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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,...

I Down from the Mountain   Once upon a time, writers were like gods, and lived in the mountains They were either destitute hermits or aristocratic lunatics, and they wrote only to communicate with the already dead or the unborn, or for no one at all They had never heard of the marketplace, they were arcane and antisocial Though they might have lamented their lives — which were marked by solitude and sadness — they lived and breathed in the sacred realm of Literature They wrote Drama and Poetry and Philosophy and Tragedy, and each form was more devastating than the last Their books, when they wrote them, reached their audience posthumously and by the most tortuous of routes Their thoughts and stories were terrible to look upon, like the bones of animals that had ceased to exist   Later, there came another wave of writers, who lived in the forests below the mountains, and while they still dreamt of the heights, they needed to live closer to the towns at the edge of the forest, into which they ventured every now and again to do a turn in the public square They gathered crowds and excited minds and caused scandals and partook in politics and engaged in duels and instigated revolutions At times, they left for prolonged trips back to the mountains, and when they returned, the people trembled at their new pronouncements The writers had become heroes, gilded, bold and pompous And some of the loiterers around the public square started to think: I quite like that! I have half a notion to try that myself   Soon, writers began to take flats in the town, and took jobs — indeed, whole cities were settled and occupied by writers They pontificated on every subject under the sun, granted interviews, and published in the local press, St Mountain Books Some even made a living from their sales, and, when those sales dwindled, they taught about writing at Olympia City College, and when the college stopped hiring in the humanities, they wrote memoirs about ‘mountain living’ They became savvy in publicity, because it became evident

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,...

READ NEXT

fiction

March 2014

The Nothing on Which the Fire Depends

Micheline Aharonian Marcom

fiction

March 2014

Friday 9 November 2009   The coffee is lukewarm, but she doesn’t mind to drink it this way. She...

Art

June 2015

Photo London

Art

June 2015

From May 21-24, London’s Somerset House hosted the inaugural edition of London’s new international photography fair, Photo London.  ...

poetry

March 2017

Two Poems

Uljana Wolf

TR. Sophie Seita

poetry

March 2017

Mittens   winter came, stretched its frames, wove misty threads into the damp   wood. fogged windows, we didn’t...

 

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