newyorker--2020-05-10--“Never Have I Ever,” Reviewed

“Never Have I Ever,” Reviewed

As the new Netflix coming-of-age series “ Never Have I Ever ” begins , its fifteen-year-old heroine , Devi Vishwakumar ( Maitreyi Ramakrishnan ) , before heading off to her first day of sophomore year in high school , kneels in front of her household ’ s shrine .
“ Hey , gods , ” she says , hands folded in prayer .
“ It ’ s Devi V. , your favorite Hindu girl in the San Fernando Valley .
What ’ s poppin ’ ?
” She ’ s wearing a cute , casual outfit and is in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pretty much sucked , ” she says , so this year she has some requests : she wants to be invited to a party where she has “ the opportunity to say , ‘ No cocaine for me , thanks ’ ” ; thinner forearm hair ; and , most important , a boyfriend— “ and not some nerd from one of my A.P .
classes.
” He should be “ a stone-cold hottie who can rock me all night long , ” she says .
( This is startling—she looks more like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ He can be dumb—I don ’ t care .
Thanks for considering .
I love you guys.
” This voice—assured , breezy , somewhat self-aware aspirational hedonism , with a keen appreciation of stone-cold hotties—will be recognizable to fans of Mindy Kaling , the Nora Ephron-loving “ Office ” alum , memoirist , and longtime proponent of the rom-com , who co-created the semi-autobiographical “ Never Have I Ever ” with her “ Mindy Project ” colleague Lang Fisher .
The series , like the drinking game with which it shares a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about a teen-ager ’ s plucky , naïve desire for more .
It asserts itself with sassy confidence right away , not just in Devi ’ s voice but in the narrative ’ s framing .
“ You may ask yourself , Why is sports icon John McEnroe narrating this tale ?
” John McEnroe asks , reasonably , in voice-over .
One reason is evident immediately : it ’ s funny .
After a brief montage of McEnroe jumping around and hoisting trophies in a terry-cloth headband ( “ Wow , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he presses on with Devi ’ s backstory .
Devi ’ s parents , Nalini ( Poorna Jagannathan ) and Mohan ( Sendhil Ramamurthy ) , came to the U.S. in September , 2001 , McEnroe tells us : “ Not a super chill time to be a brown person in America.
” They were a happy family of three ; last year , while watching Devi ’ s harp solo at a school concert , Mohan had a heart attack and died .
Soon after , Devi ’ s legs stopped working @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a wheelchair .
She was cured from her paralysis by a glimpse of the school hottie , a swimmer named Paxton Hall-Yoshida ( Darren Barnet ) , which inspired her to rise up and walk .
( Cue the opening credits , to Robyn ’ s “ Dancing on My Own.
” ) By the end of the first episode , Devi has introduced herself to Paxton and offered to have sex with him .
If you ’ re thinking , Yowsers , I agree .
The series is itself like a socially @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a little exhausting .
( The wheelchair subplot is treated as a lightly embarrassing trauma , then abandoned . )
Like many nerds , it leads with a bit of showing off : there ’ s a montage of Devi ’ s having competed for No .
1 since elementary school with her rival , Ben Gross ( Jaren Lewison ) .
“ You might call them the John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors of Sherman Oaks High School , ” McEnroe says .
“ Not to make this about me.
” Devi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the theatre nerd Eleanor ( Ramona Young ) and the robotics whiz Fabiola ( Lee Rodriguez ) are known , McEnroe explains , by “ the lightly racist nickname the U.N. , ” because they ’ re “ an ethnically diverse group of academically focussed , um , I can ’ t think of a better word for dorks.
” Devi is also a “ hothead , ” we ’ re told .
Just as McEnroe once screamed at umpires and threw tennis racquets , Devi blows up at her friends and relatives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chemistry beaker when Ben gets a better grade .
She ’ s feisty , which we like , and grieving , which we empathize with , but she ’ s also difficult .
And both she and the series itself tend to fixate on hotness in a way that ’ s off-putting , suggesting that nerds of many ages simply can ’ t differentiate between beauty , desire , love , and connection .
Devi ’ s frequent comments on looks are meant to charm us , I think—as when she exclaims that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hot , ” when she ’ d worried he ’ d be “ an uggo.
” The visitor politely thanks her , but some of us will cringe .
And yet this beauty fixation , in the form of Paxton—his meaningful glances , his meaningful hoisting himself out of a pool—sets in motion a kind of hero ’ s journey for Devi , to the benefit of characters and viewers alike .
Paxton , like many classic rom-com dreamboats , has a soul behind his penetrating stare .
He ’ s a jock @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but , as played by Barnet , he has the subtle thoughtfulness of rom-com hunks from Jake Ryan to Gilbert Blythe to Jordan Catalano to Peter Kavinsky , and , like them , he ’ s observant and often kind .
Many actual teen-agers learn the hard way that the love interest they ’ ve been idealizing is less appealing than they ’ d imagined , but in rom-coms , including this one , we ’ re shown what might have happened if that fantasy had been right .
Devi has a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Paxton whips off his shirt , revealing truly astonishing washboard abs ; praises her oversized T-shirt and the scent of her dandruff shampoo ; and wants to have sex with her .
But what he does during Devi ’ s waking hours is almost as fantastical : he notices how she ’ s feeling , asks her how she is , and begins to welcome her into his happy , easygoing world .
“ Whoa , Devi , you came !
” he says , when she shows up at a cool-kid party @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This slaps .
Come in !
” Still , the series often falls prey to what I think of as the “ Bridget Jones ” movie problem : we ’ re shown the heroine ’ s semi-comedic blundering more than her charm , and , therefore , an idealized dreamboat falling for a blurting , insecure everywoman .
( “ Beer me !
” Devi says to Paxton , at the party .
“ Love that bread soda.
” ) Another Netflix rom-com megahit , the stellar “ To All the Boys I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the novel by Jenny Han , did much to elevate the awkward-bookworm-meets-sensitive-jock form—its characters have tender , funny conversations , and , though its heroine has growing up to do , she ’ s stubbornly principled and kind .
( “ Boys ” is also brilliant at conveying the complicated relationship between romanticization and romance in a teen-age girl ’ s mind . )
“ Never ” shares an aesthetic and some plot elements with “ Boys ” but often lacks its emotional acuity .
For much of the ten-episode arc , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ interaction between Devi and Paxton , or to convince us of why he ’ s increasingly drawn to her ; their fledgling attraction can be butterflies-inducing but vaguely embarrassing in its unreality .
It ’ s like watching a “ Pride and Prejudice ” in which Mr. Darcy falls for Kitty or Lydia , trusting that there ’ s an Elizabeth within .
Kaling productions , including “ The Mindy Project , ” in which she starred as a fashionable , boy-crazy ob-gyn—a kind of “ Legally Blonde , M.D.
” —are at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that turns into love .
Perhaps this is because such stories , more common in real life , are also more easily observed , full of the little pleasures and interactions that add up to intimacy .
“ Never ” takes care to humanize Ben , Devi ’ s rival , and to develop a grudging affection between them .
A climactic sequence at a Model U.N. conference , in which the volatile nature of their friendship is reflected on a mock world stage , is particularly well done , and hilarious : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , acquires nukes for her country , Equatorial Guinea , and declares war on the U.S. , a.k.a .
Ben .
But their first truly vulnerable conversation , in which they confess their mutual loneliness after Devi ’ s mom invites Ben to dinner , is one of the series ’ best scenes , and its bravest .
The series is fairly successful at showing us familial love , too , and at evoking grief , including in scenes with Devi ’ s therapist ( Niecy Nash ) .
Devi ’ s late @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , like a benevolent version of Hamlet ’ s father : he ’ s a handsome , warmhearted , tomato-growing , Vespa-riding mensch , and a McEnroe enthusiast .
( “ He ’ s a firecracker !
” he says to Devi , watching tennis on TV .
“ Look at him standing up to that umpire.
” ) “ Never ” does so much well , and the actors are so good , that it ’ s painful when it goes awry .
The greatness of the coming-of-age rom-com is its ability @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even nerdy ones , might better understand and connect to one another if they weren ’ t so awkward and scared all the time .
A study of hotness , by hotheads , is less satisfying .
In the season ’ s lovely final scene , Devi asserts herself with vulnerability and confidence , moving beyond her baser instincts , and experiences the happiness that can result .
If there ’ s a second season , we ’ ll see if the series can do that , too .

As the new Netflix coming-of-age series “Never Have I Ever” begins, its fifteen-year-old heroine, Devi Vishwakumar (Maitreyi Ramakrishnan), before heading off to her first day of sophomore year in high school, kneels in front of her household’s shrine. “Hey, gods,” she says, hands folded in prayer. “It’s Devi V., your favorite Hindu girl in the San Fernando Valley. What’s poppin’?” She’s wearing a cute, casual outfit and is in a tidy middle-class bedroom. Last year “pretty much sucked,” she says, so this year she has some requests: she wants to be invited to a party where she has “the opportunity to say, ‘No cocaine for me, thanks’ ”; thinner forearm hair; and, most important, a boyfriend—“and not some nerd from one of my A.P. classes.” He should be “a stone-cold hottie who can rock me all night long,” she says. (This is startling—she looks more like a kid than an adult.) “He can be dumb—I don’t care. Thanks for considering. I love you guys.”
This voice—assured, breezy, somewhat self-aware aspirational hedonism, with a keen appreciation of stone-cold hotties—will be recognizable to fans of Mindy Kaling, the Nora Ephron-loving “Office” alum, memoirist, and longtime proponent of the rom-com, who co-created the semi-autobiographical “Never Have I Ever” with her “Mindy Project” colleague Lang Fisher. The series, like the drinking game with which it shares a title, is about innocence and experience—and about a teen-ager’s plucky, naïve desire for more. It asserts itself with sassy confidence right away, not just in Devi’s voice but in the narrative’s framing. “You may ask yourself, Why is sports icon John McEnroe narrating this tale?” John McEnroe asks, reasonably, in voice-over. One reason is evident immediately: it’s funny. After a brief montage of McEnroe jumping around and hoisting trophies in a terry-cloth headband (“Wow, I look great there!”), he presses on with Devi’s backstory.
Devi’s parents, Nalini (Poorna Jagannathan) and Mohan (Sendhil Ramamurthy), came to the U.S. in September, 2001, McEnroe tells us: “Not a super chill time to be a brown person in America.” They were a happy family of three; last year, while watching Devi’s harp solo at a school concert, Mohan had a heart attack and died. Soon after, Devi’s legs stopped working, and she spent three months in a wheelchair. She was cured from her paralysis by a glimpse of the school hottie, a swimmer named Paxton Hall-Yoshida (Darren Barnet), which inspired her to rise up and walk. (Cue the opening credits, to Robyn’s “Dancing on My Own.”) By the end of the first episode, Devi has introduced herself to Paxton and offered to have sex with him.
If you’re thinking, Yowsers, I agree. The series is itself like a socially awkward teen-age nerd—charming but maladroit, heedless, a little exhausting. (The wheelchair subplot is treated as a lightly embarrassing trauma, then abandoned.) Like many nerds, it leads with a bit of showing off: there’s a montage of Devi’s having competed for No. 1 since elementary school with her rival, Ben Gross (Jaren Lewison). “You might call them the John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors of Sherman Oaks High School,” McEnroe says. “Not to make this about me.” Devi and her two high-achieving best friends, the theatre nerd Eleanor (Ramona Young) and the robotics whiz Fabiola (Lee Rodriguez) are known, McEnroe explains, by “the lightly racist nickname the U.N., ” because they’re “an ethnically diverse group of academically focussed, um, I can’t think of a better word for dorks.” Devi is also a “hothead,” we’re told. Just as McEnroe once screamed at umpires and threw tennis racquets, Devi blows up at her friends and relatives, and does things like smash her chemistry beaker when Ben gets a better grade. She’s feisty, which we like, and grieving, which we empathize with, but she’s also difficult. And both she and the series itself tend to fixate on hotness in a way that’s off-putting, suggesting that nerds of many ages simply can’t differentiate between beauty, desire, love, and connection. Devi’s frequent comments on looks are meant to charm us, I think—as when she exclaims that a visitor to the house is “hot,” when she’d worried he’d be “an uggo.” The visitor politely thanks her, but some of us will cringe.
And yet this beauty fixation, in the form of Paxton—his meaningful glances, his meaningful hoisting himself out of a pool—sets in motion a kind of hero’s journey for Devi, to the benefit of characters and viewers alike. Paxton, like many classic rom-com dreamboats, has a soul behind his penetrating stare. He’s a jock who doesn’t care about school, but, as played by Barnet, he has the subtle thoughtfulness of rom-com hunks from Jake Ryan to Gilbert Blythe to Jordan Catalano to Peter Kavinsky, and, like them, he’s observant and often kind. Many actual teen-agers learn the hard way that the love interest they’ve been idealizing is less appealing than they’d imagined, but in rom-coms, including this one, we’re shown what might have happened if that fantasy had been right. Devi has a dream in the second episode in which Paxton whips off his shirt, revealing truly astonishing washboard abs; praises her oversized T-shirt and the scent of her dandruff shampoo; and wants to have sex with her. But what he does during Devi’s waking hours is almost as fantastical: he notices how she’s feeling, asks her how she is, and begins to welcome her into his happy, easygoing world. “Whoa, Devi, you came!” he says, when she shows up at a cool-kid party. “And brought California Brittle! This slaps. Come in!”
Still, the series often falls prey to what I think of as the “Bridget Jones” movie problem: we’re shown the heroine’s semi-comedic blundering more than her charm, and, therefore, an idealized dreamboat falling for a blurting, insecure everywoman. (“Beer me!” Devi says to Paxton, at the party. “Love that bread soda.”) Another Netflix rom-com megahit, the stellar “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before,” based on the novel by Jenny Han, did much to elevate the awkward-bookworm-meets-sensitive-jock form—its characters have tender, funny conversations, and, though its heroine has growing up to do, she’s stubbornly principled and kind. (“Boys” is also brilliant at conveying the complicated relationship between romanticization and romance in a teen-age girl’s mind.) “Never” shares an aesthetic and some plot elements with “Boys” but often lacks its emotional acuity. For much of the ten-episode arc, the writers struggle to imagine a realistic interaction between Devi and Paxton, or to convince us of why he’s increasingly drawn to her; their fledgling attraction can be butterflies-inducing but vaguely embarrassing in its unreality. It’s like watching a “Pride and Prejudice” in which Mr. Darcy falls for Kitty or Lydia, trusting that there’s an Elizabeth within.
Kaling productions, including “The Mindy Project,” in which she starred as a fashionable, boy-crazy ob-gyn—a kind of “Legally Blonde, M.D.”—are at their best when portraying friendship between equals that turns into love. Perhaps this is because such stories, more common in real life, are also more easily observed, full of the little pleasures and interactions that add up to intimacy. “Never” takes care to humanize Ben, Devi’s rival, and to develop a grudging affection between them. A climactic sequence at a Model U.N. conference, in which the volatile nature of their friendship is reflected on a mock world stage, is particularly well done, and hilarious: Devi, incensed about a seeming betrayal, acquires nukes for her country, Equatorial Guinea, and declares war on the U.S., a.k.a. Ben. But their first truly vulnerable conversation, in which they confess their mutual loneliness after Devi’s mom invites Ben to dinner, is one of the series’ best scenes, and its bravest.
The series is fairly successful at showing us familial love, too, and at evoking grief, including in scenes with Devi’s therapist (Niecy Nash). Devi’s late father keeps appearing to her in visions, like a benevolent version of Hamlet’s father: he’s a handsome, warmhearted, tomato-growing, Vespa-riding mensch, and a McEnroe enthusiast. (“He’s a firecracker!” he says to Devi, watching tennis on TV. “Look at him standing up to that umpire.”) “Never” does so much well, and the actors are so good, that it’s painful when it goes awry. The greatness of the coming-of-age rom-com is its ability to show us how realistic people, even nerdy ones, might better understand and connect to one another if they weren’t so awkward and scared all the time. A study of hotness, by hotheads, is less satisfying. In the season’s lovely final scene, Devi asserts herself with vulnerability and confidence, moving beyond her baser instincts, and experiences the happiness that can result. If there’s a second season, we’ll see if the series can do that, too.


newyorker--2020-05-11--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Hell and Other Destinations , by Madeleine Albright ( Harper ) .
This richly detailed memoir by the former Secretary of State covers the period since her departure from government , in 2001 .
With clarity and wisdom , Albright recounts moments of pride , like receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom , in 2012 , and acknowledges recent criticisms of her record , including those concerning the human cost of the sanctions that the Clinton Administration imposed on Iraq .
Ultimately , the book presents an intricate portrait of a diplomat , and her ardent belief in democratic values @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arms control , and open economies and sturdy institutions .
Square Haunting , by Francesca Wade ( Tim Duggan ) .
In interwar London , Mecklenburgh Square , in Bloomsbury , attracted intellectuals fleeing convention .
Many of them were also feminists , who argued that women , like men , should possess the “ freedom to know.
” This powerful collective biography focusses on five women who , at various times , called Mecklenburgh home : Jane Harrison , a classics don at Cambridge ; Eileen Power , an economic historian ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ L. Sayers , and H.D .
Just as Harrison and Power rewrote history to include the lives of forgotten women , so Wade reëstablishes the importance of thinkers like Power and H.D.
, whose legacies have been eclipsed by those of their male contemporaries .
Breasts and Eggs , by Mieko Kawakami , translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett and David Boyd ( Europa ) .
“ It ’ s like I ’ m in there , somewhere inside myself , and the body I ’ m in keeps on changing , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in this searching , incisive novel , which follows three women in modern Japan , each facing the possibility of a physical transformation .
One grapples with the prospect of finding a sperm donor and raising a child on her own .
Another obsessively researches breast-augmentation procedures while her daughter , a teen-ager , retreats into silence during puberty .
Kawakami , in her first book to be published in English , considers the agency that women exert over their bodies and charts the emotional underpinnings of physical changes—both intentional and unbidden—with humor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , by Souvankham Thammavongsa ( Little , Brown ) .
In this début collection , fourteen piercing sketches illuminate the workaday routines and the interior lives of Laotian refugees .
Characters who undertake “ the grunt work of the world , ” laboring in poultry plants , hog farms , and nail salons , also harbor vivid fantasies .
Mispronunciations occasionally produce brief glimpses of freedom in otherwise impenetrable places , as when , for one family , the seemingly meaningless phrase “ trick or treat ” becomes a magical key into an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a young girl who accidentally voices the first letter of “ knife ” moves from humiliation into defiance , as she feels herself temporarily crossing the boundary between “ those who were seen , and those who were not .
”

Hell and Other Destinations, by Madeleine Albright (Harper). This richly detailed memoir by the former Secretary of State covers the period since her departure from government, in 2001. With clarity and wisdom, Albright recounts moments of pride, like receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom, in 2012, and acknowledges recent criticisms of her record, including those concerning the human cost of the sanctions that the Clinton Administration imposed on Iraq. Ultimately, the book presents an intricate portrait of a diplomat, and her ardent belief in democratic values and human rights, transatlantic partnerships and arms control, and open economies and sturdy institutions.
Square Haunting, by Francesca Wade (Tim Duggan). In interwar London, Mecklenburgh Square, in Bloomsbury, attracted intellectuals fleeing convention. Many of them were also feminists, who argued that women, like men, should possess the “freedom to know.” This powerful collective biography focusses on five women who, at various times, called Mecklenburgh home: Jane Harrison, a classics don at Cambridge; Eileen Power, an economic historian; and the writers Virginia Woolf, Dorothy L. Sayers, and H.D. Just as Harrison and Power rewrote history to include the lives of forgotten women, so Wade reëstablishes the importance of thinkers like Power and H.D., whose legacies have been eclipsed by those of their male contemporaries.
Breasts and Eggs, by Mieko Kawakami, translated from the Japanese by Sam Bett and David Boyd (Europa). “It’s like I’m in there, somewhere inside myself, and the body I’m in keeps on changing,” writes one of the main characters in this searching, incisive novel, which follows three women in modern Japan, each facing the possibility of a physical transformation. One grapples with the prospect of finding a sperm donor and raising a child on her own. Another obsessively researches breast-augmentation procedures while her daughter, a teen-ager, retreats into silence during puberty. Kawakami, in her first book to be published in English, considers the agency that women exert over their bodies and charts the emotional underpinnings of physical changes—both intentional and unbidden—with humor and empathy.
How to Pronounce Knife, by Souvankham Thammavongsa (Little, Brown). In this début collection, fourteen piercing sketches illuminate the workaday routines and the interior lives of Laotian refugees. Characters who undertake “the grunt work of the world,” laboring in poultry plants, hog farms, and nail salons, also harbor vivid fantasies. Mispronunciations occasionally produce brief glimpses of freedom in otherwise impenetrable places, as when, for one family, the seemingly meaningless phrase “trick or treat” becomes a magical key into an upscale neighborhood. In the titular story, a young girl who accidentally voices the first letter of “knife” moves from humiliation into defiance, as she feels herself temporarily crossing the boundary between “those who were seen, and those who were not.”


newyorker--2020-05-11--Let Them Eat Daylilies

Let Them Eat Daylilies

On a recent sunny afternoon , the experimental playwright Sibyl Kempson was on a porch in Margaretville , New York , in the Catskills , working a new gig : teaching , via FaceTime , a course called “ Foraging for Edible & Medicinal Plants.
” Kempson was framed by puffy clouds , blue sky , and a bit of wooden rocking chair .
She wore a fuzzy green hat .
“ It ’ s a great time to learn something !
” she said .
Her foraging course is available on HireArtists.org , a site created to help artists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There , one can hire artists for lessons in , say , the ukulele , Korean , creative coding , or the use of epoxy resin .
“ We ’ re all giggers and freelancers , ” Kempson said .
“ Stuff got cancelled , and it ’ s , like , tough cookies.
” Cancellation had happened to her—in German , no less .
“ I was supposed to be in Austria right now , directing an Ibsen adaptation that I wrote , ” she said .
She stood up .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plants ?
” A wild area behind the house was coming into spring—green shoots poking through dead leaves .
“ I ’ m going to start with one very familiar friend that is all over New York : the white pine , ” she said , in the focussed tone of a professor .
( Kempson also teaches theatre at Sarah Lawrence . )
She propped up her phone and presented a cluster of dried needles to the camera .
“ These are good for right now : they ’ ve got a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ higher than citrus fruits , ” she said .
“ Just take the leaves right off and boil them , for a tea.
” She found some wood-ear mushrooms—gelatinous , good for the immune system , and tasty when thrown into a soba-noodle soup—and then came across some tufts of wild garlic mustard .
She breathed in , appreciatively .
“ I wish you were here to smell it , ” she told her pupil .
“ You ’ ll find this everywhere—it grows out of the sidewalks in Manhattan , and in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ livened up an Easter turkey breast with wild garlic mustard and oniongrass : “ Everybody went crazy.
” She held up a small sprig of cleavers , “ a little charmer , ” good for allergy symptoms , and “ in the mint family , I think.
” ( It ’ s in the coffee family . )
Kempson , who runs a theatre company she founded , called 7 Daughters of Eve , lived in New York City for many years and now lives in Newburgh ; the Catskills house belongs to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for me , ” Kempson said .
She learned foraging a few years ago , at a wilderness-survival-skills course at the Tracker School , in the New Jersey Pine Barrens .
“ It changed my whole life , ” she said .
A couple of years later , she studied with “ an incredibly knowledgeable guy who goes by the name of Dan De Lion , who drives around the country by the season , ” teaching people from his Foragemobile .
“ He has an apothecary , and he ’ s constantly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ herself a foraging enthusiast , not an expert : “ I never would have presumed to teach it , except for these extraordinary circumstances that we are in.
” Kempson ’ s foraging pupils , likely in extraordinary circumstances of their own , get a dose of thrifty survivalist scrappiness alongside their medicinal-plant identification : foraging can yield not just tincture ingredients but food .
“ The other day , I ran out of greens , and it ’ s , like , wait a minute .
There ’ s a supermarket right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ held up some roughage : curly dock , then prime for harvesting , when it was “ more like spinach , less like collard greens , and delicious sautéed with olive oil and salt , and a little garlic , if you have it.
” Daylilies have edible tubers ; Kempson dug into the earth and exposed a gnarled mass of bulbousness and roots .
“ I just wash them off , and I cook them like a little potato , ” she said .
“ Last night , I put them in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And it was wonderful.
” Kempson loves potatoes : “ I wrote a whole play about them.
” “ Potatoes of August ” was part of a trio of Kempson ’ s “ vegetable plays , ” in which potatoes , pumpkins ( “ Ich , Kürbisgeist ” ) , and asparagus ( “ Spargel Time !
” ) gain consciousness , and occasionally wreak havoc .
In a similar vein , the Ibsen adaptation that she ’ d planned to stage in Austria takes a Symbolist approach to “ A Doll @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plays , exploring “ Nora ’ s origins as a wooden doll that Ibsen carved , ” she said .
“ And before that she was a block of wood .
And before that she was a tree , and she had tree consciousness.
” Consciousness , in both Kempson ’ s life and work , is expansive .
She ’ s been eating curly-dock seeds— “ I ’ ll just grind them up and put them in my oatmeal ” —which , she explained , are “ said to bring prosperity.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ found that , when I eat them regularly , I am less worried about money , for whatever reason.
” She smiled .
“ Maybe it ’ s my imagination .
But whatever ’ s in our imagination , I think , is part of reality.
” ♦

Sibyl Kempson Illustration by João Fazenda
On a recent sunny afternoon, the experimental playwright Sibyl Kempson was on a porch in Margaretville, New York, in the Catskills, working a new gig: teaching, via FaceTime, a course called “Foraging for Edible & Medicinal Plants.” Kempson was framed by puffy clouds, blue sky, and a bit of wooden rocking chair. She wore a fuzzy green hat. “It’s a great time to learn something!” she said. Her foraging course is available on HireArtists.org, a site created to help artists weather the financial upheaval of COVID-19. There, one can hire artists for lessons in, say, the ukulele, Korean, creative coding, or the use of epoxy resin. “We’re all giggers and freelancers,” Kempson said. “Stuff got cancelled, and it’s, like, tough cookies.” Cancellation had happened to her—in German, no less. “I was supposed to be in Austria right now, directing an Ibsen adaptation that I wrote,” she said. She stood up. “Do you want to look at some plants?”
A wild area behind the house was coming into spring—green shoots poking through dead leaves. “I’m going to start with one very familiar friend that is all over New York: the white pine,” she said, in the focussed tone of a professor. (Kempson also teaches theatre at Sarah Lawrence.) She propped up her phone and presented a cluster of dried needles to the camera. “These are good for right now: they’ve got a ton of vitamin C, many times higher than citrus fruits,” she said. “Just take the leaves right off and boil them, for a tea.” She found some wood-ear mushrooms—gelatinous, good for the immune system, and tasty when thrown into a soba-noodle soup—and then came across some tufts of wild garlic mustard. She breathed in, appreciatively. “I wish you were here to smell it,” she told her pupil. “You’ll find this everywhere—it grows out of the sidewalks in Manhattan, and in Tompkins Square Park.” She had once livened up an Easter turkey breast with wild garlic mustard and oniongrass: “Everybody went crazy.” She held up a small sprig of cleavers, “a little charmer,” good for allergy symptoms, and “in the mint family, I think.” (It’s in the coffee family.)
Kempson, who runs a theatre company she founded, called 7 Daughters of Eve, lived in New York City for many years and now lives in Newburgh; the Catskills house belongs to a friend. “Nature is nonnegotiable for me,” Kempson said. She learned foraging a few years ago, at a wilderness-survival-skills course at the Tracker School, in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. “It changed my whole life,” she said. A couple of years later, she studied with “an incredibly knowledgeable guy who goes by the name of Dan De Lion, who drives around the country by the season,” teaching people from his Foragemobile. “He has an apothecary, and he’s constantly making tinctures and salves.” Kempson considers herself a foraging enthusiast, not an expert: “I never would have presumed to teach it, except for these extraordinary circumstances that we are in.”
Kempson’s foraging pupils, likely in extraordinary circumstances of their own, get a dose of thrifty survivalist scrappiness alongside their medicinal-plant identification: foraging can yield not just tincture ingredients but food. “The other day, I ran out of greens, and it’s, like, wait a minute. There’s a supermarket right outside,” she said. She held up some roughage: curly dock, then prime for harvesting, when it was “more like spinach, less like collard greens, and delicious sautéed with olive oil and salt, and a little garlic, if you have it.” Daylilies have edible tubers; Kempson dug into the earth and exposed a gnarled mass of bulbousness and roots. “I just wash them off, and I cook them like a little potato,” she said. “Last night, I put them in a cast-iron frying pan with olive oil. And it was wonderful.” Kempson loves potatoes: “I wrote a whole play about them.” “Potatoes of August” was part of a trio of Kempson’s “vegetable plays,” in which potatoes, pumpkins (“Ich, Kürbisgeist”), and asparagus (“Spargel Time!”) gain consciousness, and occasionally wreak havoc. In a similar vein, the Ibsen adaptation that she’d planned to stage in Austria takes a Symbolist approach to “A Doll’s House,” among other plays, exploring “Nora’s origins as a wooden doll that Ibsen carved,” she said. “And before that she was a block of wood. And before that she was a tree, and she had tree consciousness.”
Consciousness, in both Kempson’s life and work, is expansive. She’s been eating curly-dock seeds—“I’ll just grind them up and put them in my oatmeal”—which, she explained, are “said to bring prosperity.” She looked thoughtful. “I have found that, when I eat them regularly, I am less worried about money, for whatever reason.” She smiled. “Maybe it’s my imagination. But whatever’s in our imagination, I think, is part of reality.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-11--Dorothea Lange and Félix Fénéon at MOMA, and Online

Two terrific shows that languish in darkened galleries at the Museum of Modern Art should not pass uncelebrated—or unvisited , to the extent that MOMA ’ s Web site ameliorates the lockdown .
It helps that both shows feature a good deal of verbal content and may well incite Googling of their brilliant subjects : Dorothea Lange , the premier photographer of the human drama of the Great Depression , and Félix Fénéon , a shadowy French aesthete and political anarchist .
Fénéon was also a sometime art critic , dealer , collector , and journal editor , and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ art-world sparkplug .
Best known for having coined , in 1886 , the term “ Neo-Impressionism , ” and for his championing of Georges Seurat , he is characterized in the show ’ s catalogue as “ implacable , inscrutable , meticulous , and mysterious.
” Lanky and sporting an Uncle Sam-like goatee ( Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec portrayed him in profile at the Moulin Rouge , accompanied by a rotund Oscar Wilde ) , Fénéon merits nothing so much as the latter-day American honorific “ cool.
” There ’ s a mystery about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her evasiveness about being called an artist , rather than a documentary photographer .
In fact , she was a supreme artist , whose pictures lodged the Depression in the world ’ s imagination and memory at least as much John Steinbeck ’ s writing did : with truths to life on a scale of everlasting myth .
Lange was born in Hoboken , New Jersey , in 1895 , and went to school on New York ’ s Lower East Side , a rare Gentile among thousands of Jewish schoolmates at P.S @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Her father abandoned the family when she was twelve .
A childhood bout of polio left her with a lifelong limp , which , she said , “ formed me , guided me , instructed me , helped me , and humiliated me.
” Determined to become a photographer even before she first used a camera , she assisted at studios throughout the city and studied the medium at Columbia University .
In 1918 , would-be world travels with a friend stalled in San Francisco , after the two women were robbed .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of her own and became a successful portraitist of the city ’ s élite .
( She also married a painter , Maynard Dixon , and had two children . )
Her grounding in portraiture seems key to her subsequent singularity .
With the onset of the Depression , she took to the streets .
Her photograph “ White Angel Bread Line , San Francisco ” ( 1933 ) , of a dejected man turned aside from a mass of others , became a public sensation .
Between 1935 and 1939 , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the South as part of a program that promoted the New Deal by distributing the resulting material to newspapers and magazines .
Lange stood out from the start .
Her sensitivity to faces individualizes each of her subjects .
The encounter is an event in that subject ’ s life—and in Lange ’ s own .
Her images defy generalization .
Facts of poverty and exhaustion speak for themselves .
Lange cuts through them to specific presences , whose thoughts we seem to know , and which she enhanced with vernacular quotations @ @ @ @ @ @ @ husband , the economist Paul Taylor , in the book “ An American Exodus : A Record of Human Erosion , ” in 1939 .
The MOMA show has a subtitle , “ Words and Pictures ” —Lange insisted that photographs complete their meaning in tandem with verbal information .
That amounts to heresy for a modernist , which Lange intuitively was in formal discipline , with her masterly compositions and eloquent gradations of light .
Yet she shrugged off the aesthetic appeal of her work , determined not to stand between her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ possible public .
One day in 1936 , at a blighted pea field in Nipomo , California , she came upon the subject of what is perhaps history ’ s most famous photograph , “ Migrant Mother ” —a thirty-two-year-old Cherokee woman , Florence Owens ( later Thompson ) .
With three children huddled against her in an open tent , the woman ’ s mingled anxiety and resilience transfix a viewer ’ s mind and heart .
No sentimental response is possible in the evocation of vast , rock-hard realities that have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to one synoptic point .
Publication of the picture in the San Francisco News spurred a rush of food aid to Nipomo , where today a public school is named for Lange .
It emerged later that Lange had got details about her subject wrong .
Not a pea picker , Owens had stopped at the field briefly , awaiting a car repair .
She was not identified as the image ’ s subject until forty-two years later , when she had risen to tolerably comfortable circumstances .
This instance of Lange ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her declared deference to verbal supplementation was a feint , hiding the transcendent artistry of her eye in plain sight .
On a side note , I felt a twinge as I was looking on my laptop at pictures by Lange , which include a series taken of Japanese-Americans about to be sent to internment camps during the Second World War—work that was commissioned and then suppressed by the federal government .
One of the best known is a shot of children , Japanese-Americans and others , with hands on hearts , apparently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s images show the detained as regular people who had to cope with an outrageously unjust confinement—and who , in doing so , were buoyed by being together , at least .
Among other strengths , Lange was a poet of the ordinary but imperious human need , under any conditions , for mutual contact .
The first intriguing fact that ’ s new to me about the unpredictable Félix Fénéon is that he never liked the carnivalesque Pointillist portrait , painted by Paul Signac , in 1890 , that makes him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lily from a hat against a blazing vortex of abstract patterns .
Given the picture by Signac , Fénéon kept it hanging in his home until his death , fifty-four years later , but airily pronounced it one of Signac ’ s weaker pieces .
The MOMA show displays it with works by other of Fénéon ’ s favorite artists—twenty-one by Seurat , several each by Matisse and Bonnard—as well as objects that reflect his pioneering interest in African , Native American , and Oceanic tribal art .
Less than enthusiastic about Picasso @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Avignon , ” in 1907 , by advising the artist to stick to caricature .
But he hailed Cubism for its extreme radicalism .
Any dramatic change in art might foreshadow a social revolution , by Fénéon ’ s anarchist lights—never mind if the art was arcane and destined for museums .
Fénéon generally despised museums .
His life abounded in apparent contradictions .
He was the chief clerk of France ’ s Ministry of War when , in 1894 , he was arrested on suspicion of conspiring with a cohort of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Bomb-making materials had been discovered at his office .
His defense turned less on evidence than on a stream of witticisms that enchanted the Parisian public .
Accused of having “ surrounded ” himself with two notorious characters , he objected mildly that it takes at least three people to surround anyone .
In effect , he won an acquittal on grounds of being exasperating .
For a time , he edited the avant-garde journal La Revue Blanche .
Though not rich , he shrewdly bought and sold art , impervious to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Communist Party .
Little that might pose a problem to others troubled Fénéon .
He died in 1944 , possessed of an immense collection , much of which was sold off three years later , after the death of his widow .
Fénéon ’ s most startling departure was to write , as a daily feature in a Parisian newspaper , in 1906 , more than a thousand unsigned , usually salacious items .
Titled “ Nouvelles en Trois Lignes , ” these were diamond-cut in style , featherweight in tone , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he wrote , “ Scheid , of Dunkirk , fired three times at his wife .
Since he missed every shot , he decided to aim at his mother-in-law and connected.
” In another : “ Pauline Rivera , 20 , repeatedly stabbed , with a hatpin , the face of the inconstant Luthier , a dishwasher of Chatou , who had underestimated her.
” I ’ ve found the online Fénéon show a waterslide into the lore of a staggeringly clever man who epitomizes a heyday of audacities in pell-mell , modernizing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He cut a practically invisible figure in public .
But , once you ’ ve made his acquaintance , he may pester any thoughts you have of the era , like something that is glimpsed and then , when you look , isn ’ t there .
♦

Two terrific shows that languish in darkened galleries at the Museum of Modern Art should not pass uncelebrated—or unvisited, to the extent that MOMA’s Web site ameliorates the lockdown. It helps that both shows feature a good deal of verbal content and may well incite Googling of their brilliant subjects: Dorothea Lange, the premier photographer of the human drama of the Great Depression, and Félix Fénéon, a shadowy French aesthete and political anarchist. Fénéon was also a sometime art critic, dealer, collector, and journal editor, and a legendarily sardonic wit—not an artist but an art-world sparkplug. Best known for having coined, in 1886, the term “Neo-Impressionism,” and for his championing of Georges Seurat, he is characterized in the show’s catalogue as “implacable, inscrutable, meticulous, and mysterious.” Lanky and sporting an Uncle Sam-like goatee (Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec portrayed him in profile at the Moulin Rouge, accompanied by a rotund Oscar Wilde), Fénéon merits nothing so much as the latter-day American honorific “cool.” There’s a mystery about Lange, too, which owes to her evasiveness about being called an artist, rather than a documentary photographer. In fact, she was a supreme artist, whose pictures lodged the Depression in the world’s imagination and memory at least as much as John Steinbeck’s writing did: with truths to life on a scale of everlasting myth.
“Tennessee,” by Dorothea Lange, from 1938. Photograph by Dorothea Lange / Courtesy MOMA
Lange was born in Hoboken, New Jersey, in 1895, and went to school on New York’s Lower East Side, a rare Gentile among thousands of Jewish schoolmates at P.S. 62, on Hester Street. Her father abandoned the family when she was twelve. A childhood bout of polio left her with a lifelong limp, which, she said, “formed me, guided me, instructed me, helped me, and humiliated me.” Determined to become a photographer even before she first used a camera, she assisted at studios throughout the city and studied the medium at Columbia University. In 1918, would-be world travels with a friend stalled in San Francisco, after the two women were robbed. There Lange found patrons for a studio of her own and became a successful portraitist of the city’s élite. (She also married a painter, Maynard Dixon, and had two children.) Her grounding in portraiture seems key to her subsequent singularity. With the onset of the Depression, she took to the streets. Her photograph “White Angel Bread Line, San Francisco” (1933), of a dejected man turned aside from a mass of others, became a public sensation. Between 1935 and 1939, she drove the back roads of the West and the South as part of a program that promoted the New Deal by distributing the resulting material to newspapers and magazines.
Lange stood out from the start. Her sensitivity to faces individualizes each of her subjects. The encounter is an event in that subject’s life—and in Lange’s own. Her images defy generalization. Facts of poverty and exhaustion speak for themselves. Lange cuts through them to specific presences, whose thoughts we seem to know, and which she enhanced with vernacular quotations that she compiled, with her second husband, the economist Paul Taylor, in the book “An American Exodus: A Record of Human Erosion,” in 1939. The MOMA show has a subtitle, “Words and Pictures”—Lange insisted that photographs complete their meaning in tandem with verbal information. That amounts to heresy for a modernist, which Lange intuitively was in formal discipline, with her masterly compositions and eloquent gradations of light. Yet she shrugged off the aesthetic appeal of her work, determined not to stand between her subjects and their effects on the broadest possible public.
“Hoe Culture, Alabama,” by Dorothea Lange, from 1936. Photograph by Dorothea Lange / Courtesy MOMA
One day in 1936, at a blighted pea field in Nipomo, California, she came upon the subject of what is perhaps history’s most famous photograph, “Migrant Mother”—a thirty-two-year-old Cherokee woman, Florence Owens (later Thompson). With three children huddled against her in an open tent, the woman’s mingled anxiety and resilience transfix a viewer’s mind and heart. No sentimental response is possible in the evocation of vast, rock-hard realities that have come down, for an instant, to one synoptic point. Publication of the picture in the San Francisco News spurred a rush of food aid to Nipomo, where today a public school is named for Lange. It emerged later that Lange had got details about her subject wrong. Not a pea picker, Owens had stopped at the field briefly, awaiting a car repair. She was not identified as the image’s subject until forty-two years later, when she had risen to tolerably comfortable circumstances. This instance of Lange’s faulty reporting suggests to me that her declared deference to verbal supplementation was a feint, hiding the transcendent artistry of her eye in plain sight.
On a side note, I felt a twinge as I was looking on my laptop at pictures by Lange, which include a series taken of Japanese-Americans about to be sent to internment camps during the Second World War—work that was commissioned and then suppressed by the federal government. One of the best known is a shot of children, Japanese-Americans and others, with hands on hearts, apparently reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Lange’s images show the detained as regular people who had to cope with an outrageously unjust confinement—and who, in doing so, were buoyed by being together, at least. Among other strengths, Lange was a poet of the ordinary but imperious human need, under any conditions, for mutual contact.
The first intriguing fact that’s new to me about the unpredictable Félix Fénéon is that he never liked the carnivalesque Pointillist portrait, painted by Paul Signac, in 1890, that makes him look like a dandyish magician pulling a lily from a hat against a blazing vortex of abstract patterns. Given the picture by Signac, Fénéon kept it hanging in his home until his death, fifty-four years later, but airily pronounced it one of Signac’s weaker pieces. The MOMA show displays it with works by other of Fénéon’s favorite artists—twenty-one by Seurat, several each by Matisse and Bonnard—as well as objects that reflect his pioneering interest in African, Native American, and Oceanic tribal art. Less than enthusiastic about Picasso, he greeted “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon,” in 1907, by advising the artist to stick to caricature. But he hailed Cubism for its extreme radicalism.
“Migrant Mother, Nipomo, California,” by Dorothea Lange, from 1936. Photograph by Dorothea Lange / Courtesy MOMA
Any dramatic change in art might foreshadow a social revolution, by Fénéon’s anarchist lights—never mind if the art was arcane and destined for museums. Fénéon generally despised museums. His life abounded in apparent contradictions. He was the chief clerk of France’s Ministry of War when, in 1894, he was arrested on suspicion of conspiring with a cohort of terrorists and stood trial with twenty-nine others. Bomb-making materials had been discovered at his office. His defense turned less on evidence than on a stream of witticisms that enchanted the Parisian public. Accused of having “surrounded” himself with two notorious characters, he objected mildly that it takes at least three people to surround anyone. In effect, he won an acquittal on grounds of being exasperating. For a time, he edited the avant-garde journal La Revue Blanche. Though not rich, he shrewdly bought and sold art, impervious to imputations of commercialism even as he joined the Communist Party. Little that might pose a problem to others troubled Fénéon. He died in 1944, possessed of an immense collection, much of which was sold off three years later, after the death of his widow.
“Interior with a Young Girl (Girl Reading),” by Henri Matisse, from 1905-06. Courtesy MOMA / © 2019 Succession H. Matisse / ARS, New York
Fénéon’s most startling departure was to write, as a daily feature in a Parisian newspaper, in 1906, more than a thousand unsigned, usually salacious items. Titled “Nouvelles en Trois Lignes,” these were diamond-cut in style, featherweight in tone, and exquisitely cruel. In one, he wrote, “Scheid, of Dunkirk, fired three times at his wife. Since he missed every shot, he decided to aim at his mother-in-law and connected.” In another: “Pauline Rivera, 20, repeatedly stabbed, with a hatpin, the face of the inconstant Luthier, a dishwasher of Chatou, who had underestimated her.”
“The Charge,” by Félix Vallotton, from 1893. Courtesy MOMA
I’ve found the online Fénéon show a waterslide into the lore of a staggeringly clever man who epitomizes a heyday of audacities in pell-mell, modernizing Paris. He never wrote a book. He cut a practically invisible figure in public. But, once you’ve made his acquaintance, he may pester any thoughts you have of the era, like something that is glimpsed and then, when you look, isn’t there. ♦


newyorker--2020-05-11--Jonathan Lethem on Lucid Dreaming

Jonathan Lethem on Lucid Dreaming

Your story “ The Afterlife ” opens as a group of passengers are riding a bus to the afterlife .
When did that image first come to mind ?
I ’ m forced to admit that ninety per cent of this story came to me in a dream , in January this year .
It was a semi-lucid dream , one in which I experience a kind of meta-commentary layer in which I thought about how much the elements might comprise a short story if I woke up and wrote them down .
I ’ ve had that luck , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or four other times .
One of those times , however , I associate with the start of my writing life : an elaborate dream I had one night when I was sixteen .
That became a short story called “ Breakfast with Horse and Witch , ” which I sent to The New Yorker .
It was rejected .
Seven or eight years later , still thinking about it , I incorporated elements from that dream into a novella called “ The Happy Man , ” which was published in Isaac Asimov @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was also a kind of afterlife story , but far more flamboyant than this one—it included talking horses , witches , robots , etc .
I guess I ’ m dreaming in a “ late style ” now .
The main character , R. , is a sculptor , a man whose “ signature ” consists of a green-gray oatmeal surface applied over angled abstract forms .
He believes it is possible to see sculpture everywhere , if the eye only knows how to look , yet here he can ’ t pick @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to make him a sculptor ?
R. ’ s work is the major element that wasn ’ t dreamed .
One of my best friends out here in Claremont is the sculptor Charles Long , and I live with a number of his sculptures in my house .
They ’ re not green-gray oatmeal forms , but there ’ s some oblique relation .
I needed a way into the dream materials , and the “ R. ” character became my entry point .
It strikes me now that the sculptural method R. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and isolating that portion to make it both unrecognizable and non-functional—is a version of what the Russian critic Viktor Shklovsky called “ defamiliarization ” ( in Russian , “ ostranenie ” ) , which I might flatter myself is this story ’ s method as well .
R. finds himself milling around in a crowd of other milling people .
Initially , it seems a little like a party where every person there appears familiar but turns out to be a stranger .
R. hears fragments of conversations ( “ a perfectly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as he moves .
How did you come up with those fragments and why did you want that initial impression of the almost familiar ?
So much of the human language around us , if we ’ re paying attention , is fragmentary , and received at a semi-voluntary level .
Conversations that began before we entered the room , stray signifiers , advertising , graffiti , the overheard .
If there ’ s language after we ’ re dead , maybe it will be the same kind of thing .
As for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say that the Internet is really handy .
It seems to be defamiliarizing common language every time I glance at it .
Someone asks about “ Avengers : Endgame.
” R. doesn ’ t care about this sequel , until he feels that he should , even as it recedes ever further from its starting point .
Why was this the movie you chose and how significant is that sense of slippage ?
R. is distinctly conscious of feeling that he ’ s failed basic tests of common cultural participation , and he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , long after it might not matter , when larger concerns should overtake him .
The summer spectacular , the box-office champion that everyone seems to care about , except him—it serves as an emblem of that feeling .
As you get older , a lot of FOMO transforms slowly into COMO ( certainty of missing out ) .
As the afterlife gets more crowded , the search for space becomes more imperative .
Yet the appearance of an emptier spot can be deceptive .
What do you imagine the reader ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in comparison to R. ’ s ?
My guess is that—precisely as your question implies—the story will at that point be inducing the reader to try to chart the distance between themselves and R. To wake up , in other words .

Photograph by Rosdiana Ciaravolo / Getty
Your story “The Afterlife” opens as a group of passengers are riding a bus to the afterlife. When did that image first come to mind?
I’m forced to admit that ninety per cent of this story came to me in a dream, in January this year. It was a semi-lucid dream, one in which I experience a kind of meta-commentary layer in which I thought about how much the elements might comprise a short story if I woke up and wrote them down.
I’ve had that luck, if it is luck, just three or four other times. One of those times, however, I associate with the start of my writing life: an elaborate dream I had one night when I was sixteen. That became a short story called “Breakfast with Horse and Witch,” which I sent to The New Yorker. It was rejected. Seven or eight years later, still thinking about it, I incorporated elements from that dream into a novella called “The Happy Man,” which was published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine. It was also a kind of afterlife story, but far more flamboyant than this one—it included talking horses, witches, robots, etc. I guess I’m dreaming in a “late style” now.
The main character, R., is a sculptor, a man whose “signature” consists of a green-gray oatmeal surface applied over angled abstract forms. He believes it is possible to see sculpture everywhere, if the eye only knows how to look, yet here he can’t pick out anything. Why did you want to make him a sculptor?
R.’s work is the major element that wasn’t dreamed. One of my best friends out here in Claremont is the sculptor Charles Long, and I live with a number of his sculptures in my house. They’re not green-gray oatmeal forms, but there’s some oblique relation. I needed a way into the dream materials, and the “R.” character became my entry point. It strikes me now that the sculptural method R. describes—identifying a portion of a prosaic object, and isolating that portion to make it both unrecognizable and non-functional—is a version of what the Russian critic Viktor Shklovsky called “defamiliarization” (in Russian, “ostranenie”), which I might flatter myself is this story’s method as well.
R. finds himself milling around in a crowd of other milling people. Initially, it seems a little like a party where every person there appears familiar but turns out to be a stranger. R. hears fragments of conversations (“a perfectly good empty apartment in Bed-Stuy”) as he moves. How did you come up with those fragments and why did you want that initial impression of the almost familiar?
So much of the human language around us, if we’re paying attention, is fragmentary, and received at a semi-voluntary level. Conversations that began before we entered the room, stray signifiers, advertising, graffiti, the overheard. If there’s language after we’re dead, maybe it will be the same kind of thing.
As for my sources, I’ll just say that the Internet is really handy. It seems to be defamiliarizing common language every time I glance at it.
Someone asks about “Avengers: Endgame.” R. doesn’t care about this sequel, until he feels that he should, even as it recedes ever further from its starting point. Why was this the movie you chose and how significant is that sense of slippage?
R. is distinctly conscious of feeling that he’s failed basic tests of common cultural participation, and he experiences this as a form of guilt, long after it might not matter, when larger concerns should overtake him. The summer spectacular, the box-office champion that everyone seems to care about, except him—it serves as an emblem of that feeling. As you get older, a lot of FOMO transforms slowly into COMO (certainty of missing out).
As the afterlife gets more crowded, the search for space becomes more imperative. Yet the appearance of an emptier spot can be deceptive. What do you imagine the reader’s response will be at this point, in comparison to R.’s?
My guess is that—precisely as your question implies—the story will at that point be inducing the reader to try to chart the distance between themselves and R. To wake up, in other words.


The Mail

Adam Gopnik fluidly leads us through the historical and economic underpinnings of coffee drinking to elucidate the global web of the bean ( Books , April 27th ) .
He observes that the growth of coffee culture in the United States can be measured by the large numbers of epicurean cafés , coffee connoisseurs , and imported espresso beans that have entered society since 1989 .
This notion of an American coffee culture implies that the people partaking in it have become “ cultured.
” Yet there are more quotidian coffee cultures in American history worth mentioning .
I think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mid-century America : of the percolator perched on our kitchen counter , of Mrs. Olson saving marriages with Mountain Grown Folger ’ s , of the ubiquitous packets of Sanka , of the rotgut coffee at truck stops , and of taking your coffee “ white ” ( with cream ) .
All this , from what seems like a lifetime ago , was just as much a culture of coffee , and just as integral to the changing history of the brew .
As I was reading Gopnik ’ s piece on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I was put in mind of the bean ’ s arrival in England—an event with impressive political and social repercussions .
An early English coffee culture arose by the mid-seventeenth century , prompting writers to extoll ( and exaggerate ) the drink ’ s alleged health benefits .
( One advertisement , from 1652 , claimed that coffee could cure gout , aid digestion , and prevent miscarriages . )
Coffee , more than claret or ale , was well suited to democratic discourse .
The new drink was especially favored by Parliamentarians @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eventually became known as “ penny universities ” —places where men of different classes , opinions , and trades could sit around a table and strike up a conversation .
( It was no wonder that King Charles II tried to outlaw coffeehouses in 1675 , or that satirists , who may have had Royalist leanings , decried coffee drinkers as impotent and overly talkative . )
Coffee , which remains a vital social lubricant today , undoubtedly propelled late-night negotiations in early modern England and empowered radical thinkers to imagine a world @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with appreciation Amy Davidson Sorkin ’ s piece about global efforts to contain the coronavirus ( Comment , April 27th ) .
She points to the talk about how countries led by women seem to be faring relatively well in the fight against COVID-19 , and rightly notes that these nations are “ disproportionately small , wealthy , Scandinavian , and , not incidentally , providers of universal health care.
” It occurred to me that there may be other contributing social factors as well .
These lauded countries with women leaders—including , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Taiwan , Germany , Denmark , Finland , Norway , and Iceland—also tend to accept the legitimacy of science , and to take a rational approach to balancing public health with personal freedoms .
It is therefore not surprising that their citizens are more likely to express an open mind at the polls , about both party leaders and party policies .
Letters should be sent with the writer ’ s name , address , and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail @ newyorker.com .
Letters may be edited for length @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in any medium .
We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we can not reply to every letter .

Coffeehouse Cultures
Adam Gopnik fluidly leads us through the historical and economic underpinnings of coffee drinking to elucidate the global web of the bean (Books, April 27th). He observes that the growth of coffee culture in the United States can be measured by the large numbers of epicurean cafés, coffee connoisseurs, and imported espresso beans that have entered society since 1989. This notion of an American coffee culture implies that the people partaking in it have become “cultured.” Yet there are more quotidian coffee cultures in American history worth mentioning. I think back to the domestic routines developed in mid-century America: of the percolator perched on our kitchen counter, of Mrs. Olson saving marriages with Mountain Grown Folger’s, of the ubiquitous packets of Sanka, of the rotgut coffee at truck stops, and of taking your coffee “white” (with cream). All this, from what seems like a lifetime ago, was just as much a culture of coffee, and just as integral to the changing history of the brew.
Maureen Barbara Jackson
Seattle, Wash.
As I was reading Gopnik’s piece on the link between coffee and capitalism, I was put in mind of the bean’s arrival in England—an event with impressive political and social repercussions. An early English coffee culture arose by the mid-seventeenth century, prompting writers to extoll (and exaggerate) the drink’s alleged health benefits. (One advertisement, from 1652, claimed that coffee could cure gout, aid digestion, and prevent miscarriages.) Coffee, more than claret or ale, was well suited to democratic discourse. The new drink was especially favored by Parliamentarians after the English Civil War: coffeehouses eventually became known as “penny universities”—places where men of different classes, opinions, and trades could sit around a table and strike up a conversation. (It was no wonder that King Charles II tried to outlaw coffeehouses in 1675, or that satirists, who may have had Royalist leanings, decried coffee drinkers as impotent and overly talkative.) Coffee, which remains a vital social lubricant today, undoubtedly propelled late-night negotiations in early modern England and empowered radical thinkers to imagine a world with greater political liberty.
Stephen B. Dobranski
Distinguished University Professor
Department of English
Georgia State University
Atlanta, Ga.
How to Fight Covid-19
I read with appreciation Amy Davidson Sorkin’s piece about global efforts to contain the coronavirus (Comment, April 27th). She points to the talk about how countries led by women seem to be faring relatively well in the fight against COVID-19, and rightly notes that these nations are “disproportionately small, wealthy, Scandinavian, and, not incidentally, providers of universal health care.” It occurred to me that there may be other contributing social factors as well. These lauded countries with women leaders—including, but not limited to, New Zealand, Taiwan, Germany, Denmark, Finland, Norway, and Iceland—also tend to accept the legitimacy of science, and to take a rational approach to balancing public health with personal freedoms. It is therefore not surprising that their citizens are more likely to express an open mind at the polls, about both party leaders and party policies.
Scott K. Ralph
Oakville, Ont.
•
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newyorker--2020-05-11--The First Great Original Play of Quarantine

There ’ s been ample time , during the past few endless weeks , for a person who misses theatre to think about what theatre gives us that ’ s different from what we get from other kinds of art and performance .
We have television to entertain us , movies and books to sustain us .
What can plays do ?
When in doubt , it never hurts to consult Hamlet .
“ The purpose of playing , ” the Danish prince tells us , “ was and is to hold , as ’ twere , the mirror up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ own feature , scorn her own image , and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.
” Theatre can be fleet , spare , and adaptive , reactive to and reflective of the immediate conditions of its creation .
Plays may spend years in development , but , in a pinch , a few days will do .
Ideally , a play shares a room with its audience , but , as we ’ re all discovering , a screen can work , too .
Fabulous effects are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s a reason that the National Theatre ’ s weekly streams of its beautifully filmed productions , with their luscious set and lighting designs , have become wildly popular—but the truth is that all you need to make a play work is a human voice or two .
Going by Hamlet ’ s definition of theatre as a mirror for the body of our times , the end of April brought the first great original play of quarantine , Richard Nelson ’ s “ What Do We Need to Talk About ?
, @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as a benefit performance , and streamed on YouTube on the last Wednesday of the month .
The play is a surprise addition to Nelson ’ s “ Apple Family ” cycle , the accidental child conceived long after the rest of the kids are grown .
Until now , there were four plays about the four Apples , middle-aged siblings based in Rhinebeck , New York .
The first one was performed in 2010 , the last in 2013 , and , as with “ The Gabriels , ” Nelson ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , each took place , and was performed , during a moment of national significance .
Recently , Channel Thirteen made recordings of the earlier Apple plays available to stream , and it was a subversive delight , given the hagiographic mood of the moment , to discover that the first line spoken in the first play , “ That Hopey Changey Thing , ” is “ Fuck you , Andrew Cuomo.
” ( The play takes place on the day of the 2010 midterms , which happened to also be the date @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) “ You see , with Andrew , everything is about politics , celebrity politics .
What gets noticed , what makes the impression , ” Richard Apple ( Jay O. Sanders ) , a lawyer in the state attorney general ’ s office , says .
The governor ’ s current daily press conferences , acts of public service which double as canny pieces of theatre in their own right , may be the exception that proves the rule .
The new play seems to have come as a surprise to Nelson @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the second installment of “ The Michaels , ” his latest Rhinebeck-set cycle , when the coronavirus hit .
The success of fictional characters can be measured by their power to endure in the mind , the way people do ; when Nelson thought about how he might address the pandemic , the Apples were right there , waiting to be reanimated and spoken through .
“ What Do We Need to Talk About ?
” ( directed by Nelson ) takes place , inevitably , on Zoom , which , for once @ @ @ @ @ @ @ compromise but an integral plot point .
Rather than gathering around the dining-room table , as they usually do , the siblings congregate online , to catch up for an hour or so at the end of the day .
The first to appear is Barbara ( Maryann Plunkett ) , who , as we discover , has just come home from the hospital , where she managed to recover from COVID-19 .
Richard ( Sanders , who , like the rest of the cast , is reprising his role ) , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quarantined with her ; the fact that he , and not the domestic-minded Barbara , cooks and serves dinner tells us how serious her condition must have been .
( No actors were harmed , or social-distancing protocols violated , in the making of this play ; Sanders and Plunkett are married . )
One by one , new Zoom squares pop up onscreen , outlined in marquee neon .
Jane ( Sally Murphy ) , the youngest Apple , and Tim ( Stephen Kunken ) , her partner , are in different @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tim has a mild case of the virus .
Marian ( Laila Robins ) , the middle sister , arrives late , as she always does , nicely dressed and wearing lipstick in an assertion of dignity .
Apart , together , they drink wine , poke fun at one another , briefly squabble , and discuss the banalities of the day .
Cuomo gets grudging high marks ( “ Who would have believed it ?
” ) ; there is talk of the risks and the rewards of grocery shopping , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ aspects of the new normal .
All of Nelson ’ s Rhinebeck plays pull off sneaky feats of verisimilitude .
Just as things seem almost too ordinary and unremarkable to bear depiction—though how remarkable that the habits of quarantine already feel rote—a startling deepening takes place .
In “ What Do We Need to Talk About ?
, ” the tone begins to shift when Tim , who is an actor and a restaurateur , reminisces about an acquaintance , the real-life actor Mark Blum , who died in March , of coronavirus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
All the actors in the production likely knew Blum , but their characters didn ’ t , and watching them react to the news of the loss of this stranger with muted , abstract sympathy yielded a double-edged grief .
A second shift happens when Barbara , who ’ s a high-school English teacher , tells the group that she ’ s assigned the Decameron to her students , and suggests , à la Boccaccio , that each member of the call tell a story to entertain the others .
Jane , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spirit , goes first , offering a twisty bit of intrigue about women authors and identity-swapping in the nineteen-fifties ; Marian , a second-grade teacher who ’ s working on a book about the family , follows , with a clue to an old Apple mystery that she discovered in the course of her research ; Richard tells a joke about President Franklin Pierce and a yappy dog sent by a visiting Japanese delegation ; and Tim , who has theatre on the brain , relates a theory that “ The Cherry Orchard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ heal , ” which might sound like twenty-first-century self-help babble projected backward onto Chekhov , if it weren ’ t for the circumstances .
In hard times , we look to art to tell us the things we need to hear .
Barbara ’ s contribution is a recording that she made of the sibling ’ s late uncle Benjamin ( Jon DeVries ) reciting the Walt Whitman poem “ The Wound-Dresser , ” which he did , in the second Apple play , to commemorate the anniversary of September 11th .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who cares for injured Civil War soldiers , and what was sombre and heartrending in the earlier play is now freshly piercing .
Another decade , another crisis , this one unending , still unfathomable .
Switch the old and the young , the healers and the dying .
Barbara—reserved , pragmatic , and irony-proof , the predictable axle around which her siblings rotate—can ’ t express in words what she feels about her own brush with death , so she says it with music : the “ Dona nobis pacem ” from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which she plays through her phone speaker , an offering to all of us behind our own screens .

There’s been ample time, during the past few endless weeks, for a person who misses theatre to think about what theatre gives us that’s different from what we get from other kinds of art and performance. We have television to entertain us, movies and books to sustain us. What can plays do? When in doubt, it never hurts to consult Hamlet. “The purpose of playing,” the Danish prince tells us, “was and is to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.” Theatre can be fleet, spare, and adaptive, reactive to and reflective of the immediate conditions of its creation. Plays may spend years in development, but, in a pinch, a few days will do. Ideally, a play shares a room with its audience, but, as we’re all discovering, a screen can work, too. Fabulous effects are nice if you can get them—there’s a reason that the National Theatre’s weekly streams of its beautifully filmed productions, with their luscious set and lighting designs, have become wildly popular—but the truth is that all you need to make a play work is a human voice or two.
Going by Hamlet’s definition of theatre as a mirror for the body of our times, the end of April brought the first great original play of quarantine, Richard Nelson’s “What Do We Need to Talk About?,” which was commissioned by the Public, as a benefit performance, and streamed on YouTube on the last Wednesday of the month. The play is a surprise addition to Nelson’s “Apple Family” cycle, the accidental child conceived long after the rest of the kids are grown. Until now, there were four plays about the four Apples, middle-aged siblings based in Rhinebeck, New York. The first one was performed in 2010, the last in 2013, and, as with “The Gabriels,” Nelson’s subsequent play cycle set in Rhinebeck, each took place, and was performed, during a moment of national significance. Recently, Channel Thirteen made recordings of the earlier Apple plays available to stream, and it was a subversive delight, given the hagiographic mood of the moment, to discover that the first line spoken in the first play, “That Hopey Changey Thing,” is “Fuck you, Andrew Cuomo.” (The play takes place on the day of the 2010 midterms, which happened to also be the date of the governor’s election.) “You see, with Andrew, everything is about politics, celebrity politics. What gets noticed, what makes the impression,” Richard Apple (Jay O. Sanders), a lawyer in the state attorney general’s office, says. The governor’s current daily press conferences, acts of public service which double as canny pieces of theatre in their own right, may be the exception that proves the rule.
The new play seems to have come as a surprise to Nelson, too. He was working on the second installment of “The Michaels,” his latest Rhinebeck-set cycle, when the coronavirus hit. The success of fictional characters can be measured by their power to endure in the mind, the way people do; when Nelson thought about how he might address the pandemic, the Apples were right there, waiting to be reanimated and spoken through.
“What Do We Need to Talk About?” (directed by Nelson) takes place, inevitably, on Zoom, which, for once, isn’t an irritating technical compromise but an integral plot point. Rather than gathering around the dining-room table, as they usually do, the siblings congregate online, to catch up for an hour or so at the end of the day. The first to appear is Barbara (Maryann Plunkett), who, as we discover, has just come home from the hospital, where she managed to recover from COVID-19. Richard (Sanders, who, like the rest of the cast, is reprising his role), the lone brother of the family, is quarantined with her; the fact that he, and not the domestic-minded Barbara, cooks and serves dinner tells us how serious her condition must have been. (No actors were harmed, or social-distancing protocols violated, in the making of this play; Sanders and Plunkett are married.)
One by one, new Zoom squares pop up onscreen, outlined in marquee neon. Jane (Sally Murphy), the youngest Apple, and Tim (Stephen Kunken), her partner, are in different rooms in their Rhinebeck apartment, because Tim has a mild case of the virus. Marian (Laila Robins), the middle sister, arrives late, as she always does, nicely dressed and wearing lipstick in an assertion of dignity. Apart, together, they drink wine, poke fun at one another, briefly squabble, and discuss the banalities of the day. Cuomo gets grudging high marks (“Who would have believed it?”); there is talk of the risks and the rewards of grocery shopping, the Zen satisfactions of dish-washing, and other aspects of the new normal.
All of Nelson’s Rhinebeck plays pull off sneaky feats of verisimilitude. Just as things seem almost too ordinary and unremarkable to bear depiction—though how remarkable that the habits of quarantine already feel rote—a startling deepening takes place. In “What Do We Need to Talk About?,” the tone begins to shift when Tim, who is an actor and a restaurateur, reminisces about an acquaintance, the real-life actor Mark Blum, who died in March, of coronavirus complications, at the age of sixty-nine. All the actors in the production likely knew Blum, but their characters didn’t, and watching them react to the news of the loss of this stranger with muted, abstract sympathy yielded a double-edged grief.
A second shift happens when Barbara, who’s a high-school English teacher, tells the group that she’s assigned the Decameron to her students, and suggests, à la Boccaccio, that each member of the call tell a story to entertain the others. Jane, a writer with a childlike, delighted spirit, goes first, offering a twisty bit of intrigue about women authors and identity-swapping in the nineteen-fifties; Marian, a second-grade teacher who’s working on a book about the family, follows, with a clue to an old Apple mystery that she discovered in the course of her research; Richard tells a joke about President Franklin Pierce and a yappy dog sent by a visiting Japanese delegation; and Tim, who has theatre on the brain, relates a theory that “The Cherry Orchard” is about “the need to heal,” which might sound like twenty-first-century self-help babble projected backward onto Chekhov, if it weren’t for the circumstances. In hard times, we look to art to tell us the things we need to hear.
Barbara’s contribution is a recording that she made of the sibling’s late uncle Benjamin (Jon DeVries) reciting the Walt Whitman poem “The Wound-Dresser,” which he did, in the second Apple play, to commemorate the anniversary of September 11th. The poem is narrated by an old man who cares for injured Civil War soldiers, and what was sombre and heartrending in the earlier play is now freshly piercing. Another decade, another crisis, this one unending, still unfathomable. Switch the old and the young, the healers and the dying. Barbara—reserved, pragmatic, and irony-proof, the predictable axle around which her siblings rotate—can’t express in words what she feels about her own brush with death, so she says it with music: the “Dona nobis pacem” from Bach’s Mass in B Minor, which she plays through her phone speaker, an offering to all of us behind our own screens.
As the play ends, the siblings sign off one by one, leaving those remaining to gossip about them in their wake, until Barbara is left alone again. She stares at her screen, looking at her own face, as if registering that, against the odds, she is still here. On the night of the performance, more than five thousand viewers looked back. We were there, too.
Theatre is an art of the present, which makes it prone to error. On May 2nd, Molière in the Park, an outdoor troupe that had its inaugural season last year, together with the French Institute Alliance Française and the Prospect Park Alliance, put on a Zoom production of “The Misanthrope” (in Richard Wilbur’s nimble translation, directed by Lucie Tiberghien). The performance suffered at first from technical difficulties—a pesky audio-feedback loop sent the actors’ words boomeranging back to them—which was briefly annoying and then, suddenly, became wonderful, as viewers messaged their support and waited patiently for the problem to be solved. The hiccup made live theatre feel alive, and what could be better than that?
The Molière in the Park approach suggests a simple, satisfying formula for making theatre in the age of the lockdown. Choose a classic text—preferably not too long, preferably funny—get good actors to perform it into their devices, and voilà. It helps that Molière didn’t much care about his plays’ settings; the language is the thing. This “Misanthrope” takes place during quarantine, of course, in an environment of comical, generic luxury. (Kris Stone’s Zoom production design transposed the actors into what looked like a West Elm catalogue; in one scene, their clothing matched the virtual wallpaper of the virtual rooms they were in, a nice touch.) The misanthrope in question is Alceste (Jared McNeill, who has a lovely, salted-butter kind of voice), a nobleman revolted by the falsity and the folly of the world, except when that folly involves Célimène (Jennifer Mudge), his paramour, who flirts as she breathes and won’t stop entertaining suitors. Much drama ensues (“The Real Housewives of Molière!” a member of the digital audience aptly commented), alternately doused by Alceste’s buddy Philinte (Postell Pringle) and enflamed by the gossip Arsinoé (a bawdy Heidi Armbruster). “I’ve made up my mind / to have no further commerce with mankind,” Alceste finally decides, stumping off to join the rest of us in isolation. When the cast reappeared to take their Zoom bows, inclining their heads toward their computer cameras, they were greeted with written “bravo”s and the sound—joyful to imagine—of many yellow hand emojis clapping. ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-11--A San Francisco Baker on What Hospitality Looks Like During the Coronavirus Pandemic

On March 11th , two days after the Grand Princess cruise ship docked in Oakland and its passengers prepared to enter quarantine , Reem Assil celebrated the opening of the second location of her bakery , Reem ’ s California , in the Mission District of San Francisco , with a post on Instagram .
“ Blurry eyed and exhausted as many can prob see ” she wrote , alongside images of stacked cakes , flatbreads , and brightly colored bowls of dip , “ but finally ready to open our doors and have folks bless the space.
” By @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their two weeks in isolation , Assil had shut down her business and laid off staff ; three days after that , Governor Gavin Newsom announced a shelter-in-place order for all of California .
In the video above , Assil reflects on how swiftly the impact of COVID-19 escalated .
News of the changing state of the pandemic “ came so fast , ” she says , “ that it didn ’ t allow us to really plan for crisis management.
” Assil , who grew up in an Arab-American household , was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on a trip to Beirut , in 2010 , the sights and smells of a street-corner bakery inspired her to open her own .
She has written that “ my people are masters of bread and hospitality , ” and she wanted to bring both into her business .
The video shows the new Reem ’ s California location before the shutdown : decorated with splashes of blue , yellow , and green , and bustling with business .
Because functioning as a gathering space is so central to the bakery ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out to be particularly painful .
Customers now approach one at a time , face masks on , to pick up orders from across a table blocking the doorway .
On the storefront , notices taped to the glass provide reminders about maintaining physical distance .
These changes are “ the antithesis to Arab hospitality , ” which is “ all about bringing people into your home , ” Assil says .
Despite the immediate success of the business after the original location opened in Oakland , in 2017 , keeping Reem ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ act even before the pandemic hit .
Now , like so many small-business owners around the country , Assil must figure out ways to move forward while taking into consideration the well-being of her family , her employees , and her community .
“ It ’ s just so hard in this capitalist system to keep moving on , ” Assil says from a back room at the bakery , exhaustion audible in her voice .
The future of the bakery is still uncertain .
As Assil puts it , “ The money @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s no sight of the money coming in.
” However , she has adapted quickly , finding a way both to generate additional business and to continue feeding the neighborhood .
Currently , the San Francisco location is open for pickup , and the original Reem ’ s is functioning as a commissary kitchen , partnering with area organizations to provide meals to first responders and people experiencing food insecurity .
As Assil struggles to make sure that her business will make it to the other side of the crisis , she says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from this time is that “ people who are embedded in community are going to be the ones who prevail.
” The video shows staff members , working in a bakery empty of customers , preparing rows of boxed meals to be distributed to those in need by a local nonprofit , SF New Deal .
Each one is labelled with a sticker : “ Neighbors helping neighbors.
” • Twenty-four hours at the epicenter of the pandemic : nearly fifty New Yorker writers and photographers fanned out to document life in New @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Seattle leaders let scientists take the lead in responding to the coronavirus .
New York leaders did not .
• Can survivors help cure the disease and rescue the economy ?
• What the coronavirus has revealed about American medicine .
• Can we trace the spread of COVID-19 and protect privacy at the same time ?
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine is widely available .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long crusade of Dr. Anthony Fauci , the infectious-disease expert pinned between Donald Trump and the American people .
• What to read , watch , cook , and listen to under quarantine .

On March 11th, two days after the Grand Princess cruise ship docked in Oakland and its passengers prepared to enter quarantine, Reem Assil celebrated the opening of the second location of her bakery, Reem’s California, in the Mission District of San Francisco, with a post on Instagram. “Blurry eyed and exhausted as many can prob see” she wrote, alongside images of stacked cakes, flatbreads, and brightly colored bowls of dip, “but finally ready to open our doors and have folks bless the space.” By the time the cruise passengers had completed their two weeks in isolation, Assil had shut down her business and laid off staff; three days after that, Governor Gavin Newsom announced a shelter-in-place order for all of California. In the video above, Assil reflects on how swiftly the impact of COVID-19 escalated. News of the changing state of the pandemic “came so fast,” she says, “that it didn’t allow us to really plan for crisis management.”
Assil, who grew up in an Arab-American household, was working as a community organizer when, on a trip to Beirut, in 2010, the sights and smells of a street-corner bakery inspired her to open her own. She has written that “my people are masters of bread and hospitality,” and she wanted to bring both into her business. The video shows the new Reem’s California location before the shutdown: decorated with splashes of blue, yellow, and green, and bustling with business. Because functioning as a gathering space is so central to the bakery’s mission, Assil has found shutting people out to be particularly painful. Customers now approach one at a time, face masks on, to pick up orders from across a table blocking the doorway. On the storefront, notices taped to the glass provide reminders about maintaining physical distance. These changes are “the antithesis to Arab hospitality,” which is “all about bringing people into your home,” Assil says.
Despite the immediate success of the business after the original location opened in Oakland, in 2017, keeping Reem’s afloat financially was a delicate balancing act even before the pandemic hit. Now, like so many small-business owners around the country, Assil must figure out ways to move forward while taking into consideration the well-being of her family, her employees, and her community. “It’s just so hard in this capitalist system to keep moving on,” Assil says from a back room at the bakery, exhaustion audible in her voice.
The future of the bakery is still uncertain. As Assil puts it, “The money is running out, and there’s no sight of the money coming in.” However, she has adapted quickly, finding a way both to generate additional business and to continue feeding the neighborhood. Currently, the San Francisco location is open for pickup, and the original Reem’s is functioning as a commissary kitchen, partnering with area organizations to provide meals to first responders and people experiencing food insecurity. As Assil struggles to make sure that her business will make it to the other side of the crisis, she says that a lesson she will take away from this time is that “people who are embedded in community are going to be the ones who prevail.” The video shows staff members, working in a bakery empty of customers, preparing rows of boxed meals to be distributed to those in need by a local nonprofit, SF New Deal. Each one is labelled with a sticker: “Neighbors helping neighbors.”
A Guide to the Coronavirus