Red Shoes

Susan Griffin
Red Shoes
From The Next American Essay

There is always a unique joy when reading a piece of writing, or a
novel, or a project, from someone who you know little about. Or to
explain differently, once you’ve built solid admiration for someone,
you will always read their work with a bit of bias, or preconceived
notions whether these are good or bad. Usually good, if you love
someone’s writing so much.

I’ve read Red Shoes by Susan Griffin knowing nothing about her
personally, other than the fact that I loved her essay. After having
read it, I skimmed briefly some photos of her, and read the first two
sentences on her Wikipedia page. Eco-Feminist. I don’t know what that
means, and when reading her essay, these labels aren’t entirely
important just yet.

This essay struck me as particularly fascinating, first by syntax, the
way that she breaks up her paragraphs. Similarly to what I have done
for the last two quarters, I’m sure these breaks in ideas, reflect a
growing frustration and dissatisfaction with institutionalized writing
form. But also, I feel that breaking up paragraphs helps me to locate
ideas. Not necessarily isolate them on the page, but give them room.
Griffin uses this same approach so deftly, so refreshingly. From what
we can tell, her essay bounces back and forth between a somewhat
linear storytelling of her childhood, and dense reflections on the
color red, rape, torture, and the differences between fiction and
essay writing. And…a whole lot of stuff in between. Her essay is one
that presents such fascinating ideas, one could spend a whole quarter
reflecting and dissecting the elements of this single essay. It really
is pact full of dense ideas, but it is also beautifully written, and
there is no clear objective or thesis or conclusion. Each little
floating paragraph is, in and of itself, a cell of activity. Almost an
altered state. Somehow, she has completely freed herself from the
banalities of convention. It proves hard to pick just one section.

1.) In my mind, as I remember my grandmother, I can feel the shape of
her larger body next mine. Her elbows are wrinkled in a way that
fascinated me. The flesh on her forearms hangs in beautiful white
lobes, not so different than the lobes of her breasts.

2.) Why is it that the novel can enter the private sphere in a way,
for instance, that the essay cannot? One answer presents itself
immediately. The novel is fiction. It is not true. It exists in an
epistemological category unto itself. Yes, it is lifelike, it evokes
or even, as it is said metaphorically, creates realities; still the
reality of fiction is not to be confused with reality.

The two sections above represent her technique of jumping back and
forth between a reflective narrative: memories and interpretations of
her past, and almost this conjuring or deep meditation on language,
sexuality, color, semantics, and just about everything in between. It
is hard to say if her essay arrives at any destination, but the reader
is just overjoyed with how she spins language, and how this spinning
evokes the senses. You can imagine quite clearly, with the aid of your
own memories of course, the flesh of an older woman’s forearms hanging
like white lobes, and how this imagery lends itself to the intimacy of
a women’s breasts, makes you unconformable, as if you haven’t entirely
earned the trust, to invasion such an intimate detail.