EBOOK
About
Shockingly original and intensely intelligent, 8 × 10 is a series of snapshots of a world torn apart by war and migration.
Fearless in form, Michael Turner's 8 × 10 casts aside traditional narrative structure and characterization to delve deeper into the issues gnawing at today's global society. Through a sequence of possibly intertwined events, Turner creates a challenging portrait of our modern age, drawing solely on the actions of people rather than their appearance - whether advertising executives or soldiers, tailors or doctors - they fall in love, have children, fight in wars, and flee their homes. In 8 × 10 there are no names, no racial or ethnic characteristics, and only a vague sense of time. Turner's characters, familiar yet implacable, are both no one and everyone.
1
By the time he was sixteen his thighs had become so developed from speed skating his father had to make his trousers for him. These were the days when trousers were pants, made of denim or twill. Fashionable pants fit tight at the waist and loose below the knee, where they flared like muskets, swallowing the clogs that were also in fashion.
The pants were called bell-bottoms, and they were made by the newer companies, the most popular brand having an explosion on the right back pocket. Older companies remained competitive, but they serviced the uniforms of bikers and greaseballs—those who preferred their legs straight, their pants jeans.
With money saved from his paper route, he purchased a denim pair, asking that they be let out here, he pointed, and here, too, Dad.
His father bundled up the denims and left for work.
That evening, while preparing supper, something caught his eye. His first thought was to collapse, curl up in a ball, like he did as a kid when his father came at him.
He turned to find his father hovering in the hallway. His father had been doing that a lot lately—hovering—and it was beginning to get on his nerves.
Hey, Dad.
His father stepped forward, unfurled the denims.
He did his best to look thankful. His father had taken material from the bottom of the legs and reapplied it to the tops, thus defeating the purpose of bell-bottoms.
The next time he bought bell-bottoms he took them apart himself. Using newspaper, he made a pattern, then added the inches needed.
Again he showed his father, and again his father left for work. Only this time, instead of alterations, his father returned with a modified version of the template: stovepipes, not bell-bottoms.
As before, he did his best to look thankful.
He knew his father was frustrated, so he asked if he could help. Together they would make his pants.
His father nodded.
By day's end, both men were satisfied. The only things missing were the pockets.
His father picked up some scraps and began cutting.
Let's just use the store-boughts, Dad.
His father eyed the store-boughts, the one with the explosion.
I mean, why waste the material?
Why waste the scraps? his father shot back
Fearless in form, Michael Turner's 8 × 10 casts aside traditional narrative structure and characterization to delve deeper into the issues gnawing at today's global society. Through a sequence of possibly intertwined events, Turner creates a challenging portrait of our modern age, drawing solely on the actions of people rather than their appearance - whether advertising executives or soldiers, tailors or doctors - they fall in love, have children, fight in wars, and flee their homes. In 8 × 10 there are no names, no racial or ethnic characteristics, and only a vague sense of time. Turner's characters, familiar yet implacable, are both no one and everyone.
1
By the time he was sixteen his thighs had become so developed from speed skating his father had to make his trousers for him. These were the days when trousers were pants, made of denim or twill. Fashionable pants fit tight at the waist and loose below the knee, where they flared like muskets, swallowing the clogs that were also in fashion.
The pants were called bell-bottoms, and they were made by the newer companies, the most popular brand having an explosion on the right back pocket. Older companies remained competitive, but they serviced the uniforms of bikers and greaseballs—those who preferred their legs straight, their pants jeans.
With money saved from his paper route, he purchased a denim pair, asking that they be let out here, he pointed, and here, too, Dad.
His father bundled up the denims and left for work.
That evening, while preparing supper, something caught his eye. His first thought was to collapse, curl up in a ball, like he did as a kid when his father came at him.
He turned to find his father hovering in the hallway. His father had been doing that a lot lately—hovering—and it was beginning to get on his nerves.
Hey, Dad.
His father stepped forward, unfurled the denims.
He did his best to look thankful. His father had taken material from the bottom of the legs and reapplied it to the tops, thus defeating the purpose of bell-bottoms.
The next time he bought bell-bottoms he took them apart himself. Using newspaper, he made a pattern, then added the inches needed.
Again he showed his father, and again his father left for work. Only this time, instead of alterations, his father returned with a modified version of the template: stovepipes, not bell-bottoms.
As before, he did his best to look thankful.
He knew his father was frustrated, so he asked if he could help. Together they would make his pants.
His father nodded.
By day's end, both men were satisfied. The only things missing were the pockets.
His father picked up some scraps and began cutting.
Let's just use the store-boughts, Dad.
His father eyed the store-boughts, the one with the explosion.
I mean, why waste the material?
Why waste the scraps? his father shot back