memoir

What is pornography? We tend to think of it monolithically, as something created by and for hetero men, reinforcing sexist stereotypes and machismo behavioral codes. For over 20 years, Erika Lust has been fighting against those preconceptions, creating adult content that expands the parameters of pornography while approaching it as something akin to mainstream independent cinema. Her subscription-only website features content that leaps over gender boundaries, and has pulled in fans around the globe.

In her new book “Lust,” the filmmaker makes a convincing case for an ethical, intelligent porn that can expand our ideas about sex and intimacy. I recently chatted with Lust about sex, power and the internet.

✍️ Author Chat

Are we calling it pornography? Adult content? What do you call it?

For me, it is pornography. What I do is pornography because I work with explicit images, but I also work with cinema, and I strive for cinematic vision and craft. I don’t just pick up a camera, film people having sex and put it online. It is a whole creative process. So when I talk about my work, I see myself first as a filmmaker whose subject matter happens to be pornography.

What compelled you to create adult content?

I was born in Sweden, and I became a feminist quite young. I studied political science in college. When I was exploring my sexuality in my late teens and early twenties, I became more and more interested in finding out about our desires and who we are and what we are attracted to. And then I started to watch porn [and] felt horrible watching it. I felt a little bit troubled by the images. Why are all these female characters just there to please the man? It wasn’t about the women, it wasn’t their stories, and that made me feel a bit angry. When I talked to other women about this, they felt the same way. I felt there was something to explore there. Of course at the time, I had no idea I would be doing this for a living.

There are a lot of tired tropes about adult content that you debunk in your book. That the performers come from broken homes and are forced to do things on camera without their consent and so on.

It’s so easy for people to think that in the sex industry there’s going to be exploitation. But my experience is the opposite. Because people I work with dare to talk about sex. The conversation is over the table, not under the table. The people I have met and worked with in this business are intelligent and smart, with a very clear plan of their future. They take care of themselves, their bodies and their sexuality.

In “Lust,” Erika Lust debunks tropes and stereotypes surrounding the production of pornography.

(Jahel Guerra)

How has technology affected how we think about sex?

There’s a lot of sex anxiety going on in our society, and I think that also has a lot to do with technology and how it has taken over our lives. And I’m reading more articles about the intimacy crisis, and the fear that people have of connecting with other people, and young people who are not having sex. Technology has gone wild. It has taken over our lives. People are afraid of other people, of friction, of negotiating boundaries. They don’t know how to explain their own desires so they would rather talk to robots. I think we need to disconnect from technology, and think more deeply and talk to each other — not just about sex, but about everything.

Given the ubiquity of free adult content on the web, how do you compel customers to subscribe to your site?

I think people that subscribe are looking for something completely different, something more elevated, and they understand that that kind of film costs money. I can’t shoot without paying my crew and my staff. Shooting with an Alexa camera is not the same thing as picking up my mobile phone. And then I need crew members who can work with that technology, I need gaffers and electricians, I need to pre-light the set the day before, and so on. The budgets that I’m working with are really budgets for independent films. We have a staff of 45 working with me and my husband.

It’s the last artistic underground, really. I did notice that Bruce LaBruce, a filmmaker whom you mention in your book, has a collection of his films presently being shown on Criterion Channel.

I never think it’s going to become mainstream. My true hope is that we can at least be known as an independent porn culture making quality films that aren’t exploitative. That people understand that it exists, and that it’s an option apart from the mainstream porn websites.

This Q&A was edited for length and clarity.

📰 The Week(s) in Books

Chuck Lorre has written a memoir, “Sitcom,” about his career

(Christopher Patey / For The Times)

How does Bonnie Garmus follow her blockbuster 2022 novel “Lessons in Chemistry”? With “Peck & Peck,” a “whimsical and winning ode to the written word, and send-up of the pretensions of its gatekeepers,” writes Leigh Haber.

Chuck Lorre, one of the most successful and prolific writers and producers in TV history, has written “Sitcom,” a memoir in which he reveals, among other things, his decade-long tenure as a card-carrying Scientologist. Writing the book “was cathartic,” he tells Mary McNamara. “There’s a little bit of therapy going on in this book. I got to say some things out loud that in the past I would have kept hidden because they were embarrassing.”

At a time when it seems like anger and hostility has become the fossil fuel of everyday life, author and conflict expert Priya Parker’s new book “The Art of Fighting” argues for civil and spirited debate as a balm for our troubled times. “As a conflict resolution facilitator for the last 25 years, I can say that healthy community needs healthy conflict,” Parker tells Margaret Wappler.

Finally, Maddie Connors talked to Michael Douglas about his new memoir, “One Helluva Ride,” a book about his life and career. “Your 80s may be a good time to share,” the 82-year-old actor tells Connors. “People interested in movies, we give them a certain insight into the process, and maybe they could learn something. For others, it’s just gossip.”

📖 Bookstore Faves

Formerly a pop-up bookstand, Reverie Bookstand is a brick-and-mortar bookstore on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park.

(Reverie Bookstand)

Located on a busy stretch of Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park, Reverie Bookstand is doing its level best to buck the AI tsunami, selling used books created by humans in a variety of subjects. In an email exchange, owner Tim Horner tells us what’s selling in his store.

What prompted you to open the store?

I was driving by and I saw it was for lease. I had been selling books for some years as a scout for other bookstores, and also at flea markets where I would pop up with a ”bookstand.” So it wasn’t a brand new idea; I had always dreamt of it. The owner of the building was a part of a small team that ran a collective DIY venue and gallery called Echo Curio around 12 years ago. It has since shut down, but Echo Curio was a place I came to as a young person back in the day. So the landlord was sympathetic to the cause and the idea of having a bookstore here. So I went for it.

What genres does the store tend to emphasize?

I specialize in poetry, mysticism, occult and out-of-print secondhand books and paper goods. All the books here in the store are used books. So far it hasn’t been difficult to keep the shelves full, I know some spots.

Who are you customers?

The clientele here is diverse. Students, working-class people, artists, local neighborhood families, musicians and people from all walks of life who simply love books and reading. A thing I am grateful for is how kindhearted and empathetic (most) book people are. It gives me a lot of strength and motivation everyday to know that my book-buying addiction is not in vain but is actually going to some strange use in helping connect people with literature.

What’s selling right now?

The things that are selling the most are things California-related and writers from California especially — Joan Didion, John Steinbeck, Octavia Butler.

Why do we still need bookstores when AI can write books for us?

I think bookstores are relevant still because we all need some type of human connection for our well-being, and books encourage that behavior. Whether it’s connecting with a space and people or connecting with authors, a bookstore is a place where you can actually browse for something and be in the moment with other people that are possibly interesting. The gesture alone validates itself in that you’re telling the world. I am open to ideas, things, places, people, and along the way you find a book you didn’t know existed, a nicer copy of something you already have, or a book you’ve been meaning to read but had forgotten about. And until this point there is no tangible way to browse for these things I have online yet and hopefully ever.

Reverie Bookstand is located at 1519 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles.

Movie stars are an endangered species. They still exist, sure. Their beautiful faces still fill 50-foot screens, beaming down on us. Yet, there is a shortage of, say, Michael Douglas. A man who, over the span of decades, played an American president, a troubled detective, and a Wall Street tycoon so convincingly that the FBI recruited the actor to do a PSA for investment bankers about the perils of financial fraud.

The night before I meet Michael Douglas on Zoom, I have a hard time sleeping. I want to be well-rested before I meet the leading man — perhaps one of the last leading men from an era in Hollywood that felt limitless. What do I mean by that? He’ll tell you. His new memoir details his movie-making career as a prolific producer and actor, along with his affair with his “Romancing the Stone” co-star Kathleen Turner, mudslides in Mexico, snorting cocaine with O.J. Simpson, encounters with Princess Diana and screaming matches with Paul Verhoeven that end in blood. In short: the life of a movie star.

“People say to me: Michael Douglas. When I see your name, I don’t know what I’m going to get, but I know it’s going to be good,” Michael Douglas says.

(David Urbanke / For The Times)

Halfway through our conversation, something unanticipated happens: Douglas reveals that he doesn’t quite see himself as a movie star. After gentle pushback, he elaborates. Instead, Douglas sees himself as a chameleon.

“People say to me: Michael Douglas. When I see your name, I don’t know what I’m going to get, but I know it’s going to be good,” he says.

He’s speaking from his home in New York. Behind him is a moody 18th-century Orientalist painting, its scene too indistinct for me to make out. His smiling face — which, like most American moviegoers, I had watched 50 feet tall in the dark — glows with warmth even on my laptop screen. It seems abnormal even to witness him in miniature.

To be clear: Michael Douglas is a movie star, whether or not he wants to cop to it over Zoom. It’s in his blood. His father, Kirk Douglas — born Issur Danielovitch to Russian Jewish immigrant parents — was a legendary actor whose shadow Douglas struggled to escape, as he details in the early chapters of his memoir. He spent his childhood on movie sets, watching his father spar with iconic directors like Stanley Kubrick. Michael Douglas was subject to violent and angry outbursts as well. “Dad’s volatility kept us on edge,” he writes. He felt suffocated by his father’s legacy, often hoping to shake the title of “Kirk Douglas’ son.”

Early in his career, Douglas left his starring role on TV’s “The Streets of San Francisco” after producing his first film, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” which became a breakout success. On that film, he had to deliver the shattering news to his father that he was too old to play the lead — essentially, firing his father from his dream role. It was a betrayal. Instead, the role went to Jack Nicholson, who would later win an Academy Award for his humanizing portrayal of Randle McMurphy. The film won multiple Academy Awards, launching Douglas’ career as a heavyweight producer and later an actor. Escaping the shadow of being Kirk Douglas’ son has been a lifelong battle for the actor.

(Grand Central Publishing)

Occasionally, inheritance can be a burden. In his own life, Douglas details how he was a distracted father and husband who lost sight of his son, Cameron Douglas. During Cameron’s childhood, Douglas was elsewhere — on location in the Mexican jungle in “Romancing the Stone,” then a disastrous film production in Morocco for “Jewel of the Nile” that included a fatal plane crash that resulted in three crew members’ deaths. To cope with the breakneck pace of show business, Douglas sought refuge in women, cocaine and work.

Cameron’s troubled youth reached a crescendo when he was sentenced to five years in federal prison for drug smuggling, with an additional sentence for drug possession in prison — serving seven years in the end. It was enormously painful for Douglas, who also struggled with addiction, and had sought out treatment to provide an example to his son.

In a late chapter, he recalls confiding in Rob Reiner, who also had a son who struggled with addiction issues. In the memoir, Douglas addresses the killing of Rob and Michelle Reiner in December 2025; their son Nick has been charged with murder. “We both had sons with serious drug issues and we both, at times, had been at the end of our rope,” Douglas writes. “It was a heartbreaking confessional for us, but I know we gave each other some measure of comfort during the hard times.”

Why trudge through movie history, turning over every stone and every wound, in a nearly 500-page memoir? Because, according to Douglas, it’s time.

“Your 80s may be a good time to share,” the actor says, who recently turned 82. “People interested in movies, we give them a certain insight into the process, and maybe they could learn something. For others, it’s just gossip.” His battle with Stage 4 oral cancer brought the contours of his life into stark relief, sharpened by seven weeks of radiation and chemotherapy. His official diagnosis was tongue cancer, but he told the public he had throat cancer, hoping to stall speculation in the press about the possibility of disfigurement — and, more specifically, the prospect of losing his tongue. It was isolating, and Shane Salerno — the memoir’s co-author — stayed by Douglas’ side.

Michael Douglas.

(David Urbanke / For The Times)

As much as Douglas’ memoir, “One Helluva Ride,” is a revealing and delightful account of a life in show business, it is also a love letter to California — a place where Douglas spent much of his adult life, beginning at UC Santa Barbara. The college travel brochure read: campus by the sea. “I remember the cover of it was a guy walking down the beach with a surfboard, two girls in two-piece bathing suits. In 1963, I never saw a two-piece bathing suit back east.” He was sold.

The California years made an impression. Douglas is still, at heart, a hippie. Raised in stiff East Coast prep culture, he was reborn in the California sunshine. “I transferred into becoming a hippie, influenced by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, hallucinatory drugs, and the world that existed in the early ‘60s in San Francisco.”

Strangely, Douglas argued that some of the utopic sentiments of the 1960s are returning. “People are beginning to look back at that time, and realize how important family is — cooperation, sharing,” he says. “Socialism is not a four-letter word or something that’s terrible. There are other things to pursue in life other than just making money.”

“Your 80s may be a good time to share,” Michael Douglas says.

(David Urbanke / For The Times)

Like the characters he portrayed, Douglas is far from perfect. He admits that he struggled — in his first marriage, and later as a father. After marrying Diandra Luker, Douglas was unfaithful, having relationships with co-stars, most notably Turner on the set of “Romancing the Stone” in the Mexican jungle. The two denied the relationship for years. Now, with Turner’s blessing, Douglas writes about their involvement in his memoir.

Before Turner, there was Diane Thomas, the film’s waitress-turned-screenwriter, with whom Douglas had an affair. Thomas’ life was tragically cut short in a car accident involving a Porsche that Douglas had gifted her.

Then there were the rumors. On the set of “Basic Instinct,” some speculated that Douglas and Sharon Stone were having an affair. They weren’t, he explains. Douglas was instead locked in a power struggle with director Verhoeven, who, during one particularly heated argument with the actor, suffered a burst artery in his nose, turning the confrontation into a bloody scene. Douglas, meanwhile, was involved with another co-star, Jeanne Tripplehorn. “They were so focused on a possible relationship between Sharon and me, they missed the real relationship happening between me and Jeanne,” he writes.

When he and his current wife, actor Catherine Zeta-Jones, made it official, Douglas went to the other room to make breakup calls to five other women. (By this point in the memoir, Douglas has enough goodwill to pass this off as charming.) “From the moment I met Catherine, and we formed our family, I was a new man,” he writes.

The memoir enshrines Douglas’ petty show-business grievances too: a repaired grudge against David Letterman, a TV co-star who stole his longtime girlfriend, and a bouquet sent to Julia Roberts to apologize for his drunken buffoonery. In Douglas’ words: “There’s two or three people that I share my hostilities with.” He clashed with Brian De Palma, who was originally attached to direct “Fatal Attraction” and tried to have Douglas fired. De Palma underestimated Douglas and was replaced by Adrian Lyne. Years later, De Palma apologized, but Douglas rejected it.

It is impossible to tell the story of Douglas’ career without the women he encountered. The films he championed helped establish a new type of female lead — in all their powerful, morally ambiguous and deranged glory. “An actress was not allowed to play a villain,” he says. In “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” the actor struggled to cast Nurse Ratched. “A whole number of leading actresses turned that part down until we found Louise Fletcher, who went on to win an Oscar.”

For Glenn Close, Sharon Stone and Kathleen Turner, acting opposite Michael Douglas was transformative. After her role as a murderous, sex-crazed bisexual in “Basic Instinct,” Stone became one of the biggest stars of the 1990s and earned an Oscar nomination for Martin Scorsese’s “Casino.” Close‘s portrayal of the mistress-turned-lovesick psychopath in “Fatal Attraction” earned the actor her first lead Oscar nomination after three supporting nods. Turner went from being primarily known as the sexy femme fatale of “Body Heat” to a Golden Globe-winning star with box-office clout after her collaboration with Douglas. Sure, she sued him, too, but their friendship survived.

However, it wasn’t until his role as Gordon Gekko, the fast-talking, impulsive tycoon in 1987’s “Wall Street,” that Douglas was in full force, winning an Academy Award for lead actor. Directed by Vietnam veteran Oliver Stone, Douglas delivered an unforgettable performance about the dangers of unchecked capitalism and greed. At an early New York screening, Douglas recalls Wall Street traders being stunned by the film’s stinging accuracy. “A lot of the Wall Street characters were there, very cocky at the time; they all were shocked because we caught them.”

To his surprise, Wall Street financiers approached him on the street to praise Gekko — anointing him as their hero. “I said, ‘I was the villain.’ ‘No, no, no,’” he said. “So it showed me a lot.”

It speaks to Douglas’ gifts as an actor that he could transcend the caricature of white male entitlement he portrayed with such precision. In “Falling Down,” filmed during the 1992 uprising triggered by the Rodney King verdict, Douglas plays an unemployed defense worker, a man so consumed by disillusionment and blinded by his own sense of victimhood that he cannot recognize the harm he inflicts on others. The character would prove eerily prescient, anticipating an archetype that would take shape in the decades to come. An entire generation mistaking the actor’s brilliance as an invitation.

Perhaps that is the strange thing about being a movie star: Audiences decide who you are, and what you mean to them. For a chameleon, an actor who spent a lifetime resisting other people’s definitions of him, that might be the ultimate paradox.

As our conversation winds down, I remind him of his immense contributions to filmmaking, through producing and acting. It seems redundant, but I say it anyway. His response is polite.

“Quirky,” he said. “‘Falling Down,’ ‘The War of the Roses’ — I love those quirky films.”

“I’m proud of my movies,” he says. “I’m very proud of my movies.”

Connors is a culture journalist in L.A. She covers books, food, entertainment and offbeat Los Angeles. She’s currently at work on a book of essays about tourism in all its forms.

Nicole Brown Simpson wore a long-sleeved cover-up by the beach, despite the warm weather. “We kept telling her, ‘C’mon, get in the water.’ She wouldn’t,” Denise Brown recalls of a Hawaiian vacation with her sister, Nicole, and the rest of her family, including her brother-in-law, O.J. Simpson. “We didn’t know it then, but he’d beaten the [hell] out of her the night before in the hotel room. We found out later, after she was killed, when we were reading her diaries.”

The incident is one of many chronicled in Brown’s new memoir, “For My Sister Nicole: Love Shouldn’t Hurt.” The book chronicles who Nicole was — from her happy SoCal childhood to meeting beloved celebrity and football star Simpson at the age of 18 (he was 30) to the physical and mental abuse she suffered over seven years of marriage. Brown also reveals the troubling incidents she witnessed behind the scenes, and pairs them with the knowledge she has now of what could have been done to help her sister.

(Blackstone Publishing, Inc.)

Nicole and her friend Ronald L. Goldman were murdered outside her Los Angeles home in Brentwood in June 1994. The brutal homicides set off a media frenzy, and overnight, Brown became the voice for her slain sister.

Images of an angry and sobbing Brown became the media’s hallmark of grief during the criminal trial, particularly when Simpson was acquitted in 1995. He was found guilty in a subsequent civil trial, yet still awarded custody of the divorced couple’s two children.

Now, 69, with sleek silver hair and a voice raspy from the many speaking engagements tied to her advocacy work, Brown has devoted her life to raising awareness about domestic violence. “It’s too late for Nicole,” says the former model who moved from her native Southern California to Florida decades ago. “I want this book to help others avoid what happened to her.”

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

We’re meeting today in downtown L.A., very close to the courtroom where the trial happened, and to the former LAPD headquarters Parker Center where Simpson was booked after Nicole’s death. Is it difficult being here? Should we have done this somewhere else?

No. This is where it all happened, so it’s OK for me to be here to talk about [the book]. It should start here. And I’m glad it’s with the L.A. Times because Nicole was here in Los Angeles, as was all the chaos. Everything started here.

Denise Brown.

(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)

It’s been 32 years since your sister’s murder, yet this is the first book you’ve written about what happened.

I had a [previous] book deal, but I wasn’t ready.

It was really hard going back because you think about all the things that should have been, that could have been, that she missed out on, especially with her kids. And everything was so public. It was so out in the open, with everybody looking at you. If you were too happy and laughing, it was, “Oh God, she doesn’t even know how to grieve.” If you’re crying, it’s, “My God, can’t she just get over it?”

I understand why people make these kinds of comments now, because if you’ve never been through something so horrific, you don’t know how to act. You don’t know how you’d respond.

Aside from raising awareness about domestic abuse issues, you haven’t spoken much about your sister’s life or murder until the 2024 Lifetime docuseries, “The Life & Murder of Nicole Brown Simpson.” It was the first production that included interviews and involvement from you and your sisters, which is stunning because there have been so many docs and dramas about the case.

I know. And without asking Nicole’s family, can you really make a good documentary?

A girlfriend of mine who is a producer wanted to [make a documentary] at the 10-year mark, and I just wasn’t ready. Then she asked me at the 20-year mark. I said, “No, this doesn’t feel right yet.” Then on the 30th, I asked my sisters [Tanya, Dominique and Wendy], “Do you guys want to do this?” And it was “Yes, let’s humanize Nicole. Let’s bring her back because she was lost in all of this.” Ron and Nicole were both lost. The trial has been done and saturated. Let’s humanize her, get videos of when we were kids. Stuff like that. So that’s what we did.

In the book you write that the docuseries provided new revelations about Simpson.

What I found out all these decades later shocked me. I learned after Simpson moved down to Florida with the kids, there were 17 calls to 911. There was an FBI raid. I don’t know what it was for, but the police came to the house 17 times?! I was friggin’ livid when I heard that. Where were the advocates? Where were the people protecting those children out there? They would have been protected by my mother and father, by all of us. Coming off that, I thought that it’s time to write a book.

We know so much more about recognizing the signs of domestic violence now than we did in the 1990s. The progress is of course welcome, but it also has to be hard applying that knowledge in hindsight to your sister’s case.

Back then I saw. I was privy to. I was there. I was involved. But I didn’t know it was domestic violence, and that’s what I want people to understand. Don’t read this book like it’s something that I knew about all along because I didn’t. I thought [the fights] were isolated incidents because they didn’t happen every single time I saw Nicole. They were years apart. I learned about domestic violence patterns after the murder.

Can you talk about what was in the diary you found in her home after she was gone?

A couple of months after her murder, my dad was reading her diaries, and I saw him lying on the bed, just broken. He said take a look at these, and it was Nicole’s writing and about the things that were happening. And I sat there like, “Oh my God. We were there.” We were there when this happened, like on a vacation in Hawaii. But we were not in the room with them.

Nicole wrote in her journal of that trip that once they were in their hotel room alone, he beat her and threatened to hang her off the balcony. But the diary wasn’t admissible in court. And maybe it wouldn’t have even made a difference given the lack of awareness about domestic abuse patterns.

Domestic violence, the jurors didn’t really understand it. They thought if you’re not dead after he’s finished strangling you, it’s not domestic violence. Jurors even said, “This is not a domestic violence trial. This is a murder trial.” Well, lo and behold, the ultimate form of domestic violence is murder.

Your passionate statement to a reporter during pretrial hearings marked the first time a member of your family publicly expressed doubt regarding Simpson’s innocence. From then on the press made a point of painting you as the furious, avenging sister.

Why wouldn’t I be angry? My sister was slaughtered, for God’s sake. I became the spokesperson for our family after I went upstairs to the press room [during the hearing] and said to a reporter: “If O.J. so innocent, why is he trying to suppress all the evidence?!” I couldn’t sit there and watch the so-called Dream Team [Simpson’s defense] constantly berating Nicole and belittling her and turning her into something that she wasn’t.

Before testifying in criminal court, you testified before Congress in 1994, urging lawmakers to fully fund programs and shelters supported by the Violence Against Women Act.

It was a bipartisan act from Orrin Hatch and Joe Biden, who were both senators at the time. Bill Clinton signed it into law after Nicole’s murder. I went to Washington and spoke before Congress because the funding was all [tied up ] in state appropriations. I was the first one to speak. I thought I was going to die. But it all worked out [laughs].

How did you deal with such an immense loss in private?

I ran every day for like an hour and a half until I collapsed because there was so much anger in me. My mom said, “Denise, I’m really worried about you because you’re just so angry,” and I said, “Why wouldn’t I be?!” She said, “I know, but you need to be able to deal with it.” So she invited our pastor over to the house who was a friend of the family. He said to me, “Denise, this is not God’s doing. This is the evil of man.” And as soon as he said that, there was something that just came off my shoulders. I could breathe again. You’re right. This is the evil of man. So I was the one who kept saying from the very beginning that I knew who did it: Simpson.

Nicole emerges as a whole person in this book, which after all these years feels long overdue.

Nicole was a wonderful person. Even when he gave her a Ferrari for her birthday, she didn’t give a s— if there was French fries in the gear shelf. Her kids, her friends, her people meant everything to her, and that was taken away from her by a f—ing monster. She was the best wife. All she wanted was her two kids, a white picket fence. The American family. So for her to put up with everything that she went through, it just breaks my heart because she was such a good person. Stubborn as all hell, but that’s OK. You don’t get murdered because you’re stubborn.

And people ask, “Why didn’t you just grab her by the hair and take her out [of that marriage]?” Well, because she was an 18-year-old girl who knew what she wanted, and she wanted him. She was totally in love with him, and she was not going to listen to her sister.

Your sister did eventually leave. She had been divorced for two years before she was killed. During that time, she wrote in her diaries that Simpson stalked her at the gas station, the supermarket, when she ate out, and your family witnessed it.

She did get away — for two years, and he couldn’t handle it. His ego could not handle it. His narcissistic behavior couldn’t handle it.

He was there for every move she made. She’s with a boyfriend having dinner, and he’s there, plopping his ass down at the table and having dinner with them. And at the supermarket?! C’mon, he doesn’t shop.

People [like him], they’re just so obsessed with control. And they’re narcissists. I don’t believe she could have ever gotten out of her situation because [of all the support he had]. He was so loved.

Why do you think she kept the abuse from you?

I asked [a family friend] why they think she hid the abuse. They said she was trying to protect her family and her friends, and to me that made all the sense in the world because that’s exactly what a victim does. The abuser will threaten the family. That’s their MO. I’m going to kill you. Your family. The dog. Our kids. Something you love will get hurt, and you’re the only one that knows about it. You’re the only one who knows how bad and how mean he can actually be.

Simpson died in 2024. What has that meant to you?

I don’t have to look over my shoulder. Actually, the funny thing is, I was never afraid. There was never a fear of running into him. But is there a relief that he’s gone? I didn’t even know he was sick, and I hope he suffered the way Nicole did. I wish it would have been longer. You can quote me on that.

Is there ever any closure for you?

You try to move on. You never forget. It’s always there. So to go back, it just ripped my heart out. In 32 years I’ve not told my sister I love her, like we did every single phone call, every single time we left each other. It was always, “I love you. I’ll see you later.” But it was never goodbye. We never said goodbye to each other because that’s so final. It was always, “I’ll see you later.”

What impact do you hope this book has on readers?

I just really want your readers to know, if it can happen to Nicole, it can happen to you. It can happen to anybody: rich, poor, Black, white, gay, Democrat or Republican.

At the end of the book, I say that I think Nicole was put on this earth to be the person that shines the light on domestic violence. The 24-hour national domestic violence hotline didn’t exist before Nicole. The Violence Against Women Act didn’t exist before Nicole. There weren’t a lot of shelters. There wasn’t a lot of education. There weren’t PSAs. She changed that.

Maria Astorini, a retired character actress and a minor star, is 37 years late delivering her memoir. But the project, which she has tried her best to forget, has been pulled out from under the rug by her publisher. Forced to deliver a manuscript, Maria writes an autobiography clocking in at a shade over 200 pages.

The result is Elizabeth Castellano’s second novel “Proof of Progress,” a wry, poignant and very funny twirl through a life that swerves past triumph and failure, boredom and joy, public life and private sorrow. I recently spoke with her about Bloomingdale’s, Calvin Trillin, and how cellphones are the enemy of good fiction.

✍️ Author Chat

”Proof of Progress” traces the life of your protagonist, Maria Astorini, from childhood to her mid-60s. It reminded me of something Bob Dylan wrote recently about growing older, which is that you finally get rid of the illusion that life is under your control.

For Maria, there is a lot of serendipity that feels like fate, of being in the right place at the right moment, or meeting the right person, which sends her off in a different direction. I like that in a novel. It was also helpful to be writing primarily about an era without phones, so that she’s able to meet a lot of people.

We’re seeing this a lot in contemporary narratives: writers setting their stories in pre-phone eras, so their characters can actually interact with each other.

She’s talking to people, she’s meeting people, so she’s able to be sent on different paths. Even meeting her husband probably wouldn’t have happened with the phone.

“Proof of Progress” is Elizabeth Castellano’s second novel.

(Harper Collins / Carl Timpone)

You have written a very funny book, and funny books don’t get the respect they deserve.

Anytime you have humor in a book, you’re not taken quite as seriously. Even in Barnes & Noble, when you look for humor, it’s on the back wall or on the floor. And that’s where you find the David Sedaris books, which is crazy. My last book was about a beach town, so I got lumped in with the beach read group. I had people who were looking for a fun beach read and then they picked up my book, and it’s about zoning code violations. I’m happy that this book is being marketed as literary and humorous. I’m in better shape in that sense.

It’s really hard to write funny. Or is it?

The best way I can describe it is like a stand-up comedian having a notebook full of jokes and anecdotes and she has to put together an HBO special. Sometimes I just had one line of something funny. I had all these ideas and thoughts and different things from old books that I was writing. I tried to put all of it together and find a character that could tell this story, and the through line that I could create from all of this material. So I wrote it backwards and out of order.

Who do you think is funny? Who do you like to read?

J.D. Salinger, David Sedaris, Maria Semple. I love Calvin Trillin. I think he’s a great writer.

Your protagonist is very late on a contract and has to rush to get the book written, which gives the narrative propulsion and momentum.

I had a two-book deal, so while I was working on the publicity for my first book, I raced to finish this book. And when I was finished, I realized it didn’t work and had to throw out the whole manuscript. I saved maybe six or seven little anecdotes from that original book. So it took another year to write. That was the inspiration for “Proof of Progress.”

Your writing career is a bit like Maria’s acting career, in that you chanced upon it.

I was a theater major. I don’t think I took one English course. Then I graduated right into the Recession of 2008. There were no jobs. Eventually, I applied to be an apprentice buyer at Bloomingdale’s, even though I hate shopping. That was the last resort. Then I decided, maybe I’ll be a writer, because it felt like something that I could do. I wrote a lot of things that were rejected before I wrote my first book, “Save What’s Left” [2023]. And that’s probably why I wrote Maria the way I did. We zig, we zag, we endure.

This Q&A was edited for length and clarity.

📰 The Week(s) in Books

Kyle MacLachlan’s new memoir is a funny, candid and self-aware reflection on his 40-year career in Hollywood.

(Christopher Patey / For The Times)

We loved him as Special Agent Cooper in “Twin Peaks” and as Jeffrey Beaumont in “Blue Velvet,” but according to Kyle Maclachlan’s new memoir, “Fictional Selves,” there is another unknown character: “Other Kyle,” the actor’s ever-present shadow figure. “There’s definitely another entity, an observer, the ego, the harder self,” MacLachlan tells Rachel Brodksy.

After a nine-year absence from fiction, John Green has returned with “Hollywood, Ending,” a darkly humorous show business cautionary tale that Green couldn’t have written “without spending a lot of time on film sets,” he tells Emily St. Martin. “I hope the book is a love letter to movies. But I also wanted to be honest about how difficult it is to make a work of art that, in order to be commercially successful, has to be loved by millions of people.”

Katya Suvorova’s memoir, “Ungrateful Immigrant Daughter,” is a “heart-wrenching tale of immigration” that “pulls back the velvety red curtain to reveal one story behind the oversexualized stereotypical post-Soviet mail-order bride narrative so ingrained in post-Cold War U.S. culture,” writes Diana Ruzova.

Finally, Vroman’s and Book Soup, two of L.A.’s most beloved bookstores, have been sold by longtime owner Joel Sheldon to tech executive Robert Hoffman, reports Suhauna Hussain.

📖 Bookstore Faves

Outpost Books is a new bookstore in South Pasadena.

(Simran Malik)

Walking into Outpost Books is like stepping into a smart book lover’s cozy den. With its southwestern-themed design and a well-curated selection of new and used books, the indie book store in South Pasadena already feels like home to this community of rabid book lovers. I spoke with owner Nicole Novembrino about her new store.

Why a bookstore?

I was a sales rep for a publisher of art books, but I looked at my life, wondering what I could do for a living that would give me real meaning and purpose. I love books, and so I decided to open a bookstore. It’s not easy, and you can second-guess yourself a million times along the way, or get a normal job. But I’m so glad I did it. Everyone in the neighborhood is so happy!

Why did you choose to open in South Pasadena?

I live in El Sereno nearby, and South Pasadena is such a great community. When we first opened, people were coming in and thanking us for opening in the neighborhood. There aren’t any other bookstores in this particular South Pasadena neighborhood. I definitely didn’t want to take any business away from other stores.

Pasadena loves its bookstores.

This is a very bookish community. The donations I’m getting from people are really smart volumes. I think I’ve had just one Nora Roberts book! The landlords are great, as well. They came to our opening and told me the store is all they could have dreamed of for the space, which is so sweet.

The kids section is really fun, with the tent and the fake tree stumps.

We have a lot of kids books with a southwestern theme. I’ve been collecting them over the years from my trips to the desert. You might find a book called “Armadillo Rodeo” in there.

How did you land on the western theme?

My mom is from New Mexico, so every family vacation was a trip to the Southwest, and I loved stopping and collecting things at the trading posts along the way. I wanted to give the store that kind of feel. I chose the name Outpost for that reason. It is a lived-in place where you can just hang out and find cool things and read.

Outpost Books, 1010 ½ Fair Oaks Ave., South Pasadena, (626) 399-0595

It’s never been a more terrifying time to be an undocumented immigrant in America. Despite countless protests and pushback, ICE agents continue to patrol the streets. In July, Colombian immigrant Johan Sebastián Durán Guerrero was shot and killed by an ICE officer in Biddeford, Maine, during a routine traffic stop.

But what about the white-passing undocumented immigrants that seem to slip through the system? The ones who blend in so seamlessly (despite the thick accents of some)? We forget they are also legally not supposed to be here. Specifically, those from Eastern Europe, Russia and the former Soviet Union. And what about those young, desperate women who suggestively posed for the camera as the Soviet Union collapsed all around them, hoping to be chosen by an American man?

Katya Suvorova’s searing debut memoir, “Ungrateful Immigrant Daughter: A Memoir from the Child of a Mail-Order Bride,” out Sept. 29, is a heart-wrenching tale of immigration that pulls back the velvety red curtain to reveal one story behind the over-sexualized stereotypical post-Soviet mail-order bride narrative so ingrained in post-Cold War U.S. culture.

My own family legally immigrated to the U.S. from Soviet Belarus in the early 1990s. I grew up with the Western media narrative that Eastern European women were submissive sex symbols, desperate for financial security. Some boys in school even assumed I was “easy” because I was Eastern European.

Mostly told from a child’s point-of-view, Suvorova’s “Ungrateful” traces their journey in the ’90s from Russia to the U.S. and life thereafter, as white-passing undocumented immigrants who illegally crossed the border from Mexico — with the help of a man who replied to her mother’s mail-order-bride ad in a catalog. A catalog Suvorova would find years (and many rich American stepfathers) later while cleaning out the garage, and realize her mother had lied to her. She was not, in fact, a model, posing for a Coca-Cola ad, but a young woman with a small child desperate to leave Russia behind for the West. When Suvorova confronts her mother after finding the catalog, her mother replies: “Everyone was doing it.”

Mail-order brides shaped early colonial America. Men were often the first to settle small Western frontier towns and would in turn grow lonely for companionship. Newspaper ads for brides were normalized and proliferated in 19th century America. According to historian Elliott West, “Some mining camps in Idaho in 1870 had nine men for every woman.” The truth is that love didn’t enter the picture when it came to marriage until about the 19th century with the Victorians; before then, marriage was more like a business contract, with dowries and cows alike.

Letter brides remained ubiquitous in 20th century America and were not stigmatized until the 1970s and 1980s when it became more apparent that mail-order immigrant brides from developing Southeast Asian and Eastern European countries were being abused and exploited. It wasn’t until 2005 that the U.S. passed the International Marriage Broker Regulation Act (IMBRA), which requires background checks and other precautions meant to protect foreign brides from domestic abuse, violence and exploitation. You don’t have to dig deep to see this narrative proliferated in our culture. Jeffrey Epstein mostly recruited Eastern European women into his international sex-trafficking ring.

Author Katya Suvorova

(Alcove Press)

Suvorova and her mother were not spared such indignities. Abuse, both psychological and physical, permeates the pages of “Ungrateful.” From one of her earliest childhood memories of watching her mother being abused while stuck in a closet to later tales of her mother’s forced alcohol abuse and estrangement from her own mother (Suvorova’s beloved Babushka), expertly executed by her stepfather Adam — the abuse ran rampant. Suvorova herself is a victim, neglected by her mother and forced to act as a child bride to please one of the husbands. Eventually, Suvorova realizes that it wasn’t just her mother that was sold in a catalog to an American suitor, but her young daughter (Suvorova) as well. It’s no surprise that Suvorova is estranged from her mother, a topic she covers often on her social media.

Of course, there is also the “gold digger” stigma. Suvorova writes about girls in school accusing her mother of being a gold digger, intentionally choosing rich boyfriends that would eventually become rich husbands while they lived in poverty and couch surfed. Suvorova’s mother would use creative tactics to find these men: hang out in five-star hotels or fancy athletic clubs. She would have them buy her computers, clothes and expensive jewelry she could sell later. She always ordered the priciest thing on the menu and bought gift cards when the men gave her money for groceries in case the relationship did not work out. She passed down these survival tactics to Suvorova like gospel. But, ultimately, it wasn’t money that her mother was after, it was green cards for them both, the permanence and safety of American citizenship: the American Dream.

In 2012, I dressed up as a mail-order bride for Halloween. I was 22, about the age Suvorova’s mother was when they immigrated to the U.S. I wore a tight sleeveless red American Apparel dress. Shiny fake patent leather pumps. A white veil from Claire’s at the mall. I covered myself in bits of cardboard, packing tape and foam peanuts and overdid my makeup with several coats of mascara and thick black eyeliner. I thought this costume was funny, clever, appropriating and reclaiming the narrative that haunted me all my life. I thought because of where I was born, I was allowed to do this. A notoriously blunt girl who I sensed didn’t like me approached while I was waiting for the bathroom. “What are you, a slut?” she said, scanning me like a barcode.

Suvorova’s memoir effectively shows the risks immigrants were willing to take to escape the collapse of the Soviet Union and the corruption (ruled by the KGB) that followed. Without explicitly diving in, her writing sheds light on today’s Russian corruption and Putin’s endless war with Ukraine, which is ultimately a war against the West. In fact, Suvorova and many antiwar Russian immigrants today are terrified to return to their motherland due to fear of imprisonment and retaliation, as one Los Angeles woman in 2024 learned the hard way upon landing in Russia, receiving a 12-year prison sentence for donating $51 to a Ukrainian charity.

In the building I grew up in and my parents managed, a young Russian “model” and her mother lived with a much older Persian man. Without much inquiry, I simply assumed she was a mail-order bride running from a traumatic past in the motherland, ordered from a catalog to make him dinner and vacuum his carpet. Closer to my age than not, she became my friend. Gifted me jewelry. Babysat me while my parents drank tea with her mother. I later found out she cheated on the Persian man, laid out her wedding dress on the soiled carpet while he was at work, and moved herself and her mother to Las Vegas, where she started a successful business and bought a house.

Suvorova’s story is not just about the childhood trauma inflicted by her mail-order-bride mother, but it’s a redemption story about reuniting with her beloved maternal Babushka and biological father. It’s a story of self-discovery. Not unlike the bestselling memoir “Educated” by Tara Westover, who overcomes an abusive childhood in a rural survivalist Mormon family. Like Westover, Suvorova finds shelter in books, school and an education.

Like all contemporary creative nonfiction writers and memoirists who are not celebrities, Suvorova must have been told somewhere down the line that in order to sell her memoir she must gain a following on social media, and she’s done just that. With about 95,000 followers on Instagram, Suvorova uses the platform to reveal earnest roundups, tips, tragic tales of estrangement and survival, and summaries of deleted chapters of “Ungrateful” as blocks of text over grainy film photos of her as a child. Suvorova’s very active social media presence sheds light on the current state of memoir and nonfiction publishing: You must have a platform to be read.

In a bizarre meta twist of events, Suvorova must sell herself and her story on social media, like her mother sold herself (and in turn her daughter) to those American husbands. In a stroke of marketing genius, some early copies of “Ungrateful” come with book-branded condoms.

And despite revealing in the memoir that she eventually did become an American citizen, Suvorova has since moved to Europe. When I asked Suvorova over Instagram direct message why she and her husband left the U.S. for Europe, she replied: “We left because I didn’t feel safe publishing my book about growing up as an undocumented kid under the current Trump administration. I have to take medicine that, if I were detained and could not take it, would lead to organ failure. We knew ICE was detaining U.S. citizens as well and decided not to risk it. In order to still publish the book and not be detained, we left the U.S.”

How many of us have been cruel immigrant daughters (or sons)? Ungrateful. Spoiled. Unaware or unwilling to acknowledge how much our parents have sacrificed to get us here. In the case of Suvorova’s memoir — although, she does acknowledge her white privilege — she certainly has a lot to be ungrateful for.

Ruzova is a Soviet-born writer based in Los Angeles. Her essay “The Sauna” was a notable in Best American Essays 2025.

Every so often, an aspiring screenwriter wanders into the dim red glow of Jumbo’s Clown Room hoping to interview one of the dancers. “They’re like: ‘I’m writing a screenplay. Can I interview you?” says Cecilia Fairchild, one of the longtime dancers at the renowned East Hollywood bikini bar.

Her response is usually some version of this: “I’m like, ‘Why are you writing about that? Don’t you know we are all writing that too? Leave us alone,’” Fairchild says with a mischievous laugh. What bothers Fairchild is the assumption behind it — that the dancers are voiceless and helpless. Worst of all, they’re presumed to have stories worth mining but not the ability to produce literature themselves.

Jumbo’s has a longstanding reputation of being part of L.A.’s literary lore.

In the 1970s and 1980s, Charles Bukowski — L.A. nightlife’s debaucherous poet laureate — was rumored to haunt the bikini bar in its early days. David Lynch wrote his classic screenplay “Blue Velvet” at the bar. (According to local legends, the iconic opening shot of “Blue Velvet” came to Lynch when he spotted a dancer with only one ear.) Writer and director Quentin Tarantino reputedly wrote at the bar. But while Jumbo’s has garnered a mythology as a magnet for filmmakers, writers and musicians who collect impressions, the dive’s dancers have shifted from being the subject to the artists.

Many of Jumbo’s dancers write fiction and memoir, host literary salons across Los Angeles and find ways to tell their own stories rather than serve as muses. “It’s funny because I wish that male auteurs would tell the story of customers. I want a sniffer’s memoir. I think that’s a real point of view,” Fairchild says. (Speaking of alienation and horniness, the dancer has been meaning to crack the Marcel Proust canon.)

Honey Ryder (Claudia Musikul) types on the bar inside Jumbo’s Clown Room. (Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

Fairchild is a playwright, poet and memoirist. Her recently completed memoir, “The Poison + The Spit,” traces a life of tumultuous love affairs and a stint dancing in New Orleans, rendered in prose that is whimsical, surreal and deeply emotional. The dancer also hosts the Downpour, a popular monthly literary salon at Bar Covell, and recently directed “Fool in the Pool,” a play that premiered at El Condor in Silver Lake this summer.

Her writing style mirrors her dancing: kinetic, wild and unpredictable. She sometimes takes the stage in roller skates, dancing to David Bowie. Her memoir achieves that same sense of hypnotic motion. “The memoir is so heavy,” she says. “Everything was so sad that I needed some lens to look at it that was fun, zippy and crazy.”

For Fairchild, dancing and writing possess the same need to expose oneself. “Vulnerability is one of the most interesting things about dancing,” she says. “There really is the potential to look into people, and they look into you, and you wordlessly share something with them that is half sexual and half this other thing.”

Meanwhile, Danielle Henderson — another dancer and aspiring novelist at Jumbo’s who writes under the pen name D.M. Faulk — has been working on a science-fiction novel titled “Meridian.” The book imagines a dystopian American wasteland where pregnant women are surveilled and controlled. She has been a longtime science-fiction fan since she and her father watched “Jurassic Park” and “Planet of the Apes” when she was a child.

Long treated as passive muses by visiting writers, Jumbo’s dancers — from left, Caroline Blaike (Caroline Moyer), Honey Ryder (Claudia Musikul), and Cecilia Fairchild — are reclaiming the narrative as active poets, memoirists and screenwriters.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

Unexpectedly, the Jumbo’s comically tiny dressing room became the inspiration for her novel. In 2022, when Roe v. Wade was overturned, conversations between dancers about reproductive rights ignited in the dressing room, which in turn informed her novel.

“A lot of those conversations happen in the dressing room. I’m incredibly inspired by the women I’m with who are incredibly sex positive and strong.” That ethos informed Henderson’s protagonist, Zayla.

In recent years, the bar has become a local author hangout. Allie Rowbottom, the author of the recent buzzy adult film novel “Lovers XXX,” discovered the bar in 2011 on the occasion of writer Elizabeth Hall’s birthday party. “I recall sitting front row on novelist Jon Lindsey’s lap, raining dollar bills on dancers performing intricate, beautiful athletic feats,” Rowbottom says. “I spent more than I could afford that night and have been back often since.”

Increasingly, Jumbo’s has cemented itself as a watering hole to the local writing scene. “Two years ago, I rented out a few tables for Jon Lindsey’s birthday, attended by Los Angeles literati like Tea Hacic-Vlahovic, Sammy Loren, Morgan Krantz, Tex Gresham and Nada Alic,” she adds.

According to Rowbottom, Jumbo’s is rife for literary inspiration. “To me, Jumbo’s feels uniquely dedicated, as a venue, to intersecting sex and art, despite the obvious dissonance of selling either,” she says. “I suspect such is what has historically made it a rich spot for writers, dissonance and tension being of utmost importance to good literary work.”

From left, Caroline Blaike (Caroline Moyer), Honey Ryder (Claudia Musikul), Cecilia Fairchild and Stephen (Aaron Laughton) inside Jumbo’s Clown Room.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

A charged scene in L.A. writer Aiden Arata’s critically-acclaimed 2025 essay collection, “You Have a New Memory,” features a night out at Jumbo’s Clown Room. “The dancers are starlets, athletes, artists; the theme is clown, and also longing — longing is a high form of physical comedy,” says Arata. “It possesses that heady mix of scuzz and glamour that can trick you into thinking your life is about to change.”

Jumbo’s burgeoning literary interest revives a hotly debated question: Who gets to tell the stories of sex work? For decades, the club has inspired celebrated writers and filmmakers, but Claudia Musikul — a dancer at Jumbo’s and a screenwriter herself — hopes its literary legacy will increasingly belong to the people at its core: the dancers.

“I hope that everybody can actually get their work out there because I feel it’s much deserved,” says Musikul. “You’ve probably heard about Bukowski, David Lynch doing ‘Blue Velvet’, or Anthony Bourdain. That’s all really cool, but in a way, it’s the actual dancers’ turn to have that kind of recognition.”

Musikul primarily writes screenplays about strippers, a subject she believes is seldom represented authentically. She has been in writing partnerships and workshops while developing scripts centered on dancers. In a sea of films depicting sex work, she cites Paul Verhoeven’s “Showgirls” as a film that resonates with her experience.

“‘Showgirls’ is my very favorite movie,” she says. “It’s my very special place in my heart movie.”

For Caroline Blaike, a poet and dancer at Jumbo’s, the connection between dancing and writing lies in observation. Years of performing have made her acutely attentive to the people who pass through the club, a voyeuristic habit that carries over into her poetry.

“When you’re a dancer, you’re very observant. You watch every person that walks in,” she says. “I feel like the way dancing makes you observe people helps you write from a perspective that other people can then relate to.”

Blaike has been working on a poetry collection that explores love, queerness, desire and personhood. “It’s gotten a little sexier over time, which is kind of fun,” she says. “I also just write about love, being gay, just existing. It can be a little aggressive, but people seem to like it, so that’s good.” She writes these poems from her prized typewriter — a “1951 Olympia typewriter that is my child.”

Among Blaike’s earliest literary touchstones was Maya Angelou. She still remembers encountering Angelou’s line in her poem “Still I Rise,” “I dance like I have diamonds at the meeting of my thighs,” and being stunned by it.

“I was like, ‘Oh, you can write that? That’s amazing,’” she says.

The literary ambitions at Jumbo’s extend well beyond the stage. Stephen Laughton, one of the club’s security guards, jokes that he leads a double life. By night, he keeps watch at the door; by day, he is an award-winning playwright. He’s recently been named the new associate artistic director of the Echo Theater in Atwater Village, and Laughton’s served as the writer-in-residence in the astrophysics department at the Natural History Museum in New York. Last November, his latest play became the first in the world to be staged in a planetarium.

“It’s this crazy, beautiful science play about two guys who meet in a club that explores mental health in the LGBT community, human interaction, time and astrophysics,” Laughton says.

Like many of his co-workers, Laughton has found himself turning Jumbo’s into copy. The club, he suggests, has a way of compelling everyone who works there to write about it.

“I think that probably what we’re all going to realize is that we’re all writing a version of the exact same story,” Laughton jokes.

Blaike argues that the dancers’ diverse talents are a key reason why Jumbo’s Clown Room has become such a beloved institution in the city. “It attracts confident, creative women who work there,” says Blaike. “Our community of women is supportive of each other and each other’s endeavors. … It really does facilitate that.”

Born into an African American family with a grim history of enslavement, Marian Anderson was determined from an early age to master the art of singing for the concert hall. A contralto of great range and warmth, Anderson’s abundant gifts as a performer of spirituals, arias and German Leider brought her global fame even as she endured the indignities of racial discrimination at home. Her Easter Sunday performance at the Lincoln Memorial in 1939 in front of 75,000 spectators remains a touchstone of defiance in an age of racial violence.

Anthony Tommasini’s excellent biography of Anderson, “Voice of A Century,” reclaims the singer as a great artist who only embraced her power as a symbol of racial equality much later in life. I spoke with Tommasini about Anderson, Franz Schubert and Albert Einstein.

✍️ Author Chat

Anthony Tommasini’s biography reclaims Anderson as a great artist who embraced her power as a symbol of racial equality later in life.

(Ahna Tessler Photography)

I feel like people know Marian Anderson in the abstract, but they regard her as a symbol rather than an artist. And among the virtues of your book is that you reestablish Anderson’s legacy as a great singer and performer.

She was a contralto, which is the lowest female vocal register. But that register had such resonance, and she had complete control over it. She also had enormous range; the uncanny, beautiful thing about Anderson’s voice is that when she started ascending even into the soprano sphere, she held those notes so beautifully. They were emanating from below, grounded in that low voice. It made for a mesmerizing sound. I’ve made a playlist to accompany the book.

She embodied this kind of fierce dignity and grace in the face of racial discrimination. But as you point out, she was reluctant to make herself a symbol of the civil rights movement, preferring to let audiences focus on her artistry.

In 1939, she was banned from performing in Washington’s Constitution Hall because of her race, and her manager, with help from Eleanor Roosevelt, arranged a performance in front of the Lincoln Memorial on Easter Sunday. Yet, the night before the performance, she was trying to get out of it. She felt the whole affair had turned into a civil rights demonstration. When it came time to write her memoirs in 1956, she wanted to excise the event from the book. She felt that what she could do is be an example of excellence and possibility for aspiring black artists.

She did play to segregated audiences, even long after she had become a national star.

[This type of segregated performance featured what] was called vertical seating. But she refused to forsake her career, which she had worked so hard to attain, and so she played these segregated shows. Eventually, there was a performance in Virginia which was boycotted, and that sort of broke the trend. She then performed in front of an integrated audience in Florida.

There is an encounter with Albert Einstein, of all people, who counsels her to take a stand against these racist booking policies.

In 1937, she showed up for a concert in Princeton, New Jersey, only to discover she was being refused a room at the Nassau Inn. As it turns out, she had a friend in Princeton who had seen her at Carnegie Hall and had meekly gone backstage to meet her. This was Albert Einstein, who was teaching at Princeton University at the time, and who offered to put Anderson up for the night at his house. He really pressed her on being more outspoken on racial equality.

Anderson played Europe multiple times in the 1930s, right before the rise of Hitler and the Third Reich. As you write, German audiences were blown away by Anderson’s mastery of their music, specifically Franz Schubert’s Lieder, or art songs, which were among Anderson’s most beloved repertoire.

So extraordinary, right? She also made two tours of the Soviet Union during that time. They went crazy for her in the Scandinavian countries, as well. But for the German audiences who are so nationalistic about their Leider, it was confusing. They couldn’t imagine how a Black American woman could sing their music so beautifully.

Anderson was the first Black soloist to perform at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, in Verdi’s opera Un ballo in maschera.

That was really a huge risk and a huge leap for her. She wasn’t a trained opera singer, and she had to dig deep into that material. She was already 58 by that time. There is a radio recording of the performance. There’s this dignity, like she’s calling upon this power. It’s exhausting and it’s draining, but it’s also exhilarating.

This Q&A was edited for length and clarity.

📰 The Week(s) in Books

Book jacket for “Body Language” by Meg Howrey

(Los Angeles Times illustration; jacket from Doubleday)

Marlon James has published his highly anticipated new novel “The Disappearers,” a sprawling story about gay culture in ’80s Jamaica, and Mark Athitakis is quite taken with it. “James is … determined to unwind the cliches of gay fiction: the tragic victim, the heartwarming gestures of solidarity, the blunt porniness,” he writes. “Mere survival will have to be enough for most of these characters; the sense of fear is pervasive, but so is a determination to work through it.”

What’s it like to be the primary dissenting liberal voice on Fox News? Stephen Battaglio found out when he talked to Jesssica Tarlov about her hybrid memoir and self-help book “I Disagree.” “I have a good amount of shyness to me,” she tells Battaglio. “I have a lot of imposter syndrome. I’m constantly in wonder that I ended up getting to do this and that hopefully, am the right person to do it.”

Meg Howrey’s fifth novel, “Body Language,” a twisted family saga, is “smart, sardonic and powerful,” according to Meredith Maran.

Finally, Emily Wilson, the classicist who has been a lightning rod of controversy over her disparaging remarks in regard to the film version of “The Odyssey,” is going to translate Homer’s epic for a second time, reports Emily St. Martin.

📖 Bookstore Faves

The Hammer Museum’s gift shop is one of the best art book shops in L.A.

(Eric Petschek)

Sure, the Hammer Museum’s gift shop stocks the requisite art-themed mugs, tea towels and tchotchkes, but it’s also one of the best art book shops in L.A. Inside the sleekly designed Hammer Store is a vast inventory of monographs, children’s books and critical texts about modern and contemporary art. In an email exchange, store managers Sara Beattie and Brooke Berlin tell us what museumgoers are buying right now.

Hammer’s store is really the best museum bookshop in L.A. How do you decide what to put on the shelves?

We’re an eclectic bunch of book nerds and love the written word. We start by looking at upcoming programming, exhibitions and the season, and we buy accordingly. And we have a great team that gives us suggestions. We’ve learned to trust our instincts. The Hammer is an experimental institution, and we approach our buying in that spirit.

Do you have patrons that are not necessarily there to check out museum exhibits?

Of course! We’re not only a museum, but a cultural center, which means there’s always something happening — like mindful meditation on Thursdays, or family programming on weekends, or people coming in just to enjoy a meal at Lulu.

What kinds of books tend to do well for you?

Art monographs, especially on contemporary or Los Angeles artists; books about living more conscientiously; and everyone loves a children’s book (even if it’s just to heal your inner child). We love finding unique books that can’t be found elsewhere. Whenever we can, we work with small presses and book distributors. They often make books that can only fully be enjoyed or understood by seeing them in person.

Is there any particular title that is presently selling well?

“Mindfulness in the Garden: Zen Tools for Digging in the Dirt” by Zachiah Murray; Sanzu Wada’s “Vol. 1 Dictionary for Color Combinations”; “The Hippest Trip in America: By Land, Air and Sea” by Alake Shilling.

Why do we still enjoy art books, when we can look at millions of paintings and sculptures on the internet?

Why go outside if you can look through a window? There is a lot of talk of people returning to the analog or physical media, and that includes renewed interest in physical books. BookTok is huge. People love talking about books and showing off their special deluxe book editions on TikTok. Art books by their very nature are deluxe, image filled and thoughtfully designed. A well-produced book is an art object in itself. Nothing beats the experience of paging through a beautiful book. That experience can’t be replicated on a screen.

The Hammer Museum store is located at 10899 Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles.