![]() It’s a casually hilarious, decidedly feminist recounting of a family of women told with an unflinching eye - just like Auder’s on the cover. A seasoned raconteur, she has a way of plopping us into her life with a clear voice that relays the complex and sometimes heartbreaking travails of sharing a claustrophobic apartment within the walls of New York’s infamous Chelsea Hotel with a much younger sister and a single, struggling-artist mother in the ’70s and ’80s. In this sparkling debut, a grown-up Auder tells those million stories with delicious prose, sharp satirical humor, and cheeky whimsy. As Viva gazes away from the camera toward some impossible-to-discern person or horizon, Auder implores us with an innocent yet piercing glance that tells a million stories without words. Equally loud is, sandwiched between the title, a tinted childhood photo of author Alexandra Auder at maybe all of 4 or 5 years old, steadying herself in the back seat of a car behind her mother, Viva Superstar, the artist, writer, and an actor in Andy Warhol’s Factory films. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Against an acid yellow backdrop, the title Don’t Call Me Home in its neon pink font is practically audible in its vibrance. ![]()
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