Jacqueline Feldman

Oct 15, 2024 | kirkusreviews.com | Jacqueline Feldman |Amy Tan |Steve Martin |Harry Bliss

An atmospheric work of personal reportage that artfully renders the history and lived experience of Parisian squats. A journalist’s experience of living among squatters in Paris. Le Bloc, an acronym of “bâtiment libre, occupé citoyennement” (free building, occupied by citizens), was a Parisian squat occupied primarily by artists and immigrants until they were evicted by police in December 2013.

Aug 29, 2024 | theparisreview.org | Jacqueline Feldman

By Jacqueline Feldman August 29, 2024 People stood out front as if waiting: smoking, talking. Of consecutive sets of doors, the first one bore a monogram in stenciled capitals: B-L-O-C. A grille resisted lifting, sticking. Just inside was a foyer, at the back of which stretched a crescent-shaped desk referred to by squatters as the Accueil, “reception.” Watch was kept. Behind that desk a crank could operate the grille.

Aug 15, 2024 | theparisreview.org | Jacqueline Feldman

By Jacqueline Feldman August 15, 2024 Anne Serre’s “That Summer,” which appears in the new Summer issue of  The Paris Review, opens with an anticlimactic claim: “That summer we had decided we were past caring.” But the story that follows is packed with drama. Over the course of three pages, it chronicles interactions among four characters in a family—two of whom are institutionalized. There are two deaths.

May 2, 2024 | theparisreview.org | Jacqueline Feldman

By Jacqueline Feldman May 2, 2024 There had been concern when Jean and Emma got together that he was too serious, macho. I perhaps had it wrong that he had in art school driven to Chernobyl, uprooted a tree, and brought it back to France—a foreigner, I was capable of wild misunderstandings—but this was the story that had come to seem defining. Now he made a dance out of crumpling a wrapper, hopping up to throw it in the trash.

Sep 27, 2023 | theparisreview.org | Jacqueline Feldman

By Jacqueline Feldman September 27, 2023 One spring evening I pulled in and saw my neighbor Stefanie was sitting on her car, which has the next spot over, with a friend. It was possible to worry for a second that I’d hit her. “Hi, my neighbor,” I said as Stefanie hopped down. She and I had a project to one day go in on compost pickup. We had something else in common, we realized that evening. Neither of us had been told about apartment four.