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Amber Husain

Amber Husain is a writer, academic and publisher. She is currently a managing editor and research fellow at Afterall, Central Saint Martins. Her essays and criticism appear or are forthcoming in 3AM, The Believer, London Review of Books, LA Review of Books, Radical Philosophy and elsewhere. She is the author of Replace Me, to be published by Peninsula Press in November 2021.



Articles Available Online


Slouching Towards Death

Book Review

July 2021

Amber Husain

Book Review

July 2021

In January, a preview excerpt in The New Yorker of Rachel Kushner’s essay collection The Hard Crowd (2021) warned us that this might turn...

Book Review

August 2020

Natasha Stagg’s ‘Sleeveless’

Amber Husain

Book Review

August 2020

‘The thong is centimetres closer to areas of arousal,’ writes Natasha Stagg in Sleeveless: Fashion, Image, Media, New York,...

1 SAND AND SNOW   He is a warrior prince He hunts in the deserts of central Arabia He drinks and carouses with his companions, and pursues scandalous love affairs When his father banishes him for his bad behaviour, he becomes even more reckless, an outlaw At the news of his father’s death, he shrugs, he goes on playing backgammon Afterwards, however, he gets riotously drunk and embarks on a campaign of vengeance that will absorb the remainder of his short life He is the greatest poet of his age According to legend, he is slain by a treacherous gift from the Emperor Justinian: a poisoned robe   He is Imru al-Qays, the Man of Misfortune, the Wandering King He composes a stunning poem, known as his Muallaqa, or ‘Hanging Ode’, one of a handful of pre-Islamic poems so precious they were said to have been inscribed in gold and hung on the walls of the Kaaba Luminous language, imperishable lines The poem’s opening phrase, Qifa nabki – ‘Stop, let us weep’ – signals a traditional scene, in which the poet surveys the ruins of his beloved’s campsite This trope was already conventional in the poet’s time, produced by a nomadic Bedouin culture: the common experience of coming across the traces of an abandoned camp became, for poets, an occasion for mourning the loss of a real or imagined woman With Imru al-Qays, the old theme finds its most powerful and lasting expression, so that his Muallaqa becomes its exemplar Qifa nabki Stop, let us weep A call to pause, to dismount, to come down to earth, to face the signs of destruction and loss, and to weep in torrents In Arabic poetics, this classical motif is known as al-waqf ala al-atlal: ‘standing at the ruins’   Stop, let us weep for the memory of a lover and a home, at the edge of the twisting sands between al-Dakhul and Hawmal, between Tudih and al-Miqrat The traces have not yet been erased by the weaving of the north and south winds   In the courtyards and enclosures you can see the dung of gazelles scattered like peppercorns   On the day

Contributor

November 2018

Amber Husain

Contributor

November 2018

Amber Husain is a writer, academic and publisher. She is currently a managing editor and research fellow at Afterall,...

On Having No Skin: Nan Goldin’s Sirens

Art Review

January 2020

Amber Husain

Art Review

January 2020

The feeling of drug-induced euphoria could be strips of gauze between beautiful fingers. Or a silver slinky sent down a torso by its own...
In Defence of Dead Women

Essay

November 2018

Amber Husain

Essay

November 2018

The memorial for the artist was as inconclusive as her work, or anybody’s life. Organised haphazardly on Facebook by one of her old friends,...

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fiction

April 2013

Towards White, 1975

Scott Morris

fiction

April 2013

In the morning, the square was white. Voula’s hair was white. A pigeon on a bronze horse shifted, sent...

Art

Issue No. 6

Interview with Edmund de Waal

Emmeline Francis

Art

Issue No. 6

As we speak, Edmund de Waal, ceramicist and writer, moves his palms continually over the surface of the trestle...

poetry

February 2012

Giant Impact Hypothesis

James Midgley

poetry

February 2012

I bought a satellite’s eye from the market. To look through it involved the whole god-orbit, a cotton-wooled Faberge...

 

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