Adolfo Bioy Casares, Jorge Luis Borges and Victoria Ocampo are all names you’d likely come across before arriving at the writing of the next author in our Beyond Borges series.

Perhaps better known for being the wife of the former, or the younger and less-famous sibling of the latter, Silvina Ocampo was herself a prolific writer who gained independent recognition as the author of several prize-winning poetry collections and compilations of fantastic fiction.

Portrait of Silvina Ocampo

Know Your Ocampos

Born in Buenos Aires in 1903, Silvina was the youngest of six sisters to bear the already influential family name. Not initially literary-inclined, she originally travelled to Paris to work under the direction of artists such as the Italian surrealist painter Giorgio de Chirico and the French forerunner to pop art, Fernand Léger.

In the early 30s, her eldest sister Victoria became the founding editor of the long-running, culturally-significant journal ‘Sur’. It was through this review that, in 1933, Silvina was introduced to both Borges and a much younger Bioy Casares. Despite an age difference of nine years, she controversially became Bioy’s lover when he was just 19. Seven years later, they embarked on a marriage that, although not always faithful, saw them joined as occasional collaborators and lifelong companions.

As a poet, short-story author, translator and one-time playwright, Ocampo wrote incessantly and almost always independently throughout her life, publishing as many as seven poetry collections and around the same number of short story compilations.

In 1940 she collaborated with both Bioy and Borges on an anthology of fantastic literature and later an anthology of Argentine poetry. Although she had already published her first collection of short fiction, ‘Viaje olvidado’, in 1937, critics cite her involvement in this first anthology as having had a visible influence on her style.

Her later collections, including ‘Autobiografía de Irene’, ‘La furia y otro cuentos’, ‘Las invitadas’, ‘Los días de la noche’, and the children’s story ‘La naranja maravillosa’, perhaps exhibit a more prototypical Ocampo.

Writing the Feminine into the Fantastic

Inspired by authors such as Lewis Carroll, the majority of Ocampo’s literary output falls into the category of the fantastic, exploring surrealist ideas such as the manipulation of space and time, memory, mirrors and metamorphosis.

Whilst many of her themes crossed over with those explored by other authors or the fantastic, Ocampo’s treatment of what might have essentially been the same ideas, has been noted for its ingenuity and, perhaps most commonly, for its unusual cruelty.

The murders and other violent acts contained in her writing might not have met with descriptions of such ‘cruel innocence’ had the majority of her stories not presented them through the eyes of children.

Whether written for children or adults, her fiction often featured child protagonists in the recurrent setting of childhood homes and plots that appeared fairy-tale, at least in concept, if not in execution.

Many of Ocampo's stories were set in the childhood mansions of her protagonists. (This still, courtesy of 'Cornelia at her Mirror')

In ‘Biografia de Irene’ a marble statue of a winged horse speaks to a girl and promises to carry her into a fairytale land, and in ‘La torre sin fin’ a boy who makes fun of an artist who visits his house to display his paintings of a strange topless tower finds himself suddenly imprisoned there inside the painting, and although everything he paints comes to life it does not always take on the form he imagined.

Argentine author Julio Cortázar, whose own short stories run in a similar vein to Ocampo’s, commented upon the ‘strangeness of the everyday’ in her writing and her ability to infuse every day objects with a fantastic importance. Certainly, the disquieting nature of her short stories probably does stem from the fact that she wrote about such familiar every day circumstances the reader comes to doubt the occurrence of anything extraordinary.

Often written about alongside another Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik, critics have suggested that an understanding of each writer’s attitude to childhood is fundamental to an appreciation of their work.

Claiming that female authors have historically leant towards the fantastic as a form of expression, some critics have also suggested Ocampo’s fantastic literature might have been a manifestation of feminine subversion, citing her treatment of metamorphosis by way of example.

Interestingly, her protagonists can be generally observed as responding differently to both the process of transformation and their new form, dependent on gender. Ocampo’s male characters are often reluctantly transformed to plants, whereas her female protagonists more often than not have an existing relationship with the object of their transformation appearing more welcoming of their transformation to either animal forms or objects that are essentially masculine.

Where her husband had prioritised plot over character, Ocampo favoured style above all else, tackling themes of love and infidelity or sin and forgiveness with an irony, dark humour and lightness that otherwise might not have existed.

Later Life and Recognition

A poster for the 2010 film 'Cornelia at her Mirror', inspired by OCampo's last book of fantastic fiction

Besides authoring some of the most original and ingenious short fiction Argentina had seen between 1937 and 1988, Ocampo was also highly-regarded as a poet, publishing her first collection of poems, ‘Enumeracio de la patria’, in 1942, and her last, ‘Amarillo celeste’, in 1972. In the middle she was awarded the 1954 Premio Municipal de Literatura for ‘Espacios métricos’ and the 1962 Premio Nacional de Poesia for ‘Lo amargo por dulce’, having won second prize for ‘Los nombres’ nine years earlier in 1953.

In later life she reportedly suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, which seems especially cruel for a writer who had explored the theme of memory in such depth in her work. In her first book ‘Viaje olvidado’ a girl looks to remember the moment of her birth, and in a later story a woman recounts her life story backwards, beginning with the present and eventually dying when she reaches the beginning.

Bioy withheld news of his wife’s own death in 1993 so that a private funeral could be held in accordance with her wishes. Having been associated for more than 50 years with prominent literary and artistic personalities, Ocampo is often described as having lived in the shadow of her sister on the one hand and her husband on the other.

Perhaps content to live as a ‘famous unknown’, some argue that Ocampo was not necessarily subjected to living under these shadows but rather chose to remain there, shying away from the public life that Buenos Aires demanded of its great authors.

Although her sister Victoria probably still stands to be the most talked-about of the Ocampo siblings, Silvina’s impressive literary production at least equals that of her husband Bioy in terms of quantity and possibly even far exceeds him in terms of quality, linguistic ability and influence.

As recognition of Ocampo’s contribution to fantastic literature continues to grow, her influence on other surrealist authors is also becoming more recognisable. Whilst she might always be comparatively unknown, critics acknowledge the value of her writing as a jumping-off point for the works of Borges, Cortázar and other more-recognised masters of the short-story form.

Lorena Sotelo (Photo: Lisa Modiano)

Flipping through the pages of stories and faces in ‘Mujeres Argentinas’, I randomly stop and read through one woman’s story. I am immediately shocked by what she has achieved and how she has dedicated her life to helping underprivileged children in the villas, in spite of her background and the obstacles so often put up in front of her.

This is the story of Lorena Sotelo, which, on first account, reads like a rags-to-heroine Hollywood film script. Yet, two days later, she is recounting to me in person, the gritty reality of how being fed up of government corruption, she decided to build her own nursery school. Despite having virtually no money, no support, and needing to fight against local drug gangs, the nursery school of Las Travesuras stands today.

Describing itself as a book of “lives, portraits, moments”, ‘Mujeres Argentinas’ profiles 17 women who, like Lorena, have achieved extraordinary things despite the challenges of being female. Split into three parts, and written in both English and Spanish, the book reads as part interview, part story, and part documentary.

“We chose women who inspired us in some way,” explains photo editor Annie-France Charbonneau. From fashion designer Maria Cherñajovsky, to karate teacher Marina Regules, the first section introduces a diverse set of women, not selected for their success, money or power, but for the extraordinary things they have achieved.

Nicole Dunway at the press release panel discussion (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

Creator of the book, Nicole Dunaway, explained how after her earlier project ‘Argentina: Through the Eyes of 25 Women’, it felt natural to make another book about women. “These are real stories. Some might be funny, some might be moving,” she says.

The second section shows a collection of photographs of Argentine women going about their everyday life. This part, as Nicole describes, “is to present the book more like a documentary.” The images give the book an active energy, breaking up an otherwise heavy narrative.

The third part comprises of nine ‘moments’ – small narratives exploring the collision of two female worlds – that of the Argentine and the foreigner. Narrated by the foreigner, these tales observe and recount events and emotions of personal encounters with Argentine women.

The theme of the book, dedicated to the challenges and successes of Argentine women, fits perfectly with its release close to this year’s International Women’s Day – a day created to recognise the achievements of women, whilst at the same time serving as a reminder that changes are still needed for equality.

Equally dedicated to acknowledging “the contribution of women to the strengthening of international peace and security,” the day is partly a party and partly a protest – two things Argentines love to do.

When Nicole Dunaway describes film director and novelist Lucía Puenzo, just one of the women featured in the book, she could well be talking about the book itself. “She deals with subjects that are disturbing and controversial,” she says. “They provoke us in the most meaningful sense of the word – by forcing us to question our beliefs and to re-examine the world around us.”

Cover of 'Mujeres Argentinas'

Susana Trimarco’s story of how, after her daughter was kidnapped and sold into sex slavery, she has gone on to free over 200 girls from trafficking and succeeded in implementing anti-trafficking laws, is both disturbing and inspiring. She’s practically a perfect poster for Women’s Day – the issue of exploitation, being fought by the strength and determination of one woman.

Despite the gritty content, the tone of the book remains quite feminine. Unless very attuned to his female side, a man might find the writing and the stories all a bit sickly sweet, as the book unashamedly channels its womanly flair. And why not, it’s about women, for women after all.

Yet, there is more substance to the project, as shown by the multiple themes that run throughout it. Obvious themes can be guessed by simply reading the title – themes of femininity, women in Argentina, women making their way in a society that is still quite dominantly male.

But there are other themes too: themes of a society still struggling with unacceptable poverty and social problems, themes of mixed Argentine identity, and themes of people overcoming all this to try and make a difference in their lives.

You don’t have to be a woman to understand or enjoy reading this book. It’s a unique insight into a culture and country that, as the book points out, is sometimes hard for an outsider to access.

Proceeds from the book are all donated to the charities mentioned inside, so if you feel, as I did, inspired to contribute something to a cause that matters, just picking up a copy of the book you’re already on your way.

Awaiting the author Luisa Valenzuela in her Belgrano home, I sip my coffee as a number of eccentric artists come and go, eager to discuss a host of wild and wonderful ideas.

Luisa Valenzuela self-portrait.

The raven-haired Valenzuela emerges twenty minutes later, summoning me into her haven-like study. The cerulean room is flanked by rows of books, and an impressive collection of masks, procured over years of extensive travelling.

Valenzuela grew up under the aegis of her mother, herself a prominent Argentine writer named Luisa Mercedes Levinson. The Levinson household served as a literary salon, frequented by some of the great literary names of the twentieth century including Jorge Luis Borges, Ernesto Sábato and Julio Cortázar.

Despite publishing her first story, ‘Ese canto’ at the tender age of 21, Valenzuela was not initially drawn to a literary career. It wasn’t until the 1960s, when she took a post at La Nación under the direction of the eminent literary critic Ambrosio Vecino, that she discovered her own writerly vocation.

I’ve come to discuss Valenzuela’s most recent publication, ‘Cuidado con el tigre’, the latest novel in a prodigious collection. Originally written in the 1960s, the novel was withdrawn from publication due to Valenzuela’s concern that it would be misinterpreted as advocating a radical political agenda.

Having come full circle in her literary trajectory, Luisa now feels that her work would be incomplete without the ‘missing link’ of ‘Cuidado’ which, she says, lay the groundwork for her subsequent, more convoluted, explorations of the the use and abuse of power.

Set in the tail end of a decade marked by the fall of Che Guevara, ‘Cuidado’ traces the farcical ins and outs of an Argentine revolutionary cell. More ‘ideological’ than political, the group’s radical antics only lightly veil more complex power structures, played out through the sexual entanglements of its overly zealous members.

Alfredo Navoni, the tiger alluded to in the title, is a man of action committed to the cause. A recurrent figure in Valenzuela’s work – he will resurface again in her later novels, ‘Como en la guerra’ and ‘Cola de lagartija’.

Navoni has friends in high revolutionary places, most notably, the mysterious ‘migrator’, so-named for his relentless travels to border countries. Here we encounter him in the midst of coordinating a rainforest mission, accompanied by the contrary sisters, Emanuela and Amelia, as well as a host of other tangential characters.

As captain of the organisation and a commanding figure, Emanuela strives to direct the mission on a level playing field with her male counterparts, whilst Amelia seeks refuge in domesticity, pandering to the tiger’s every whim. As for Navoni, detached and phlegmatic as any revolutionary caricature, he spends his time hopping between the sisters’ beds.

Amidst this host of idealists, the underground writer Artigueta is the only affiliate able to reflect on the contradictions inherent in striving to advance a political ideal, uncontaminated by emotional ties.

Written before her narrative experiments of the 1970s, ‘Cuidado’ relies on intersecting narrative strands and an impersonal prose style, commensurate with the seemingly objective mission of its protagonists.

Where Valenzuela’s later work is allusive in structure, addressing the violence and paranoia that was endemic under the last dictatorship, this early work tackles political activism head on, albeit with a heavily ironic slant.

In the face of Borges’ ‘art for art’s sake’ mandate, which prevailed in Argentine literature for the most part of the twentieth century, Valenzuela feared her political farce would have been considered anathema to literary prestige. Four decades later, its political resonances have attenuated somewhat, lending it a historic, retrospective dimension.

In her afterword to the novel, she describes how the tiger was obscured by another, less contextual but more striking feline creation, ‘El gato eficaz’. The novel, a series of literary and erotic vignettes of New York, was published in 1972.

The prelude of a ten-year stint in the US, Luisa says it was the “brutal” streets of New York that unleashed an unexpected upsurge of creativity in her, leading her down literary avenues she had not previously contemplated. At the same time, the city served as a place of refuge in the face of the mounting political turmoil and censorship back home.

In 2000, New Yorks’ Whitney Museum exhibited Valenzuela’s short story collection, ‘Aquí pasan cosas raras’, as part of its century overview of the evolution of American arts. Alongside the likes of Susan Sontag, Valenzuela was hailed as a defining writer of the 1970s, and was the only Latin American author to be granted such a prestigious entitlement.

If Valenzuela has firmly carved out a niche for herself in the US arts scene, her work has always assumed a more ambivalent position in relation to Argentine literary tradition. While her prose continues to address national issues, stylistically she has a stronger claim to a more generic Latin American heritage. She accounts her linguistic playfulness and dark humour to the years she spent among contemporary Latin American writers at the universities of Columbia, NYU and Iowa in 1970s.

Although she still publishes articles in the international press, Valenzuela ultimately leans towards fiction. “Sticking to facts, however pertinent,” she says, “doesn’t allow you to delve into metaphor, to understand the deeper implications. Fiction knows better than we do.”

Our meeting comes to a premature close – Valenzuela has to pack her bags since she’s jetting off to a mask festival in Sardinia tomorrow morning. Though she assures me she won’t be turning her hand to new fiction in the near future, masks, both concrete and metaphorical, are to be the subject of her next literary undertaking.

“It’s been a long week,” explains Maxine Swann, sitting down with a glass of white wine. And coming from a woman who’s launching her third book in only a few days, that’s not hard to believe.

As a writing coach, contributor of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and The Huffington Post, and an award-winning author of the novels ‘Serious Girls’ and ‘Flower Children’, her writing has received literary recognition in the form of a Ploughshares’ Cohen Award, an O. Henry Award, a Pushcart Prize, and was also selected to appear in the 1998 and 2006 collections of ‘Best American Short Stories’.

Originally from the rural state of Pennsylvania, Maxine lived in New York, Paris and Pakistan before arriving in Buenos Aires, but something about migration to faraway places obviously agrees with her. For this edition of BA Lives, The Indy caught up with her to talk about her not-so-recent relocation and the theme of migration in her new book ‘The Foreigners’.

You’ve lived in Buenos Aires for almost ten years now, how did you come to settle here?

Well, I arrived in Buenos Aires in 2001 with the intention of staying for a few months, and, now that I say this, I realise there’s a pattern here. I arrived in Paris in 1991 to study for a semester and stayed for seven years. I arrived in Pakistan in 1998 with the idea of staying for a month and stayed for over a year. But I’ve never stayed anywhere as long as I’ve stayed in Buenos Aires. I feel like it suits me. I’m happy here – relaxed and playful, and inventive in a new way. Who knows why it happens, but I do feel like certain tendencies I have towards solitude, or being overly reserved, are corrected here.

Can you tell me a little about your latest book ‘The Foreigners’?

Yes, of course. I started writing ‘The Foreigners’ without knowing what the book would be about. I just knew I wanted to capture Buenos Aires, so I began with descriptions of the streets of Chacarita, that kind of thing. I wanted to capture certain feelings the place had given me- of freedom, happiness, loneliness. Of course, I’m also a foreigner here, so my Buenos Aires is a foreigner’s Buenos Aires; which is the other thing I wanted to write about – what it means and how it feels to be a foreigner. So I chose my characters based on that. They each have a different experience of “foreignness”, that I’ve either experienced myself or observed in others.

What interests you about the theme?

I think the interaction between a living creature and its environment is really fascinating – the intensity of that relationship. There’s a metaphor running throughout the book comparing foreigners to invasive plant species. Some plant species, when placed in a foreign environment, simply wither straight away. There’s too much moisture in the air, or too little, or not enough minerals in the soil, or too much iron, who knows. I’ve spent a lot of time living abroad and, in my experience, the same thing happens with foreigners. Some are immediately diminished by their new surroundings, while others flourish in entirely unexpected ways – sometimes beautifully and sometimes frighteningly – growing rampantly, choking other species, blocking their light, that kind of thing. I think sometimes foreigners feel free to act with a kind of impunity, where the codes are all unfamiliar and their own identities in the new place are suddenly hazy. There’s a chain of events in my book that also has to do with that.

Your previous books ‘Serious Girls’ and ‘Flower Children’ have both been based on your own upbringing and adolescence. Did writing about adult characters in this book feel like a natural progression?

Yes, I think so. I did suddenly find myself fascinated by adulthood. That said, this book is much less autobiographical than my other books. Part of the evolution also had to do with that, feeling freer to invent, and create rather than reflect the world, even if the reflection was always substantially deformed. I often think that when we write fiction we write our dream version of the world, everything switched around, several people conflated into one – your uncle becomes the dog on the corner – that kind of thing. Here I think I stepped even further away, which is maybe why writing this book was so enjoyable.

As a foreigner yourself, there’s perhaps an assumption this book is at least tangentially autobiographical. To what extent are the characters in the book based on yourself or your own experiences as a foreigner in Buenos Aires?

There are definitely some parallels in the book with my own experiences – the loneliness that the Austrian woman feels, and the moments of delirious freedom that the American woman does.

All three of your novels, ‘Serious Girls’ in 2003, ‘Flower Children’ in 2005 and now ‘The Foreigners’ in 2011, have been completed since moving to Argentina. How do you find the creative climate in Buenos Aires compared to other places you’ve lived?

I think there’s more space here to be experimental than in the United States. There, literature seems to be increasingly at the mercy of the marketplace – meaning everyone’s main concern is how many books you sell. Not only editors, but writers too – because the amount of books you sell determines the value of your next book contract. So, needless to say, it’s not an environment that encourages audacity. Here, probably because there’s nearly no money involved, the criteria are different. I feel for writers here from a financial perspective, but on the other hand, I find it very refreshing.

You also run two writing workshops each year. Tell me a little about the workshops and what motivates you to teach?

I’ve been directing writing workshops for a while, in different settings. I think teaching is a perfect antidote to writing. I enjoy helping people figure out how to express what they’re trying to express. Having spent so much time struggling with that myself, I also think it makes sense to pass along whatever knowledge I’ve come up with. Also, writing is so solitary. I like trying to find ways to make it more social. I still hope to find a way to write a collaborative novel – it’s one of my cherished future projects!

And finally, with three books already under your belt, what’s next?

At the moment I’m writing a new novel that takes place in Pakistan. It’s a book that’s been germinating in my mind for years so it’s great to finally have it on the table.

Copies of Maxine Swann’s ‘The Foreigners’ will be on sale at the public launch party where Maxine will be joined by special guests discussing the book. Readers of The Argentina Independent are invited to attend at 7.30pm, Costa Rica 5824, Palermo Hollywood, Buenos Aires.