Boy Parts by Eliza Clark
Review by Jess Moody
‘I'm sick in my mouth on the bus into work,’ begins Irina, a twenty-something Newcastle photographer and bar worker. Hold on—for the minutiae of her drug-fueled hangover, some sexual harassment from a patron, and an assault by a woman who’s understandably angry about Irina taking explicit photos of her son. And that's just the first seven pages.
Welcome to Boy Parts, where sex, drugs, violence, and—be warned—their combined consequences, permeate the daily existence of our antiheroine, all while she prepares for an unexpected chance to exhibit her photography in London. Keeping her company in crisis are Irina’s medley of manipulated friends, a ‘rotation of background extras’, and the ‘nice’ and ‘weak’ men who pose for her: the ones who ‘will gaze down the barrel of my camera and do anything for me’.
It's easy to be wary of any debut acclaimed as exploring ‘taboo' subjects. Taboo for whom? Will style overcome substance? How much can the reader’s stamina and sensibilities tolerate? Eliza Clark is ready to ask just those questions and critique anything ‘a bit OTT... a bit self-consciously edgy’, in a novel of brutally observed characters amid a clever framework of revelation and dissolution.
Yes, Irina is a creature designed to shock, both in voice, action and her art. There’s her scathing social commentary, her endless abuse of those who support her (her besotted best friend and ex is ‘a social equivalent of a nasty case of herpes’) and those who trust her (“That's what I do. I violate people’s privacy”). She strides, statuesque, through a non-stop maelstrom of drugs, violence, disordered eating, alcohol, and lies. At the steady centre is her art, easy interpretations of which Irina is quick to mock – ‘“ooo isn't it so revolutionary to see the female gaze, ooo eroticised images of normal men by a woman”.’
Boundaries are crossed not only in the images she creates (‘Tom of Finland, eat your heart out’), but in her interactions with her models: all men she recruits from her daily life (‘Eddie from Tesco’) chosen for their unconventional beauty, and restricted to those she can ‘physically overpower if push came to shove’. As Irina’s control of her desires is increasingly tested in the present, the trip through her photographic archive provides glimpses of her dark personal and artistic histories.
Clark takes a big risk in the combination of a toxic narrator and hardcore content, delivered in such a breathless first-person-present deluge. But it pays off, due to deft handling, self-awareness, and yes, humour. Despite its violence, or perhaps, in counterpoint to it, this novel is very, very funny. The post-Brexit social commentary can be cruel but direct; the observation of unsuccessful house parties and over-confessional Uber journeys are exacting and merciless. The insertion of other voices into the narrative - through blog extracts, text exchanges, and Instagram comments - could feel gimmicky, but instead adds some comedy to her relationships, as well as some brief relief from Irina’s flinty perspective.
Care is taken to save most of the contemplative prose for later chapters, a natural response to Irina's increasing physical and social isolation as she descends to London and the implications of her own past choices.
Earnestness is, after all, not a tone that is much tolerated in this novel. Those searching Boy Parts for ‘academic craic’ on millennial gender and sexuality, the application of queer theory, or the psychology of the woman survivor are in for a surprise. For Clark is waiting and ready to lead you down blind alleys to her protagonist’s barbed tongue and rolling eyes. Irina pities the attempts at diagnosis from those who know her most (mental illness; childhood trauma; even ‘penis envy’). She skewers the privileges behind the art-world hierarchy, fucks with Foucault, and likely eyes Judith Butler's cats with sharp objects in hand. Don't — she warns — think you know my truths.
Photography as a metaphor for truth-telling is firmly disavowed (then challenged in the revelations and implosions of the last chapters). Irina’s art, and her life, is one of control: of what not to tell and what not to see. In a world of deleted files, controlled contortions, masks over faces and compartmentalized consents, Clark has created a labyrinthine life wrapped up in a destructive lie: that truths are simple, and strength is the same as power.
Boy Parts is not going to be for everyone: a content warning would fill the first chapter. But it offers much more than shocks. Through Clark’s craft and dexterity, and the sparse whisper of something more tender, there is a reason the reader reads on: this is an assured and complex debut that tempts and teases you always a little deeper, your eyes unable to be drawn away.
You’re good though, yeah?
*click*.
Boy Parts by Eliza Clark is published by Influx Press 23/7/20