if, you make your bones in whatever discipline(s) you’ve chosen: Forget what you learned, be difficult to work with, understand that everything is disposable, remember you will be forgotten, and don’t be sad when they stop hiring you. Be realistic. It’s definitely your fault and it’s probably time to grow up and make room for a younger model to fill your space."

Chelsea: I always thought it was kind of embarrassing to hear artists say they do what they do because they couldn't possibly be anything else. It seems like a not-so-subtle way of saying they're too talented to work a day job. But maybe that's because I'm extremely capable at working day jobs—I'm very organized and I can wear a metaphorical mask to be as professional as I need to be. But I don't think that makes someone any less of an artist. I think about the singers of hardcore bands I've known, for instance—guys that would appear as unhinged monsters on stage but then be soft-spoken and shy offstage. You can reserve aspects of yourself for your art and others for your professional life, love life, etc. Or maybe this is all a cope for how compartmentalized I keep my own life. I just remember a writer telling me that as soon as he moved to a tranquil place, his writing became much more aggressive and violent. The same happened for me when I moved out of Brooklyn.

We've talked a little about how film has influenced your writing, but what about your experiences in music? I think there's a rhythmic quality to your prose (I can feel you rolling your eyes at this), but do you think about applying your experiences in bands to your writing? Is there any overlap?

Christopher: Oh, it's definitely embarrassing and fucking corny as hell. Get a job, hippies! Unless you're a rich kid making art, then "Congratulations!" Zero shade in punking the system in any situation, even if it comes on a silver platter. Good work and good for you. Oh, and yeah, "getting into character" is the most enjoyable element of Steak Mtn. (light bullying, contrarian idiocy, shit-talking for sport). Wonderful, lowkey terrorism that is fun and funny and benefits only me. Perfect. The actual art-making part can be pretty boring.

I’d never admit that being in bands has influenced my writing, especially the sort of music I was involved with, but I will agree there is a musicality to how I write (no eye-rolling here!). It’s my natural style, the one that arrives when freeballing on a keyboard, and I prize (maybe to my benefit, maybe not) that spazzy muscle over any clarity, coherence, continuity, plot, whatever, etc. I want to make books that feel active, musical. Rhythmic. Experiential. Like a movie. And yeah, sure, I run a spine of story (whether a reader picks up on it or not there is a story, of some sort, in both books), and then I get to lacing it up with impressions, color, space, etc. This also sounds like I am describing poetry, which to me is the closest any writing gets to capturing what a movie can feel like.

Chelsea: I love the idea of making a book "active" and "experiential"—is this something that you manage to do in revision or is this something you aim for in the early stages of your writing? For instance, is that sense of atmosphere and movement present right away when you commit to a structure and style, or is it something that is refined over time?

Christopher: It’s definitely in the early stages and melded to the musicality of my writing. I think you can get so much atmospheric, living/breathing detail from something captured, so I begin with the idea I’m writing a book filled with descriptions of photographs, trying to bring still images to life, and then, through revisions (the lengthy process of which is scattershot of countless random scrolls of the text, stopping all of a sudden to read and revise, etc.), peeling that life out just enough so the book is texture over plot, thickened air over character, with more attention paid to something like the personality of a building than the feelings of bodies contained therein. But again, I’m trying to get out of that affected microwave-manual-with-some-necrophilia-greased-in writing for a nice, normal boring pedestrian style for the next few books.