MY INTERVIEW W/CARLA SARETT ON A CLOSET FEMINIST, her romantic comedy for thinking women
3/29
I did this interview with Carla Sarett, novelist, short story writer and poet. https://youtu.be/bAxQKhTz98c
at SMOL small press fair. if you have interest.
3/4/22
A Closet Feminist (Unsolicited Press, 2/7/22) is an old fashioned new romance set in pre-Covid New York, Philadelphia and L.A., as a young woman finds herself. I like Emma Roberts for the role of Bella, a smart, funny self critical young woman overly aware of being too skinny, demanding, lazy and just weird to attract a man that she might want. She becomes a graduate student almost by default. It's the "almost" that's at issue, since Bella is a woman who doesn't yet know her own strengths. On the far side of twenty, she only knows she needs to be on a path.
As the story opens, Bella's got a job she barely does and considers herself without ambition, a person who would rather watch movies all day than work. Her tolerant boss also knows she's not living up to her potential. So Bella decides to leave her incredibly handsome writer boyfriend, Jeremy, with his apartment of no chairs and a marginal job like her own for a graduate program in linguistics. As she says "you may not be able to go back home, but you can go back to school."
What awaits Bella is a zany graduate department dept; from her pal Jessica, who considers herself a gay Asian cliche, to the brilliant radical-chic Professor Natasha, who happens to have a Hollywood producer brother. There's Professor Francois, Bella's charming department head, who seems to read her in disconcerting ways. Then enters the wild card of opportunity. While helping Jeremy's career, Bella discovers some unexpected talents and a purpose all her own.
This is a very enjoyable, extremely fast read. From the opening pages, you are entertained and wondering about the twists and turns of Bella's fate. As her consciousness deepens and by sheer force of character she becomes herself.
S.W.
A female artist fights for success in a world dominated by men and expectations of conventional sexuality in THE LOOKING GLASS, novella by Carla Sarret.
Claire Charles, a member of 1930s New York high society, has been trained in painting in preparation for marriage, but shocks everyone by pursuing art as a career and her own inclinations. In Paris, fifteen years later, she collides with Leah, a mysterious artist who has been secretly painting for her husband. When Kay Charles, Claire’s 16-year year old niece, reluctantly models for a portrait, the lives of the three women become intertwined. Claire’s voice alternates with James, a handsome art dealer, and Kay, who claims a special legacy. From Manhattan to Paris, galleries to artist colonies, from the 1930s to the 1970s. THE LOOKING GLASS is a story about women, art, and memory.
I found this story particularly moving for what's rarely shown; how women artists have lived and worked in two worlds, the public one under the male gaze and the private one where freedom from the male gaze and power structure is essential for creativity and love that's meaningful.
https://www.propertiuspress.com/our-bookstore/The-Looking-Glass-by-Carla-Sarett-p395402005
Propertius Press, October 8, 2021
Contemporary short stories often present, in present tense, a slice of prosaic life with a psychological insight that's not unpredictable. Carla Sarett's stories astonish you with the extraordinary in contexts you thought familiar. Readers, like complacent aristocrats in a story in Roald Dahl's classic collection KISS KISS, tour a manicured garden suddenly halted by Pan's primal savagery, Sarett's world, like Dahl's is both genteel and primal, Both expose the fantastic behind the prosaic, poking holes in hypocrisy with cool wit. Sarett surprises with a tender feeling for human suffering, though she skewers human idiocy .
For instance, in "Kindred Spirits" from her Art Collection stories, a young artist looking for inspiration in the Catskill Mountains, finds a painting in a Curio Shop that uncannily transforms her work and life, though fame has a peculiar price. In "For Better or Worse" from Crazy Lovebirds, a woman makes herself "perfect" with technology,convinces her partner to match her--with devastating results. In Chopin for Igor from Spooky and Kooky Tales, a "cat person"chosen by her feline little realizes the true nature of her adored pet. In "String Theory Valentine"from Strange Courtships, a high school couple's romance dissolves as they go off into the world, but through a strange quirk of a parallel universe, are forever linked. In" Stand-By", when a man's on-line date stands him up, his notion of himself enters another world of values. Both these stories and the enigmatic "Mandolina" are in Strange Courtships. This story is below.
So, who is Carla Sarett? Carla Sarett began writing stories in 2010, after careers in academia, film, TV and market research. She has published short stories in over twenty magazines, literary and humor, as well as in anthologies. Recently, she finished two novels, Closet Feminist and The Captain's House. The first is a comedy about a brainy, clothes-obsessed 20-something who chases after her dream guy, only to find her dream career instead. The Captain's House is a literary mystery in which a historical re-enactor discovers the secret of Philadelphia's Underground Railroad.
Whether Carla Sarett is writing comedy or mystery, investigating metaphysics, theoretical science, history or art, her subject is the human dilemma. Outrageous, subtle, funny or tragic, Sarett's stories are completely original. Her books are in the Kindle store.
"Finding Your Church" http://www.birkensnake.com/birkensnake7voicegallery.php
For me, there’s no film like
Vertigo. What scene can top the one in which Jimmy Stewart rejects
one suit after another, yearning for the perfectly tailored gray suit, the one
that his beloved Madeline wore? It’s the scene in which the saleswoman
knowingly says, "The gentleman certainly knows what he wants."
The irony is perfect—we know that Madeline was a fake, her death was faked, but
the man has no clue.
But he’s right about that
suit, isn’t he? That suit has style. I’ve learned a bit about style
from Lucia Forrest—she is now well-known in museum circles. In college,
Lucia seemed the pinnacle (at least to me) of old money, high spirits and a
certain kind of Southern decadence. She used a cigarette holder, she wore
dark red lipstick, she even quoted Baudelaire.
Like many friends, we lost
touch after college and then found one another though Facebook. And after
a hiatus of many years, we got together at the Algonquin Bar, in midtown
Manhattan—at around three in the afternoon, it’s empty. She was instantly
recognizable, despite her shapeless plaid dress which seemed straight off the
farm. With her blond hair primly tied back, Lucia’s new style seemed to
be country woman in town for the day.
As it happened, Lucia Forrest
did live on a farm a few hours from the city. “I don’t understand how I’ve
ended up single, all alone with just the horses to keep me company. I
thought I’d make a perfect wife,” Lucia said, sighing. The horses and the farm seemed
about right, but the wife part was jarring. At school, Lucia had been
linked with a tallish woman from Maine. “You two walked hand in hand,
like lovers,” I reminded her.
“That was to attract the
boys,” Lucia laughed. “I heard all the boys liked lesbians.” She said “the
boys” the way Southern girls do. It seemed a misguided
strategy. But, maybe lots of girls did wild things to persuade an
ordinary fellow that they would make a good housewife. You never know.
"Perhaps men aren’t so
eager to marry a woman who wants to have sex with other women," I
suggested in my married voice. "Perhaps they only want to have sex with
such a woman, but not marry her. Because sex and marriage are different, sex
and love are different." Lucia nodded, as if my
statement were a novel and original insight. This fit in with Lucia's
idea of me as a brilliant Jewess from her past, although Jews were hardly
scarce in New York.
Just then, a pretty woman
entered the bar. She seemed to be in her thirties or older, dressed hippie
style, with gold hoop earrings, a gauzy Indian-tunic and long flowing
hair. She approached and asked politely if we wanted our cards
read. Her voice was educated-- she might have been an actress before
ending up in these sad straits. I imagined her as a little girl, unaware
of a future in which she roamed bars seeking tips for card-readings. I sensed that Lucia was in the
mood for frivolous entertainment. “Sure, let's do it, it's on me, Lucia."
“I need you to focus on a
problem in your life,” the Tarot woman said, with a touching gravity.
Having none, I thought about a
business contract, which I felt confident about winning. I have learned to wish
for things that I know will come true.
The woman spread the cards for
Lucia. I have no knowledge of the cards, but they looked invitingly bright and
bold. “You are going to start a new business-- perhaps, something with
computers.”
I had assumed that Lucia, like
me, viewed the cards as a childish game, but she gazed at the Tarot woman with
intensity. Perhaps Lucia was becoming a New Age woman.
The bright cards were laid out
again, this time on my behalf. I’m thinking of business, I said.
Her beautiful eyes met mine. She asked, “Have you met someone from a strange
place, maybe a foreign country?
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.”
“Pay attention, you will,” the
Tarot woman said, disappointed. “This is important.”
Taken aback by her sweetness,
I handed her a generous tip. "I'll
pay attention, I promise!" I waved to the pretty Tarot woman as we left.
Lucia and I next met at The
Arts Club in Gramercy Park—Lucia’s a member there. Perhaps in honor of
the club’s famed Gothic ornamentation, Lucia had resurrected some of her former
elegance and even had a new hairstyle. I myself had worn a wonderful grey
vintage jacket, asymmetric and stiff.
Lucia admired the hand-sewn
silk lining of my jacket. “This type of construction, it’s too
complicated and detailed for today’s factories. No one knows how to
create things like this anymore,” she said, with her enthusiasm for all things
old.
After dinner, Lucia confided
about her new online relationship. The man's name was Henry Oliver --he
was a professor of American history at a small liberal arts college, somewhere
in New England. His expertise was the history of the Salem witch
trials. He had responded to Lucia's profile, which highlighted her
interests in American antiques, the landscape paintings of the Hudson River
School, horses, and, also, modern witchcraft. Lucia showed me his
picture-- a distinctive face, craggy and dark-eyed, handsome.
"Sounds promising, you
two have a lot in common. It’s a good start," I said.
I meant it. Lucia and
Henry were both scholarly types. It was comforting to imagine them
engaged in this almost nineteenth century correspondence. Besides, Lucia
might even admire Henry's academic writings. Those who toil in museums
must read the books that most of us do our best to avoid.
She smiled. “We’re
planning to meet this summer at Olana. That will be our first meeting.”
"Olana is amazing.
It’s like a fairy tale. It’s the perfect place," I agreed dreamily
since Frederick Church’s Olana is one of the most beautiful of the estates
along the Hudson River. Although, it occurred to me, driving to Olana was
a lot of work for one date. Why not go to a nice restaurant in New York,
instead? But I kept quiet--no one ever takes advice anyway.
In hindsight, I should have
spoken up. Poor Lucia had made the trek to Olana, and waited until the
gates closed. Henry’s e-mail arrived the next morning. He claimed to have
met a new woman, unexpectedly—he hoped Lucia would understand.
"Why do men think women
should understand? Why am I supposed to understand?" she said, tearfully. Henry is a moron, I
thought. He didn't even have the sense to trot out the usual tale of the
insane ex-wife swinging an ax or the suicidal ex-lover. All he could
invent was a new relationship, of all things."There's nothing to
understand. A lot of men are lunatics, this happens a lot. It's
happened to lots of my friends."
In fact, my other friends were
nothing like Lucia, although maybe they too chased men like the neurotic
handsome Henry. I wondered which of Lucia's many photos Henry had
seen—she had hundreds of pictures of her younger glamorous self. But with
men, who knows?
Soon after, Lucia's new online
identity was born. With considerable artistry, Lucia digitally
manipulated the famous Pre-Raphaelite painting by the artist Dante Gabriel
Rossetti – its actual title is La Mandolinata. Lucia was now Mandolinata,
an exquisite beauty with long wavy hair and soulful eyes.
Mandolinata described herself
as a “spirit girl”—a student of Wicca and the occult. She was intent upon
exploring her deeply spiritual voyage with a man who, like her, longed for
freedom, longed to explore his inner self. Mandolinata lived in a remote
part of upstate New York, not far from Olana, as it happened. I wondered how many hours had
been wasted on this silly invention, and to what end?
I asked, "What
kind of man would want a woman like Mandolinata? I mean, the name alone."
“Thousands,” was Lucia’s
answer. “They want to join her on her spiritual journey, they want to climb
mountains—she’s the girl of their dreams.” Lucia cracked up as she read
the e-mails: "Oh, spirit girl, I must meet you!"—that was the general
theme.
Of course, it was not
thousands that Lucia cared about. It was only one. And sure enough,
Henry Oliver took the bait. Lucia had judged her man
correctly. Mandolinata was the spirit girl of Henry Oliver's dreams, too.This was when I expected Lucia
to reveal all and teach Henry a good lesson. That's the romantic
storyline that I imagined. Henry would lament his shallowness. He
and Lucia would have their date. She would wear a beautifully tailored
suit. They would drink martinis, maybe at the Carlyle, jazz piano playing
softly in the background. They would laugh at their middle-aged follies.
But Lucia had a different plot
in mind. She started to write to Henry as Mandolinata. Their second
online correspondence was more intense than the first, but with a
twist. Lucia Forrest by this time knew exactly what would excite Henry’s
imagination. So the tale of Mandolinata was tinged with a sense of the
Gothic. Lucia read me some of it:
"I spent my early years on one
of the remote islands in the Gulf of Maine-- we were completely cut off from
the modern world. The island's beaches were solitary and rocky. I often
walked hours without seeing a soul. My father was a boat-maker, well-known for
his designs. My mother taught me how to play the mandolin, read me the
poetry of William Blake, and introduced me to the ancient ways of white
witchcraft. I remember her sweet voice. But then, for reasons that no
one understands, my father drowned my sweet-voiced mother at sea.
Terrified, I escaped from the island, helped by a kind fisherman and his
wife. I now live alone. I can only speak to you when I
meet you- please understand."
She paused. "I
think I got everything in there -- the mandolin, Blake, boat-making, even
witchcraft."
"Hmm," I said,
"Isn’t it a bit much? I mean, he's a clever man, he's got to know
this is a joke."
Although come to think of it,
I had no evidence that Henry was clever. In fact, given his interests in
modern witchcraft and now, spirit girls, he probably was not. Lucia
shrugged, as if to agree with my thoughts.
Inevitably, Lucia/Mandolinata
probed Henry's romantic history-- was she Henry's first cyber-love? And
so, Henry described his "callous" deception of Lucia. Now that
Mandolinata had made Henry "a better man," he confessed he had
never intended to meet Lucia at Olana. At Mandolinata’s insistence, Henry
wrote Lucia a hand-written apology on lovely parchment paper.
“Not bad, surprisingly
grammatical,” Lucia said, after she read the letter to me.
"So, he screwed up, so
what? If you told him the truth, you'd be even," I argued, frustrated with
this revenge theme. "A neurotic man is bound to screw up at some
point." But I guess I do not understand high style -- and I should have
remembered, no one ever takes advice.
The elaborate charade
continued. Now, the spirit girl and Henry arranged a meeting at the
Algonquin Bar, after which they would spend a magical evening in
Manhattan. This time, according to his e-mails, Henry arrived early
and waited hours. Naturally, Mandolinata did not show up – and she vanished. Tired of the time-consuming
game, Lucia had deleted Mandolinata's profile. Henry Oliver now bored Lucia,
although, interestingly, he had moved to New York.
Lucia rattled off her
accomplishments: Henry had been punished, he had apologized to Lucia, and he
had told the truth about what happened at Olana, or what Lucia imagined was the
truth. My own opinion of Olana differed, but I kept it to myself. Lucia joked about Henry’s
yearnings for his imaginary spirit girl. "You have to admit,
Mandolinata is far more interesting than Henry, especially after her vanishing
act."
"I guess so, but
deception's not my style," I said.
Months later, I returned to
the Algonquin Bar to meet a client—my first visit since my encounter with Lucia
and the Tarot woman. I checked off what had happened. Yes, I won a
business contract, and to my amusement, my client was Pakistani. Lucia
Forrest's digital spirit girl might be considered a new venture --it certainly
had involved a computer. And, in a sense, I suppose it was fair to say that
Mandolinata came from a “strange place.” Perhaps, the Tarot cards had
been in touch with something, after all.
Just then, I noticed the
pretty Tarot woman sitting with a dark-eyed handsome man. Now, I did pay
attention. It was not a card
reading. Two glasses of white wine were on the table. The man gazed
at the Tarot woman, clasped her hand, and smiled. Today, she wore pearl
earrings and a tailored dove grey jacket. It was only a matter of seconds
before I recognized the man as Henry Oliver. I looked at the pretty Tarot
woman with her long wavy hair and her beautiful eyes. For all I know, her name
really could be Mandolinata.
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