Micro Review: Larissa Pham's 'Pop Song'
Pop Song is a debut work of nonfiction by Larissa Pham, a writer and artist with essays and criticism published in the likes of The Nation and The Paris Review. The memoir-in-essays combines personal essay with pop culture and art criticism to tell the story of a woman and artist wrestling with the thrills and vulnerabilities of intimacy, seeking reflections and articulations of herself in art and lovers, and ultimately learning how to be alone.
Micro Review from Nicole Zhao
Pop Song’s arc is evident in the titles of the essays that bookend it, starting with "On Running," cresting with "Crush," and concluding with "On Being Alone." Like many of us, Pham escapes from her feelings by immersing herself in art, travel, nightlife, running, and sex. But falling in love prompts her to sit in the uncomfortable vulnerability of being known, and in the ensuing fallout, sit in grief. Throughout, Pham intersperses poignant reflections on love, perception, and relationships with her sharp analysis of art, from Agnes Martin to James Turrell and Louise Bourgeois, which she mines to "find new ways of articulating [her perspective]" (55).
Addressing a former lover in second person, Pop Song brings the reader into an intimacy at times so discomforting and intense, I found myself wanting to squirm away from the book’s reach, which is maybe the point. Pham’s writing is stunning, transforming the mundane into surprising beauty. But perhaps I flinch, especially at the collection’s earlier essays, because her self-preoccupation and performativity, the way she "copes by aestheticizing…pain," reminds me of what I find self-indulgent and gratuitous in myself and my own writing. As with many collections, some essays are stronger than others. In one of the strongest, "Body of Work," Pham expertly connects the ways in which we perform and glorify our pain, to Nan Goldin’s photography of domestic abuse, Saint Gemma Galgani’s body mortifications, and the liberation of BDSM. By the end, you are rooting for Pham’s increasing comfort in her own voice and skin, her realization that "the trouble with leaving somewhere is that it means arriving, eventually, to some other place" (22) — oneself.
Nicole Zhao lives and writes in New York City. She has received fellowships and residencies from the Sewanee Writers' Conference, and her writing has been published in Apogee Journal. Find her online at @nicolegzhao.