Amos Lassen writes, “Even though you are not going for a happy ride, you dare not stop—like Christian himself…Stoddard gives us brilliant prose and a fascinating main character and that is what kept me reading.” CLICK HERE to read the full review!
Nice Mention of Christopher Stoddard’s debut novel White, Christian in Next Magazine!
CLICK HERE to check out some pics from the White, Christian Book Launch on 11/18/2010 at Bedlam NYC!
CLICK HERE to read BUTT Magazine’s Michael Bullock interview of Christopher Stoddard on eastvillageboys.com!
“Well written and engaging, the writing sucks you in from the beginning and never lets go…Christian White is a compelling, fascinating character that comes alive with touches of brilliance and vivid prose.” Check out the full review on Rainbow Reviews.
IN SELECT BOOKSTORES AND ON AMAZON NOVEMBER 16, 2010/PUBLISHED BY TRITON BOOKS, AN IMPRINT OF SPUYTEN DUYVIL
“Christian White, the fragile but somehow dynamic protagonist of the novel, is about to go under when the story begins. Young, attractive, droll, addicted, frightened, cynical, homosexual, infantile, campy, sexually compulsive, he’s a poster boy for a long list of contemporary dysfunctions… In this fascinating novel, the author has intimately depicted the whirling frenzy of a soul with little insight into itself, then put that soul through the sharp-bladed blender of calamity, the only road to this particular character’s self-knowledge. And he has made it entertaining and relevant to us… But the most amazing thing about this book is the author’s ability to sustain his vision.” – Bruce Benderson, from the Introduction to White, Christian
“The details are familiar: familial—and other—dysfunctional relationships, religion, drugs, prostitution, even murder, but Stoddard’s voice is fresh and honest, drawing us in, holding onto our attention and growing empathy.” – Tsipi Keller, author of Jackpot
The borderline lifestyle of twenty-year-old Christian White is a carnival of drugs and sex, accessorized by designer clothes and frequent stealing or scamming. Underneath the decadence are haunting memories of childhood abuse, the death of a brother and a father’s criminal past.
Expecting to make a fresh start, Christian relocates from San Francisco to New York, just as his friends are being rounded up by the police; but life only spirals farther out of control in the new setting. Instead of drugs, Christian’s existence is beginning to center around sex. He has let himself slip into prostitution, and he may have even played a part in the murder of a successful architect, although he can’t remember the evening entirely. It has become increasingly clear to Christian that the only way to save himself is to come to terms with the past, no matter how painful—or how dangerous—the trip.
Hi all, after careful consideration, we’ve decided to say goodbye to ANTICHRIS_. Below is artwork and writing by some of the talented artists who expressed an interest in contributing to the first print issue of ANTICHRIS_, entitled “The Purple Confessional.” Thanks to everyone else for submitting. We were overwhelmed with amazing work, just didn’t have the bandwidth to go through it all.
If anyone is interested in contacting any of these artists, please email antichrispress[at]gmail.com. Also, be sure to check out White, Christian, the first novel by ANTICHRIS_ editor, Christopher Stoddard, available in select bookstores and on Amazon in mid-November.
Please enjoy our archives and feel free to email us. Thanks to everyone for visiting for the past 15 months! xx
THE PURPLE CONFESSIONAL (Art & Writing Contributions)
“Success”
“Growler”
“The Three of Us”
“Run and Riot”
Siouxzin Handschiegel
“Kelly + Sasha”
I knew he was bad as soon as he sat down.
It wasn’t how he looked.
Exactly.
Welfare glasses + hair early serial killer long.
Too skinny face + grayish skin.
But that wasn’t really it.
There are a lot of unattractive, middle-aged men.
+ they’re not all bad.
He poured me a glass of Budweiser from the pitcher he bought.
This ought to have endeared him to me.
But it didn’t.
He poured me a glass before Sebrina even introduced us.
There was something off about that. But I don’t know what.
“Sioux, this is Kelly. Sasha’s boyfriend.” Sebrina smiled + drank.
Sasha was emaciated + somewhere else.
She slowly looked up + vaguely smiled.
Sort of the way a dog will wag her tail at the sound of her name.
She won’t understand the rest of the conversation,
but the familiar syllables of her name means something.
That’s one thing she can understand.
Sasha was like that.
Sadly.
“Oh. Hi,” I said + shook his hand.
It was damp + weak + it immediately made me want to wash.
With steel wool + lye.
“I like your hair,” he remarked + didn’t let go of my hand.
“Thanks.” I gently tried to extract my hand from his grip,
but he was reluctant to let go.
He grinned + stared into my eyes.
Like he was trying to crawl up into my brain.
I finally had to pull my hand back violent.
+ try to cover the operation with an empty giggle.
Another reason not to like him.
With little desire to continue conversation with Kelly,
I took a cigarette from my pack + was about to light it.
Kelly pushed my zippo away + lit me with his bic.
The flame’s height was set to crack smokin’.
Meanwhile, Sasha had pulled a broken piece of mirror from her purse
+ was freshening her congealed make up.
She was attempting to cover a blister on her top lip
with a mixture of lipstick + foundation.
It wasn’t working well.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Kelly asked, staring at Sasha.
I inhaled smoke deeply.
“Yes,” I answered.
Maybe she was beautiful once, but not anymore.
She was probably close to my age,
but something horrible had happened in those years.
Maybe she did it herself, maybe it was done to her
That didn’t matter because it was something that could
never be undone.
Sasha’s hair was lank + stuck to her face in clumps.
Her skin was a rough terrain of pimples + scabs.
She had track marks on her hands.
Her mouth was a cemetery + her teeth broken gravestones.
Sasha’s tight tee shirt clung to her small breasts + jutting bones.
She was a reanimated Auschwitz victim.
She was a walking disease.
She was a mother’s nightmare.
She was her mother’s nightmare.
She was me in a few years.
Apparently satisfied with her makeup, she stood up + swayed.
“I gotta go to work,” she slurred resigned.
She leaned over Kelly + gave him a kiss that missed.
“Be careful, baby,” he grinned.
He slapped her ass as she walked away + almost sent her reeling.
Another reason not to like him.
“What kind of work does she do?” I asked him,
curiosity getting the better of me.
He smiled. “What do you think she does?”
“Uh.” Stupid + naïve? Yes.
“Sioux, she’s a prostitute,” Sebrina said gently.
“Oh.”
“I told her I would support her,” Kelly said quickly.
“But, she loves it, you know?”
It hadn’t looked to me like she loved it.
But then I’ve never seen true job satisfaction,
so maybe I just didn’t recognize it.
Kelly leaned over me intimate.
“So, do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.
He was apparently done talking about his girlfriend.
“No.”
“Want one?” he smirked + tried to hold my hand.
Another reason not to like him.
I left in search of the bathroom + neglected to come back.
I apologized to Sebrina the next day.
She forgave me, but disagreed when I said Kelly was an evil bastard.
“Oh, you just got to get to know him, Sioux,” she said.
“Sometimes he comes off a little strong, but he’s harmless.
Really.”
I was still unconvinced.
I told her I thought that there were dead bodies.
There were dead bodies that owed their condition to him.
I hadn’t spoken to Sebrina in a week or more.
She called me to invite me out to a show.
We met at 8.
At the dive bar, waiting for the band, Sebrina bought me a beer.
“By the way, I guess you were right about Kelly.”
“Really? Wha, he kill someone?” I laughed, bringing the can to my lips.
“Well, actually…”
I put down my beer.
“See, Sasha’s friend came over. This guy Kelly never really liked much. I guess Kelly was jealous of him or something. So, when the guy left their apartment, Kelly followed him. He stabbed him to death in the park.”
“He stabbed him?”
“35 times.”
Another reason not to like him.
“What a Drag”
“Rip Me Apart”
“Antichrist”
ANTICHRIS_, which has in the past showcased new and aspiring artists, is evolving into a printed quarterly zine that focuses on a specific theme for each issue.
The theme of the first issue of ANTICHRIS_ is “The Purple Confessional.” Show us your darkest bruises and most grotesque secrets.
The deadline for writing, artwork and photography submissions is 7/16. We encourage any/all to submit. Click here for the Facebook reminder. To submit, please email antichrispress[at]gmail.
Chris Garvey’s latest piece on why he writes is raw, honest, and much in line with many other writers’ reasons for creating art. While the life experiences vary greatly, the driving force remains the same. His piece brings to mind a passage from the out-of-print satirical novel by the great Aldous Huxley, entitled Those Barren Leaves. – Christopher Stoddard, Editor
Excerpt from Those Barren Leaves
By Aldous Huxley
To be torn between divided allegiances is the painful fate of almost every human being. Pull devil, pull baker; pull flesh, pull spirit; pull love, pull duty; pull reason and pull hallowed prejudice. The conflict, in its various forms, is the theme of every drama. For though we have learnt to feel disgust at the spectacle of a bullfight, an execution or a gladiatorial show, we still look on with pleasure at the contortions of those who suffer spiritual anguish. At some distant future date, when society is organized in a rational manner so that every individual occupies the position and does the work for which his capacities really fit him, when education has ceased to instill into the minds of the young fantastic prejudices instead of truths, when the endocrine glands have been taught to function in perfect harmony and diseases have been suppressed, all our literature of conflict and unhappiness will seem strangely incomprehensible; and our taste for the spectacle of mental torture will be regarded as an obscene perversion of which decent men should feel ashamed. Joy will take the place of suffering as the principal theme of art; in the process, it may be, art will cease to exist. A happy people, we now say, has no history; we might add that happy individuals have no literature. The novelist dismisses in a paragraph his hero’s twenty years of happiness; over a week of misery and spiritual debate he will linger through twenty chapters. When there is no more misery, he will have nothing to write about. Perhaps it will be all for the best.
Melancholy: My Muse, My Mentor
By Chris Garvey
As most know or could imagine, depression is depressing. But it can also be pretty inspiring, too. What it inspires varies of course, but if you’re lucky, from the tears, hangovers and lowered libido, you may acquire a little bit of creative stimulation.
Nature is a muse. Lovers, drugs and alcohol can be as well, but love and drugs wear off. One good thing about Seasonal Affective Disorder, or being dejected or a chemical comedown is that you’re left with something: a shitty feeling. And that shitty feeling can proliferate and wreak havoc on your life, or it can motivate you to channel it somehow—whether with a pen, brush, accordion or microscope.
When I’m content or relatively happy, I’m uninspired and bored. At first, doing things that normal-functioning people do is like a breath of fresh air. Hitting the gym three times a week is invigorating; food shopping and cooking is rewarding and cheaper and healthier than eating out. But the allure soon fades. And while friends tell me to embrace these periods of relative peace-of-mind, I just can’t. I crave the ups and downs, the penchant for sad songs, the abrupt crying spells and the drinking alone in bed. It’s fucked up but it’s just the way it is.
I’m happy to see some phony sense of happiness slip from my grasp. I wouldn’t be writing this, and you wouldn’t be reading it if I was out enjoying a fairly well-balanced existence. I’d be too satiated with going to the gym and cooking and sex and nightlife, and too worn out from the exercise, sex and partying to muster up the energy, desire and concentration to jot down even a paragraph or two.
Whether scribbled, splattered or screamed, the best art (or at least in my opinion, as ill-informed as it may be) comes from either a period of misery or a life’s worth. With no sadness and inner turmoil, your emotions are stale and conventional. This is a fact, I think, so it makes sense that without the melancholy, one’s songs, sculpture or poetry would be boring, banal and clichéd.
‘Muse’ reminds me of ‘mentor’—both of which I’ve never had, not in human form, anyway. Both muses and mentors have been extremely influential on world history and on modern-day pop culture. Without Eric Clapton falling in love with George Harrison’s wife, he would have had no muse and we’d have no ‘Layla.’ And without Oprah nurturing the career of Dr. Phil, he wouldn’t have an $80-million a year salary, even though we’d be a lot better off without his bloviation.
So while I may never have an overwhelmingly passionate and illicit affair with the wife of my best friend who also happens to be a Beatle, I’ll always have a pool of depression from which to draw. And sure, I could use Oprah or some form of guidance in my life, but at this point it’s probably too late. I’m like an old dog that’s been stuck in the pound too long. I may have some potential, but who’s gonna choose me over an un-jaded puppy? I wouldn’t. My proclivity for realism and cynicism can get depressing. And mentors are usually in a good place in their life, so why would they jeopardize their career contentment and life’s achievements with someone like me? Again, I wouldn’t.
Hereditary conditions like schizophrenia and bipolar disorders can transfer onto generations through DNA. Life-tainting experiences like death, divorce or eviction can open the door to emotional hopelessness. These life moments can bring you to a dark place. But for some of us, depending on hereditary traits, childhood upbringing and one’s own adult life trajectory, it’s a comfortable place to be.
Without the blues, there’d be no B.B., Buddy or John Lee. Without heartbreak, there’d be no ‘Tracks of My Tears’ or the poetry of Sylvia Plath or Picasso’s blue period, and without anguish, we couldn’t draw from the existentialism of Sartre and the raw expression of Kurt Cobain. Sure, Cobain killed himself. Plath did, too. Van Gogh chopped off an ear after some chick dumped him. But what’s better, to live long and even-keeled and leave the world with nothing but a will and a headstone, or to shave off a few decades of life and inner-peace to create something that may move people? There’s no right answer, of course, but I know what mine is.
Huxley, Aldous. Those Barren Leaves. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1925.
