Using the cloak of the erotic novel, which historically has been seen as light entertainment and even farce, Brown’s discussion of body politics, privacy, and surveillance feels remarkably subversive — even as it remains in-your-face, as pornographic text tends to do.
You can glance at my byline and gather who I am, who I might be—I don’t have to disclose my race to you. Nor can I avoid it, in the same way it’d be impossible for me to hide my race from you on the street.
Technology also acts as a direct vector of memory. There are few feelings stranger than sitting in bed in your underwear, photoshopping a snapshot of your dead grandparents.
Emotional precarity — the wildness, the effervescent joy and crushing despair and uncertainty that chart the emotional landscape of most young people — is appealing for some time. It is interesting. It is also easy.
Images of our IRL lives, time-stamped and geo-logged and hi-res or lo-, might be one of the few ways in which we can swim against an entropy that will eventually swallow us.