Can critical thinking spring from both a fortune cookie and Jacques Lacan’s most obscure seminar footnote? Estelle Hoy says yes. In saké blue, overpriced cheesecakes are the starting point for an essay on art writing; shoplifting in Berlin opens to a reflection on the economies of activist practices; fiction allows us to discuss the legacy of institutional critique, queer mélanges, or quiet melancholy. To her, the story of art becomes more nuanced in light of lyrics by Arthur Russell, the posthumous sorrow of Sylvia Plath, or a poem by Yvonne Rainer.
saké blue gathers critical essays, art reviews, and poetic fiction. Written in dialogue with the work of Martine Syms, Marlene Dumas, Hervé Guibert, or Camille Henrot, these texts combine the subjective and analytic, addressing power relations and the force of affect. Hoy spares nothing—and no one, exposing cultural clichés and urgent political issues through fast-paced acerbity. She advocates the work of women artists, mocks stereotypes, questions myths, and champions desire, sadness, and boredom. Simultaneously beautiful, lyrical, and cutthroat, her writing echoes to the reader like l’esprit d’escalier—we think of the perfect reply just a little too late.
Previously, I termed Estelle Hoy “a star in today’s new-narrative galaxy.” (punning on her name!) That was for Hoy’s novel Pisti, 80 rue de Belleville. Prosodic shocks are also at work in these oddball essays: Puns (and dozens more types of wordplay), spunky neologisms (jisms), compression of ideas into cluster bombs of wit, and 20 tons of sardonic love/hate culture-watching, both high and low. Hoy pinpoints her first-person gun sites on pompous art-writing. She is one of the few (as far as I know) critics to a) capture the elusiveness of contemporary art and b) go extra hard on it… perhaps becuz irritated by charlatanism in that trade (found among artists, art writing & the art business… which subsumes the first two on that list.) Hoy’s prose amuses with allusions that fit my groove (among others things). Makes me want to write like that. So I kinda do. Inspiring.
This came very close to being a five star because I love her feverish prose and her sense of humor and analysis of art and literature and philosophy, but after a while, girlie GRATES on you. Also the short fiction and a few of the essays here were so bad I just had knock it down, like, anyone who uses the term "mansplaining" unironically deserves to be the first against the wall (I'm kidding of course).
I think I'm just mad because I thought this was going to be five stars after reading the first essay and then continued to think that even after that horrible short story (Manhattan Marxist) but it fell victim to my destructive "put the book down while I do other things" habit and when I picked it back up I realized that I didn't actually like this as much as I thought I did, and I think the only bright spot in the entire second half that I read was the Herve Guibert essay. So, basically, I feel like I wasted my time and the valuable spot of "last book of the year" on false hope and I'm angry about it and I think Estelle Hoy deserves to be punished by me giving her three stars, which isn't even a bad rating, on a website she's probably never given more than a second thought to, and writing this review which no one will ever read.
What is human action if not ultimately meaningless anyway.
hoy is an incredibly smart writer whose prose cuts like a bejewelled scythe. all the same, i couldn’t get into any of these pieces, and often felt overwhelmed by the name-dropping of lots of pop cultural artefacts and art-world glitz & muck. i kept thinking i might appreciate them better if i was reading one article at a time in a magazine instead of in a book. many paragraphs made my head bleary, and i also couldn’t really get behind the way theory—despite the fact that hoy clearly knows her shit—was woven into each text.
maybe this is exactly how the author wants me to feel. maybe it’s a matter of not being in the right mood for this. maybe—and this is a likely possibility—i’m the problem. but despite how much i wanted to love this, ‘saké blue’ just didn’t do it for me.
Imagine, you are sitting down in the kitchen, glass of wine in your hand and your older sister (derogatory) is telling you about art, life and anything else that strikes her fancy. You hate her, you love her, and she is so goddamn funny.
I liked this but it felt like having an aneurysm to read. Sooo many weird esoteric words, I have a huge vocabulary list from reading this now. the most unhinged slews of metaphorical sentences and dense humour. Interesting tho!
My bad :/ for reading this after two of the best reading experiences I've had this year. Eyes could hardly gain purchase on the page idk maybe it's just me, rn, my proclivities and some opinions I have on 'saying' atm but I found it like actually a little disturbing to experience so many words saying so little.
This book is unbelievable. I went to the New York Art Book Fair, but it was sold out, and I had to wait. Hoy is an artistic force, and saké Blue is hands down her best book yet.