newyorker--2020-09-07--Douglas Stuart on Class, Power, and Desire

Your story in this week ’ s issue , “ The Englishman , ” is set in London , in the early nineties .
The narrator , David , has grown up on a farm on a Hebridean island and it ’ s the first time he ’ s travelled this far south .
When did you first think of placing this young man from the Hebrides in London ?
Last year , I spent some months on the Outer Hebrides , gathering research for a novel .
I was fascinated by the contrast between the warmth and generosity of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ landscape in which they live .
The Outer Hebrides are remote—distant even from one other—and you can ’ t help but feel that isolation .
In many ways I ’ m always writing about loneliness .
I began to imagine what it might be like to grow up there as a young gay man in the nineties , pre-Internet .
The men are tied to the land .
The islands are denuded and treeless .
They are battered by the roaring Atlantic winds which makes it difficult to reforest them .
Saplings either @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sideways .
I saw David as a single tree , trying to survive here without the support of other queer people like him .
To discover himself he would be forced to leave the island and head out into the wider world .
For anyone wishing to see the Outer Hebrides in all their beauty I recommend the photography of Ian Lawson , Beka Globe , and Laetitia Vancon , with her wonderful series “ At the End of the Day.
” David is a forestry student and he ’ s gone to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of home help—a houseboy—for a London banker .
Were both these characters clear to you when you started working on the story ?
Could you have told the same story if both men were Scottish ?
It never occurred to me to write both the characters as Scottish .
I wanted to write about two men who were searching for connection but coming at it from such different perspectives .
I also love the clash of cultures and social class , there ’ s always trouble when Scottish bluntness meets English manners !
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ : how Scotland , which voted overwhelmingly to remain in Europe , is being forced to leave by the majority English vote .
This powerlessness is an old feeling .
As a young man who grew up under Thatcher , I often felt that I didn ’ t have a voice or a say .
In a way , that is what is happening with the narrator .
As soon as David meets the Englishman , he is never allowed to be in control , he is told what to do—or what to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voice when it comes to sexual consent .
William , the Englishman , is a meticulous dresser , but his impressive house is messy—with piles of furniture and books .
Why did you want that kind of disjunction ?
And how important are clothes to the story ?
I don ’ t come from a traditional creative-writing or M.F.A .
education , my career was built in fashion and textile design .
Much like writing , you build cloth slowly—stitch by stitch , or by weaving the weft over the warp until you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tapestry .
Clothes are often a signal for social class .
As much as David comes from a narrow place that expects men to be one way , William does , too .
His pin-striped suit and monk-strap shoes are a type of drag he dons in order to go to work every day .
I doubt his colleagues at the bank know the real man that hides underneath .
For William , I was thinking about the nature of personal ads , how we present one image to the world while concealing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the true state of our mental health .
Addressing the gulf between how a character wants to be perceived and who they really are is a key tool of storytelling—both in fiction and in seduction .
The character of Agnes in my novel , “ Shuggie Bain , ” presents this flawless , glamorous image to the world , while on the inside she is disintegrating through her alcoholism .
It was not possible that William would be as pulled together as , at first glance , he seems to be .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ love and sex and affection over the years has deteriorated into the transactional .
It ’ s all pretend , and his clothes play a huge part in maintaining that .
It becomes evident that William has quite different expectations of the narrator ’ s role .
How honest do you want us to think the narrator is with himself ?
What kind of job did he imagine he was going to ?
David must be aware of the subtext even if he doesn ’ t want to admit it : the help-wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a gay newspaper .
“ Houseboy ” is such a loaded term , how could he not suspect ?
The lure of the capital , the chance to earn money and make some sort of gay connection is more than enough to bring David South .
At twenty-two you take all kinds of risks and chances you wouldn ’ t when you are older .
William is drawn to a particular type : “ He liked them Northern , scrawny almost ; all parsimonious hips and jutting clavicles .
He liked them scowling—a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Do you think David had seen himself that way , as a specific type or taste , before he opened William ’ s photo album of young men ?
David is an ordinary young Scotsman .
I think he ’ s probably spent his life not feeling very special at all—but then he discovers there ’ s a collector for every butterfly .
I was thinking about hookup apps , about how we can now filter human beings into categories with infinite , excruciating detail .
William ’ s binder of Scottish @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
There ’ s often a fetishization of the working class in gay literature .
The poorer man is seen as a bit of “ trade , ” or a bit of “ rough , ” and he is desirable as a coarser form of masculinity , or as something to be tamed or acquired .
But most of this fiction is written from the point of view of the more privileged protagonist .
You rarely hear from the working-class character ’ s perspective , and you never hear of them resisting the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I wanted to turn that on its ear , to refute the idea that every poor young man should feel lucky to be pursued by a more affluent figure .
I wanted to cauterize any kind of power that William may have .
William takes David to the cinema and the theatre .
He talks to him about Derek Jarman and “ a writer called Hollinghurst or something like that.
” How significant will that kind of exposure be to David in the future ?
Do you want the reader to draw any @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the story ?
The exposure will be mind-blowing to the narrator .
If you grew up queer in the early nineties in any place except a large , liberal city , you had to strike out in search of yourself , your community , your own cultural history—it was all a part of coming of age .
There ’ s a dazzling firmament of queer culture out there and yet you can spend your entire youth in the dark , deprived of it .
I wanted to hint at how naïve the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the edge of discovering it all .
It ’ s an exciting time .

Photograph by Martyn Pickersgill
Your story in this week’s issue, “The Englishman,” is set in London, in the early nineties. The narrator, David, has grown up on a farm on a Hebridean island and it’s the first time he’s travelled this far south. When did you first think of placing this young man from the Hebrides in London?
Last year, I spent some months on the Outer Hebrides, gathering research for a novel. I was fascinated by the contrast between the warmth and generosity of the islanders and the harshness of the landscape in which they live. The Outer Hebrides are remote—distant even from one other—and you can’t help but feel that isolation.
In many ways I’m always writing about loneliness. I began to imagine what it might be like to grow up there as a young gay man in the nineties, pre-Internet. The men are tied to the land. The islands are denuded and treeless. They are battered by the roaring Atlantic winds which makes it difficult to reforest them. Saplings either blow over or are stunted into growing sideways. I saw David as a single tree, trying to survive here without the support of other queer people like him. To discover himself he would be forced to leave the island and head out into the wider world.
For anyone wishing to see the Outer Hebrides in all their beauty I recommend the photography of Ian Lawson, Beka Globe, and Laetitia Vancon, with her wonderful series “At the End of the Day.”
David is a forestry student and he’s gone to spend the summer working as a kind of home help—a houseboy—for a London banker. Were both these characters clear to you when you started working on the story? Could you have told the same story if both men were Scottish?
It never occurred to me to write both the characters as Scottish. I wanted to write about two men who were searching for connection but coming at it from such different perspectives. I also love the clash of cultures and social class, there’s always trouble when Scottish bluntness meets English manners!
I’ve been obsessing about Brexit: how Scotland, which voted overwhelmingly to remain in Europe, is being forced to leave by the majority English vote. This powerlessness is an old feeling. As a young man who grew up under Thatcher, I often felt that I didn’t have a voice or a say. In a way, that is what is happening with the narrator. As soon as David meets the Englishman, he is never allowed to be in control, he is told what to do—or what to stop doing—and he is even denied a voice when it comes to sexual consent.
William, the Englishman, is a meticulous dresser, but his impressive house is messy—with piles of furniture and books. Why did you want that kind of disjunction? And how important are clothes to the story?
I don’t come from a traditional creative-writing or M.F.A. education, my career was built in fashion and textile design. Much like writing, you build cloth slowly—stitch by stitch, or by weaving the weft over the warp until you can stand back and see the larger tapestry.
Clothes are often a signal for social class. As much as David comes from a narrow place that expects men to be one way, William does, too. His pin-striped suit and monk-strap shoes are a type of drag he dons in order to go to work every day. I doubt his colleagues at the bank know the real man that hides underneath.
For William, I was thinking about the nature of personal ads, how we present one image to the world while concealing the messy corners of our personality or the true state of our mental health. Addressing the gulf between how a character wants to be perceived and who they really are is a key tool of storytelling—both in fiction and in seduction. The character of Agnes in my novel, “Shuggie Bain,” presents this flawless, glamorous image to the world, while on the inside she is disintegrating through her alcoholism. It was not possible that William would be as pulled together as, at first glance, he seems to be. He is deeply lonely. His search for love and sex and affection over the years has deteriorated into the transactional. It’s all pretend, and his clothes play a huge part in maintaining that.
It becomes evident that William has quite different expectations of the narrator’s role. How honest do you want us to think the narrator is with himself? What kind of job did he imagine he was going to?
David must be aware of the subtext even if he doesn’t want to admit it: the help-wanted ad is in the personals section of a gay newspaper. “Houseboy” is such a loaded term, how could he not suspect? The lure of the capital, the chance to earn money and make some sort of gay connection is more than enough to bring David South. At twenty-two you take all kinds of risks and chances you wouldn’t when you are older.
William is drawn to a particular type: “He liked them Northern, scrawny almost; all parsimonious hips and jutting clavicles. He liked them scowling—a little hungry-looking. He liked them Scottish.” Do you think David had seen himself that way, as a specific type or taste, before he opened William’s photo album of young men?
David is an ordinary young Scotsman. I think he’s probably spent his life not feeling very special at all—but then he discovers there’s a collector for every butterfly. I was thinking about hookup apps, about how we can now filter human beings into categories with infinite, excruciating detail. William’s binder of Scottish men is just a prototype of this.
There’s often a fetishization of the working class in gay literature. The poorer man is seen as a bit of “trade,” or a bit of “rough,” and he is desirable as a coarser form of masculinity, or as something to be tamed or acquired. But most of this fiction is written from the point of view of the more privileged protagonist. You rarely hear from the working-class character’s perspective, and you never hear of them resisting the advances of the more privileged man. I wanted to turn that on its ear, to refute the idea that every poor young man should feel lucky to be pursued by a more affluent figure. I wanted to cauterize any kind of power that William may have.


newyorker--2020-09-07--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Life of a Klansman , by Edward Ball ( Farrar , Straus & Giroux ) .
This brave and often discomfiting portrait examines one of the author ’ s great-great-grandfathers , a Confederate veteran who lived in New Orleans , where he eked out a living as a carpenter and joined white-supremacist terrorist organizations to rampage against the disappearance of the South ’ s old racial order .
While Ball unflinchingly describes the violence that his ancestor took part in , which left some four thousand African-Americans wounded or dead in Louisiana alone , he rejects a facile morality that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ acts as barbaric crimes of long ago .
The book finds in its subject the same fears and prejudices that feed present-day tribal identities , cautions against historical amnesia , and invites a broader kind of reckoning .
Lying in State , by Eric Alterman ( Basic Books ) .
In this history of Presidential mendacity , Alterman , a columnist for The Nation and a historian of the media , delineates centuries of lies issued from the Oval Office , culminating in those of the Trump Presidency .
He makes plain how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and also the media ’ s acquiescence , confusion , and exhaustion have eroded the country ’ s institutions , public life , and national spirit .
The book joins manifestos by Timothy Snyder , Masha Gessen , and many others in raising the alarm against Trump ’ s war on truth and , by extension , on democratic life .
little scratch , by Rebecca Watson ( Doubleday ) .
This extraordinary début novel records a young woman ’ s thoughts as she moves through a single day .
By arranging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the shapes and the rhythms of thought , and coheres scraps of consciousness into clear moments of impression , observation , and anxiety .
On some pages , full sentences are contained in columns on one side , while fragments of conversation or sense perception appear on the other ; elsewhere , an unwelcome inquiry is greeted by blank space , and repeated words conjure the feeling of motion .
Toward the end , the narrator poses a question that disintegrates as it runs down the page , which reveals the book ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ times how long will I continue to think like this / analysing as I go warily precariously measuring what I think.
” The Queen of Tuesday , by Darin Strauss ( Random House ) .
“ Half memoir and half make-believe , ” this boisterous novel relates an imagined affair between Lucille Ball , whose role on “ I Love Lucy ” transformed her into a paragon of the American wife , and the author ’ s grandfather Isidore , a suburban property developer who once dreamed of becoming a writer .
Isidore @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that Lucille , in her pursuit of appearing as “ a harried housewife people believe in while being a star they desire , ” lives out .
Ultimately , the novel is a touching account of the sacrifices that Lucille makes to preserve her “ most genuine ” relationship : the one “ between her and the public .
”

Life of a Klansman, by Edward Ball (Farrar, Straus & Giroux). This brave and often discomfiting portrait examines one of the author’s great-great-grandfathers, a Confederate veteran who lived in New Orleans, where he eked out a living as a carpenter and joined white-supremacist terrorist organizations to rampage against the disappearance of the South’s old racial order. While Ball unflinchingly describes the violence that his ancestor took part in, which left some four thousand African-Americans wounded or dead in Louisiana alone, he rejects a facile morality that could lead modern readers to dismiss these acts as barbaric crimes of long ago. The book finds in its subject the same fears and prejudices that feed present-day tribal identities, cautions against historical amnesia, and invites a broader kind of reckoning.
Lying in State, by Eric Alterman (Basic Books). In this history of Presidential mendacity, Alterman, a columnist for The Nation and a historian of the media, delineates centuries of lies issued from the Oval Office, culminating in those of the Trump Presidency. He makes plain how Trump’s elaboration of that behavior, and also the media’s acquiescence, confusion, and exhaustion have eroded the country’s institutions, public life, and national spirit. The book joins manifestos by Timothy Snyder, Masha Gessen, and many others in raising the alarm against Trump’s war on truth and, by extension, on democratic life.
little scratch, by Rebecca Watson (Doubleday). This extraordinary début novel records a young woman’s thoughts as she moves through a single day. By arranging text in unconventional ways, Watson conveys the shapes and the rhythms of thought, and coheres scraps of consciousness into clear moments of impression, observation, and anxiety. On some pages, full sentences are contained in columns on one side, while fragments of conversation or sense perception appear on the other; elsewhere, an unwelcome inquiry is greeted by blank space, and repeated words conjure the feeling of motion. Toward the end, the narrator poses a question that disintegrates as it runs down the page, which reveals the book’s self-conscious preoccupations: “how many times how long will I continue to think like this / analysing as I go warily precariously measuring what I think.”
The Queen of Tuesday, by Darin Strauss (Random House). “Half memoir and half make-believe,” this boisterous novel relates an imagined affair between Lucille Ball, whose role on “I Love Lucy” transformed her into a paragon of the American wife, and the author’s grandfather Isidore, a suburban property developer who once dreamed of becoming a writer. Isidore cannot reconcile domesticity with sensuality—a contradiction that Lucille, in her pursuit of appearing as “a harried housewife people believe in while being a star they desire,” lives out. Ultimately, the novel is a touching account of the sacrifices that Lucille makes to preserve her “most genuine” relationship: the one “between her and the public.”


newyorker--2020-09-07--COVID Silver Lining: The Porta-Potty Boom

As the economy goes , so go portable toilets .
When the market is good , construction sites proliferate , wedding planners book luxury powder-room trailers , and Portosans are everywhere .
When a recession looms , toilet men are the first to feel the pinch .
This spring , the bell tolled for the porta-potty industry .
The S. & P. 500 lost a third of its value .
Unemployment hit fourteen per cent .
Events were cancelled , from film festivals to flea markets and fun runs .
Who would need toilets now ?
In the first weeks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the owner of John To Go , peered into his computer monitors in West Haverstraw , New York , and saw the answer : everyone .
Governor Andrew Cuomo needed porta potties and hand-washing sinks for drive-through test sites along the Palisades Parkway .
Utility companies pestered Breuer for shower trailers .
Hasidic couples rushed to marry , but moved the celebrations outdoors .
Breuer ’ s entire stock was in demand—both the workhorse PJP3 portable toilets and the luxury trailers with functioning fireplaces .
Breuer , who is thirty-nine , has a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He moved among cell phone and landline and e-mail in-box , barking in spitfire Yiddish sprinkled with English .
“ Three station combo ” .
.
.
“ Plus tax ” .
.
.
“ This is the crunch point , ya know ?
” The toilet-rental business is actually the toilet-cleaning business , and Breuer ’ s biggest customers were shelling out for more frequent service .
If employers couldn ’ t guarantee health and safety to their workers , the thinking seemed to go , at least they could offer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Before sunrise one morning , in the company lot , Breuer had issued a new directive to his drivers : only two rolls of toilet tissue per stall , and photograph it , so that , when customers inevitably called later to complain that there wasn ’ t any ( stolen , most likely ) , they could prove that it had been there .
Breuer watches his eighteen drivers work their routes via a G.P.S .
tracker .
At 11:56 A.M. , Silvio was in Flatbush , Erick was in Chinatown , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ They snaked suction hoses into the abyss , then dumped in fresh deodorizer , wiped seats , and doled out precious bottles of sanitizer .
Lately , the most coveted products in Breuer ’ s line have been hand-sanitizing stations and portable sinks , both , in pre-COVID times , an upsell , but now pure profit .
He was down to his last two dozen sinks .
They are simple contraptions—a basin , a foot-pump faucet , and a soap dispenser—and typically rent for a hundred and fifty dollars a month .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ two hundred dollars a week .
It wasn ’ t price-gouging , he swore—his own costs were skyrocketing .
A case of toilet paper that used to cost twenty dollars now went for fifty .
His drivers were working so much overtime that the weekly payroll had doubled .
Portable toilets are a two-billion-dollar industry , but it ’ s a tough business .
In his first winter , in 2004 , Breuer forgot to put rock salt in his pump truck , and a tank full of human waste froze into “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ past decade has been a boom time .
Breuer now has five thousand toilets , seven children , and a BMW X7 .
He is a full-fledged member of the “ big five , ” the city ’ s leading toilet purveyors .
His competitors were scrambling to win over customers .
In Broad Channel , Charles Howard , the owner of Call-a-Head and the city ’ s porta-potty king , armed sales reps with rolls of company-branded toilet paper .
In Bridgeport , Connecticut , Timothy Butler , the owner of A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hastily construct a large number of hand-sanitizer units .
Breuer thought it better to invest in a trailer unit that would hold its value after the crisis passed .
Breuer volunteers as a driver for Hatzalah , a Hasidic-run ambulance service .
All morning in his office , a handheld radio relayed distress calls from dispatchers , each one the same : difficulty breathing , faintness .
In the spring , he responded to more than three hundred E.M.S .
calls , delivered kosher meals to hospitalized Hasidim , and , at Passover @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pounds of matzo .
“ Everything is just a huge blur for me , ” he said the other day , looking back at that frantic period .
A good friend had died , but somehow , despite hundreds of house calls , Breuer had stayed healthy .
As had his business .
By August , the number of COVID cases had been reduced to a trickle , but the clamor for sanitary hands and clean toilets kept demand up by more than forty per cent .
Breuer added forty shower trailers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sinks to his inventory .
He bought a big place in Passaic County , New Jersey , as his new headquarters .
“ The market is as hot as it can get , ” he said over his car phone , heading back to the office .
“ The stage has been set to have a very , very busy 2021.
” ♦

As the economy goes, so go portable toilets. When the market is good, construction sites proliferate, wedding planners book luxury powder-room trailers, and Portosans are everywhere. When a recession looms, toilet men are the first to feel the pinch. This spring, the bell tolled for the porta-potty industry. The S. & P. 500 lost a third of its value. Unemployment hit fourteen per cent. Events were cancelled, from film festivals to flea markets and fun runs. Who would need toilets now?
In the first weeks of the lockdown, Abe Breuer, the owner of John To Go, peered into his computer monitors in West Haverstraw, New York, and saw the answer: everyone. Governor Andrew Cuomo needed porta potties and hand-washing sinks for drive-through test sites along the Palisades Parkway. Utility companies pestered Breuer for shower trailers. Hasidic couples rushed to marry, but moved the celebrations outdoors. Breuer’s entire stock was in demand—both the workhorse PJP3 portable toilets and the luxury trailers with functioning fireplaces.
Breuer, who is thirty-nine, has a red beard and a short attention span. He moved among cell phone and landline and e-mail in-box, barking in spitfire Yiddish sprinkled with English. “Three station combo” . . . “Plus tax” . . . “This is the crunch point, ya know?” The toilet-rental business is actually the toilet-cleaning business, and Breuer’s biggest customers were shelling out for more frequent service. If employers couldn’t guarantee health and safety to their workers, the thinking seemed to go, at least they could offer the appearance of a germ-free workplace.
Before sunrise one morning, in the company lot, Breuer had issued a new directive to his drivers: only two rolls of toilet tissue per stall, and photograph it, so that, when customers inevitably called later to complain that there wasn’t any (stolen, most likely), they could prove that it had been there. Breuer watches his eighteen drivers work their routes via a G.P.S. tracker. At 11:56 A.M., Silvio was in Flatbush, Erick was in Chinatown, and Gonzalez was in South Orange. They snaked suction hoses into the abyss, then dumped in fresh deodorizer, wiped seats, and doled out precious bottles of sanitizer.
Lately, the most coveted products in Breuer’s line have been hand-sanitizing stations and portable sinks, both, in pre-COVID times, an upsell, but now pure profit. He was down to his last two dozen sinks. They are simple contraptions—a basin, a foot-pump faucet, and a soap dispenser—and typically rent for a hundred and fifty dollars a month. Now he was charging Montefiore Nyack Hospital two hundred dollars a week.
“So they married, and the prince and the princess lived happily ever after . . . and now, a pop math quiz.” Cartoon by Danny Shanahan Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
It wasn’t price-gouging, he swore—his own costs were skyrocketing. A case of toilet paper that used to cost twenty dollars now went for fifty. His drivers were working so much overtime that the weekly payroll had doubled.
Portable toilets are a two-billion-dollar industry, but it’s a tough business. In his first winter, in 2004, Breuer forgot to put rock salt in his pump truck, and a tank full of human waste froze into “a big ice-cream cake.” But the past decade has been a boom time. Breuer now has five thousand toilets, seven children, and a BMW X7. He is a full-fledged member of the “big five,” the city’s leading toilet purveyors.
His competitors were scrambling to win over customers. In Broad Channel, Charles Howard, the owner of Call-a-Head and the city’s porta-potty king, armed sales reps with rolls of company-branded toilet paper. In Bridgeport, Connecticut, Timothy Butler, the owner of A Royal Flush, asked his welder to hastily construct a large number of hand-sanitizer units. Breuer thought it better to invest in a trailer unit that would hold its value after the crisis passed.
Breuer volunteers as a driver for Hatzalah, a Hasidic-run ambulance service. All morning in his office, a handheld radio relayed distress calls from dispatchers, each one the same: difficulty breathing, faintness. In the spring, he responded to more than three hundred E.M.S. calls, delivered kosher meals to hospitalized Hasidim, and, at Passover, supplied emergency wards with eight hundred pounds of matzo.
“Everything is just a huge blur for me,” he said the other day, looking back at that frantic period. A good friend had died, but somehow, despite hundreds of house calls, Breuer had stayed healthy. As had his business. By August, the number of COVID cases had been reduced to a trickle, but the clamor for sanitary hands and clean toilets kept demand up by more than forty per cent. Breuer added forty shower trailers, three hundred potties, and a hundred sinks to his inventory. He bought a big place in Passaic County, New Jersey, as his new headquarters. “The market is as hot as it can get,” he said over his car phone, heading back to the office. “The stage has been set to have a very, very busy 2021.” ♦
More on the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-09-07--“Grendel,” by Roger Reeves

“Grendel,” by Roger Reeves

All lions must lean into something other than a roar : James Baldwin , for instance , singing “ Precious Lord , ” His voice as weary as water broken over his scalp In a storefront Sanctified Church ’ s baptismal pool All those years ago when he wanted to be Somebody ’ s child and on fire in that being .
Lord , I want to be somebody ’ s child and chosen Water spilling over their scalp , water Taking the shape of their longing , a deer Diving into evening traffic and the furrow drawn In the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ And wanting to be something alive and open .
Lord , I want to be alive and open , A glimpse of power : the shuffle of a mother ’ s hand Over a sleeping child ’ s forehead As if clearing the city ’ s rust from its face , Which we mostly are : a halo of rust , A glimpse of power—James Baldwin leaning Into the word light , his voice jostling that single grain In his throat as if he might drop it or Already has .
I am @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to that gap between his teeth Where the many-of-us fatherless sleep And bear and be whatever darkness or leaping Thing we can be .
In James Baldwin ’ s mouth , My difficult beauty , my weak and worn , My future as any number of angels , Which is not unlike the beast Grendel , Coming out of the wild heaven into the hills And halls of the mead house at the harpist ’ s call With absolute prophecy in his breast And a desire for mercy , for a friend , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and in that coming Down out of the hills , out of the trees , for once , Bringing humans the best vision of themselves , Which , of course , must be slaughtered .

Audio: A version read by the author.
All lions must lean into something other than a roar:
James Baldwin, for instance, singing “Precious Lord,”
His voice as weary as water broken over his scalp
In a storefront Sanctified Church’s baptismal pool
All those years ago when he wanted to be
Somebody’s child and on fire in that being. Lord,
I want to be somebody’s child and chosen
Water spilling over their scalp, water
Taking the shape of their longing, a deer
Diving into evening traffic and the furrow drawn
In the air over the hood of the car—power
And wanting to be something alive and open.
Lord, I want to be alive and open,
A glimpse of power: the shuffle of a mother’s hand
Over a sleeping child’s forehead
As if clearing the city’s rust from its face,
Which we mostly are: a halo of rust,
A glimpse of power—James Baldwin leaning
Into the word light, his voice jostling that single grain
In his throat as if he might drop it or
Already has. I am calling to that grain
Of light, to that gap between his teeth
Where the many-of-us fatherless sleep
And bear and be whatever darkness or leaping
Thing we can be. In James Baldwin’s mouth,
My difficult beauty, my weak and worn,
My future as any number of angels,
Which is not unlike the beast Grendel,
Coming out of the wild heaven into the hills
And halls of the mead house at the harpist’s call
With absolute prophecy in his breast
And a desire for mercy, for a friend, an end
To drifting in loneliness, and in that coming
Down out of the hills, out of the trees, for once,
Bringing humans the best vision of themselves,
Which, of course, must be slaughtered.


Edward Steed’s “Overgrown”

Edward Steed is an artist who finds life everywhere .
His previous cover for The New Yorker featured a burst of seasonal cheer in wintry New York , and his latest , which arrives on the cusp of autumn , does something similar , though its main players aren ’ t human .
We recently talked to the artist about what fuels his imagination .
This image is so full of life .
Have you been in the city throughout the pandemic ?
And are you looking forward to spending the fall here ?
Yes , I have been here @ @ @ @ @ @ @ here in the autumn .
I can ’ t say I ’ m looking forward to it .
Did this image emerge from first-hand observation ?
Did you notice plants in the cracks of sidewalks ?
I like plants , but what I like best is to see them when they ’ re running wild .
They don ’ t get much of a chance to do that in the city .
I hope this drawing will encourage them .
I drew it last winter , before the coronavirus entered our consciousness , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a different meaning now .
When such a big story dominates the news , everything seems to relate to it .
That ’ s another reason that I ’ ll be glad when it ’ s over .
Each of the plants seems to have a distinct personality .
Do you plan characters or wait to “ find ” them when you ’ re drawing ?
I plan the scenes in advance but the faces are more spontaneous .
Imagining plants taking revenge on the city must have put me in a good @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them as smiling .
The plants are happy , but they ’ re happy because you ’ re not there .
The drawing was partly inspired by the song “ Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth , ” by Sparks , which I was listening to as I drew .
Are you more of a city person or a nature person ?
Where did you grow up ?
I grew up in the country .
Sometimes weeds would grow up through a gap in the floor .
I pulled them up before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I love the wilderness but I ’ m not very sentimental about it .
I also love the man-made things that protect you from it : walls , houses , roads , electricity , etc .
They are miraculous , too .
It ’ s just that sometimes the balance is off .
See below for more covers that celebrate nature in the city :

Edward Steed is an artist who finds life everywhere. His previous cover for The New Yorker featured a burst of seasonal cheer in wintry New York, and his latest, which arrives on the cusp of autumn, does something similar, though its main players aren’t human. We recently talked to the artist about what fuels his imagination.
This image is so full of life. Have you been in the city throughout the pandemic? And are you looking forward to spending the fall here?
Yes, I have been here the whole time, and will be here in the autumn. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.
Did this image emerge from first-hand observation? Did you notice plants in the cracks of sidewalks?
I like plants, but what I like best is to see them when they’re running wild. They don’t get much of a chance to do that in the city. I hope this drawing will encourage them. I drew it last winter, before the coronavirus entered our consciousness, and I suppose the picture takes on a different meaning now. When such a big story dominates the news, everything seems to relate to it. That’s another reason that I’ll be glad when it’s over.
Each of the plants seems to have a distinct personality. Do you plan characters or wait to “find” them when you’re drawing?
I plan the scenes in advance but the faces are more spontaneous. Imagining plants taking revenge on the city must have put me in a good mood, because I drew most of them as smiling. The plants are happy, but they’re happy because you’re not there. The drawing was partly inspired by the song “Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth,” by Sparks, which I was listening to as I drew.
Steed’s early sketch for the cover.
Are you more of a city person or a nature person? Where did you grow up?
I grew up in the country. Sometimes weeds would grow up through a gap in the floor. I pulled them up before they could take over the house. I love the wilderness but I’m not very sentimental about it. I also love the man-made things that protect you from it: walls, houses, roads, electricity, etc. They are miraculous, too. It’s just that sometimes the balance is off.
See below for more covers that celebrate nature in the city:


newyorker--2020-09-07--Roger Angell at a Hundred

Roger Angell at a Hundred

Born five years before the founding of this magazine—but a contributor for only the past seventy-six—Roger Angell has spent his one-hundredth summer in customary fashion .
In late June , he and his wife , Peggy Moorman , drove a spring-chicken ’ 97 Volvo wagon from their COVID refuge , in the Catskills , to Brooklin , Maine , and settled into their gray-shingled camp on a point overlooking Eggemoggin Reach , with Deer Isle in the near distance .
Angell began coming to Brooklin in 1933 , the summer before he turned thirteen .
That was the year his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and his stepfather , E. B .
( Andy ) White , each a foundational source of The New Yorker ’ s DNA—Katharine primarily as a fiction editor and nurturer of writers , Andy as progenitor of the magazine ’ s editorial voice—bought an eighteenth-century farmhouse , with an attached barn , in North Brooklin , situated above a large pasture , pond , and woods that sloped down to a gravelly beach on Allen Cove , on Blue Hill Bay .
When Angell returned to Brooklin this year , he anticipated observing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta of wooden sailboats ; morning round trips with his walker to the Center Harbor Yacht Club ( “ a porch surrounding a Ping-Pong table , ” in his description ) ; a 6:30 p.m. Scotch-and-water ( plenty of ice and a side of cheese , crackers , and olives ) , in time for the news ( usually NBC , always PBS ) ; postprandial Yanks/Mets/Bosox broadcasts ; and periodic visits to the Brooklin Cemetery , where , in the shade of an expansive oak , six headstones mark @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Roger ’ s brother Joel White , his daughters Callie and Alice Angell , and his wife of forty-eight years , Carol Rogge Angell ( 1938-2012 ) .
Next to Carol ’ s is an identical seventh , a slender marble slab engraved with his own name and birth year , standing by .
Although Angell spent five-plus decades as a fiction editor and is best known for his matchless œuvre of baseball writing , including seven books and scores of blog posts , his most widely read essay for the magazine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a ninety-three-year-old ’ s unflinchingly intimate account of what one discovers , savors , bears , rues , and forgives in the late chapters of a very long-lived life .
He recalls a threat from Carol as her death neared : “ If you haven ’ t found someone else by a year after I ’ m gone I ’ ll come back and haunt you.
” He obliged in the summer of 2014 , when he and Moorman married a week or so before he was inducted into the writer ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; the following winter , he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters—a dual distinction uniquely his .
One non-routine engagement : According to the chronometer , Angell won ’ t segue into his second century until September 19th , but various friends of Friend Memorial Public Library , in the center of Brooklin , decided to celebrate early .
On a sunny Saturday in early August , an ample crowd gathered on the front lawn of the library ’ s modest white Greek Revival home .
Among them were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ children sitting cross-legged in the grass , relatives from near Portland ( three hours down the coast ) , and Angell ’ s stepdaughter , Emma Quaytman .
Absent , alas , were his son , John Henry Angell , et famille , grounded in Portland on the opposite coast .
Also absent was a particular nephew , Steve White , president and chief owner of the renowned Brooklin Boat Yard—away delivering , yes , a boat with his partner , Jen Sansosti .
Perched on a wooden stool on the porch was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pants , a blue-and-white checked button-down shirt , penny loafers , purple face mask , and his signature WoodenBoat ball cap .
The preliminaries included music by a three-piece string band and recitations of thank-yous to a long list of volunteers .
Then a convivial woman with short blond hair was introduced—Janet Mills , the governor of Maine—to certify the occasion with an official proclamation of Roger Angell Day .
Before getting to the whereases , she said , “ In Maine , while we brag about our ponds and peninsulas , our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and green fields , and goats old and young , our woods , our words and our language are the dearest thing to us .
That is why I ’ m here to honor a premier wordsmith , Roger Angell—someone who has used words to elevate us , to inspire us , to get at the truth .
He tells it straight .
He writes about winning and he writes about the pain of loss and regaining life again.
” Angell had his own list of thank-yous , as well as an apology @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has been discommoded by this interruption to their wonderful Saturday and going about their business , large numbers of whom have little or no interest in an old guy from away .
I am from away .
I will always be from away , and I don ’ t mind .
I ’ m away from New York City , which I love—I love New York ; I love leaving New York to come up here , and I love going back there .
I ’ m a New Yorker through and through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a Brooklin regular , and I ’ m very proud of this.
” One request : “ I want you all please to keep your distance—social distance—be very careful .
And if there ’ s any impulse to rush the podium here and pick me up on your shoulders and carry me around , resist that.
” ♦

Roger Angell Illustration by João Fazenda
Born five years before the founding of this magazine—but a contributor for only the past seventy-six—Roger Angell has spent his one-hundredth summer in customary fashion. In late June, he and his wife, Peggy Moorman, drove a spring-chicken ’97 Volvo wagon from their COVID refuge, in the Catskills, to Brooklin, Maine, and settled into their gray-shingled camp on a point overlooking Eggemoggin Reach, with Deer Isle in the near distance. Angell began coming to Brooklin in 1933, the summer before he turned thirteen. That was the year his mother, Katharine Sergeant Angell White, and his stepfather, E. B. (Andy) White, each a foundational source of The New Yorker’s DNA—Katharine primarily as a fiction editor and nurturer of writers, Andy as progenitor of the magazine’s editorial voice—bought an eighteenth-century farmhouse, with an attached barn, in North Brooklin, situated above a large pasture, pond, and woods that sloped down to a gravelly beach on Allen Cove, on Blue Hill Bay.
When Angell returned to Brooklin this year, he anticipated observing certain seasonal and quotidian routines: admiring the Eggemoggin Reach Regatta of wooden sailboats; morning round trips with his walker to the Center Harbor Yacht Club (“a porch surrounding a Ping-Pong table,” in his description); a 6:30 p.m. Scotch-and-water (plenty of ice and a side of cheese, crackers, and olives), in time for the news (usually NBC, always PBS); postprandial Yanks/Mets/Bosox broadcasts; and periodic visits to the Brooklin Cemetery, where, in the shade of an expansive oak, six headstones mark the graves of Katharine and Andy White, Roger’s brother Joel White, his daughters Callie and Alice Angell, and his wife of forty-eight years, Carol Rogge Angell (1938-2012). Next to Carol’s is an identical seventh, a slender marble slab engraved with his own name and birth year, standing by. Although Angell spent five-plus decades as a fiction editor and is best known for his matchless œuvre of baseball writing, including seven books and scores of blog posts, his most widely read essay for the magazine was “This Old Man,” a ninety-three-year-old’s unflinchingly intimate account of what one discovers, savors, bears, rues, and forgives in the late chapters of a very long-lived life. He recalls a threat from Carol as her death neared: “If you haven’t found someone else by a year after I’m gone I’ll come back and haunt you.” He obliged in the summer of 2014, when he and Moorman married a week or so before he was inducted into the writer’s section of the Baseball Hall of Fame; the following winter, he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters—a dual distinction uniquely his.
One non-routine engagement: According to the chronometer, Angell won’t segue into his second century until September 19th, but various friends of Friend Memorial Public Library, in the center of Brooklin, decided to celebrate early. On a sunny Saturday in early August, an ample crowd gathered on the front lawn of the library’s modest white Greek Revival home. Among them were grownups in summer hats, dogs, children sitting cross-legged in the grass, relatives from near Portland (three hours down the coast), and Angell’s stepdaughter, Emma Quaytman. Absent, alas, were his son, John Henry Angell, et famille, grounded in Portland on the opposite coast. Also absent was a particular nephew, Steve White, president and chief owner of the renowned Brooklin Boat Yard—away delivering, yes, a boat with his partner, Jen Sansosti.
Perched on a wooden stool on the porch was the honoree, dressed in blue cotton pants, a blue-and-white checked button-down shirt, penny loafers, purple face mask, and his signature WoodenBoat ball cap. The preliminaries included music by a three-piece string band and recitations of thank-yous to a long list of volunteers. Then a convivial woman with short blond hair was introduced—Janet Mills, the governor of Maine—to certify the occasion with an official proclamation of Roger Angell Day.
Before getting to the whereases, she said, “In Maine, while we brag about our ponds and peninsulas, our gardens, our granite, our grandkids and green fields, and goats old and young, our woods, our words and our language are the dearest thing to us. That is why I’m here to honor a premier wordsmith, Roger Angell—someone who has used words to elevate us, to inspire us, to get at the truth. He tells it straight. He writes about winning and he writes about the pain of loss and regaining life again.”
Angell had his own list of thank-yous, as well as an apology to “everybody else in town who has been discommoded by this interruption to their wonderful Saturday and going about their business, large numbers of whom have little or no interest in an old guy from away. I am from away. I will always be from away, and I don’t mind. I’m away from New York City, which I love—I love New York; I love leaving New York to come up here, and I love going back there. I’m a New Yorker through and through, but I think I also qualify as a Brooklin regular, and I’m very proud of this.”
One request: “I want you all please to keep your distance—social distance—be very careful. And if there’s any impulse to rush the podium here and pick me up on your shoulders and carry me around, resist that.” ♦


newyorker--2020-09-07--Slide Show: New Yorker Cartoons September 14, 2020

“ Would you do me the honor of taking on even more responsibilities while my life remains largely unchanged ?
@

“Would you do me the honor of taking on even more responsibilities while my life remains largely unchanged?”
Cartoon by Suerynn Lee


newyorker--2020-09-07--How Can We Pay for Creativity in the Digital Age?

In November , 2012 , the Minnesota Department of Revenue notified the musician Venus DeMars that her tax returns would be audited .
DeMars , a respected fixture in the Minneapolis rock scene , had performed since the mid-nineties as the lead singer of All the Pretty Horses , a moody , glam-inspired rock band .
She and the group had released half a dozen albums and toured throughout the United States and abroad .
Her accountant had deducted business expenses , such as money that had gone into touring and performance .
But it quickly became apparent that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arithmetical errors .
At stake was whether she was , indeed , an artist .
The state tax authorities found her claim dubious .
In their view , someone putting most of her money into an endeavor that produced very little return couldn ’ t possibly be doing work .
DeMars ’ s deductions were therefore illegitimate , she was told , and she owed nearly thirty-six hundred dollars in back taxes .
Her legal fight took a year and a half and cost around twelve thousand dollars , which fans and fellow-artists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Department of Revenue relented ; it even paid her a tax refund of around seventy dollars .
People generally don ’ t become artists for the money .
In fact , they are probably drawn to art as a refuge from thinking about money in the first place .
What they don ’ t bargain for is an inquisition calling into question the very reality of their day-to-day work as an artist .
The vast majority of American artists are like DeMars , essentially freelancers who generate little in the way @ @ @ @ @ @ @ survey conducted by the Music Industry Research Association , MusiCares , and the Princeton University Survey Research Center , American musicians earned a median income of twenty-one thousand three hundred dollars from their craft the previous year .
A 2014 study by an arts advocacy organization showed that only ten per cent of America ’ s two million art-school graduates make their primary living as artists .
Among those grads surveyed , working artists reported a median income of just over thirty-six thousand dollars .
Before the implementation of some provisions of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was estimated that forty-three per cent of artists lacked health insurance .
In the past , it was easy to blame the gatekeepers , such as publishing houses and record labels , for skimming off the profits that artists ’ work generated .
But those institutions are now in decline .
There are more people writing books and recording music than ever before , more ways to find potential fans who might support your passion for calligraphy or painting portraits of other people ’ s pets .
Every post on Twitter or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to discovery for an upstart comedian , actor , or cinematographer .
In “ The Death of the Artist : How Creators Are Struggling to Survive in the Age of Billionaires and Big Tech ” ( Holt ) , the critic William Deresiewicz considers how we arrived at a situation in which it ’ s easier than ever to share your creativity with the world , and harder than ever to make a living doing so .
He interviewed roughly a hundred and forty writers , musicians , visual artists , and filmmakers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ creative economy.
” Most spend a disproportionate amount of their time effectively running a small business , focussing on winning the attention war through “ the overlapping trio of self-marketing , self-promotion , and self-branding.
” Even established artists spend their days fielding requests to work for free or , worse yet , for “ exposure , ” which , Deresiewicz writes , is “ a synonym for nothing.
” As the novelist and essayist Alexander Chee explains , “ There ’ s an illusory ‘ made it ’ point , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has to worry about money .
It doesn ’ t exist unless you were born someone who didn ’ t ever have to worry about it.
” Maybe you think all this is simply what happens when improvident artists , determined to do what they love , finally face reality .
Deresiewicz wouldn ’ t entirely disagree ; art is “ not a job , not in the sense that anybody asked you to do it , ” he writes .
But artists “ do deserve to get paid for doing something you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Nor is there anything corrosive to the artistic program in seeking your just reward .
“ Wanting to get paid does not mean that you ’ re a capitalist , ” he writes .
“ It doesn ’ t even mean that you assent to capitalism .
It only means that you live in a capitalist society.
” He quotes the cartoonist and writer Molly Crabapple , who once argued that “ not talking about money is a tool of class war.
” There ’ s still plenty of money to be made @ @ @ @ @ @ @ music .
It ’ s just not being made by the creators .
Increasingly , their quest for personal artistic fulfillment is part of someone else ’ s racket .
When did money and art go their separate ways ?
Before there was a culture industry or an art market , there were the whims of élites , who saw art as just another outlet for their largesse .
Art—at least the traditions that comprise the Western canon—was once beholden to religious authority and political power , not critical of it .
Being @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other .
Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel because he was commissioned by the Pope .
Shakespeare was supported by wealthy patrons .
Even famous , sought-after artists couldn ’ t integrate themselves into the upper classes .
In the eighteenth century , art became a unified concept , “ a distinct realm of social activity not subordinate to any other , ” Deresiewicz writes .
Art , in the wake of the Enlightenment , became a kind of “ secular religion ” and , consequently , artists began viewing themselves as independent from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ archetype of the starving artist emerged , the visionary straying from the crowd , sacrificing economic well-being in order to carve out something new and special .
The Muses were no longer part of an antiquated religious cosmology but forces for creativity .
And yearnings that may once have strengthened one ’ s spiritual devotion found aesthetic outlets : “ Instead of looking in the Bible , you read Dostoyevsky , or listened to Wagner , or went to see an Ibsen play .
Libraries , theaters , museums , and concert halls @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you went to court the old emotions of catharsis , transcendence , redemption , and joy.
” In America , the New Deal ’ s mobilization of artists helped enshrine creative expression as a public good .
The institutionalization of art resulted in new standards and types of credentials ( M.F.A .
programs began only in the late thirties ) , as well as more nuanced distinctions between professionals and amateurs , high culture and low .
The twentieth-century proliferation of American music , writing , film , and visual art was nurtured @ @ @ @ @ @ @ key export during the Cold War—and by new industries that had arisen to manufacture , distribute , and sell such wares .
The sheer size of these industries up until the two-thousands guaranteed the livelihoods of a range of people—executives and managers , but also those engaged on the technical side of things , to say nothing of the mid-level hopefuls and critics ’ darlings whose careers were essentially bankrolled by a company ’ s superstars .
The Internet was supposed to free the artist , and to democratize and de-professionalize the practice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it did—while also demonetizing art itself .
Perhaps our shift in values can be traced to the emergence of file-sharing networks , like Napster or LimeWire , when a generation of consumers glimpsed the convenience and ease of digital culture .
I remember feeling faint the first time I used LimeWire , and convincing myself that this was the proper state of things : music was meant to be free and accessible .
Who needed a CD collection if you had a decent Internet connection and an up-to-date computer ?

In November, 2012, the Minnesota Department of Revenue notified the musician Venus DeMars that her tax returns would be audited. DeMars, a respected fixture in the Minneapolis rock scene, had performed since the mid-nineties as the lead singer of All the Pretty Horses, a moody, glam-inspired rock band. She and the group had released half a dozen albums and toured throughout the United States and abroad. Her accountant had deducted business expenses, such as money that had gone into touring and performance. But it quickly became apparent that the audit didn’t arise from any arithmetical errors. At stake was whether she was, indeed, an artist.
The state tax authorities found her claim dubious. In their view, someone putting most of her money into an endeavor that produced very little return couldn’t possibly be doing work. DeMars’s deductions were therefore illegitimate, she was told, and she owed nearly thirty-six hundred dollars in back taxes. Her legal fight took a year and a half and cost around twelve thousand dollars, which fans and fellow-artists helped her cover. In the end, the Department of Revenue relented; it even paid her a tax refund of around seventy dollars.
People generally don’t become artists for the money. In fact, they are probably drawn to art as a refuge from thinking about money in the first place. What they don’t bargain for is an inquisition calling into question the very reality of their day-to-day work as an artist. The vast majority of American artists are like DeMars, essentially freelancers who generate little in the way of profit. According to a 2018 survey conducted by the Music Industry Research Association, MusiCares, and the Princeton University Survey Research Center, American musicians earned a median income of twenty-one thousand three hundred dollars from their craft the previous year. A 2014 study by an arts advocacy organization showed that only ten per cent of America’s two million art-school graduates make their primary living as artists. Among those grads surveyed, working artists reported a median income of just over thirty-six thousand dollars. Before the implementation of some provisions of the Affordable Care Act, in 2013, it was estimated that forty-three per cent of artists lacked health insurance.
In the past, it was easy to blame the gatekeepers, such as publishing houses and record labels, for skimming off the profits that artists’ work generated. But those institutions are now in decline. There are more people writing books and recording music than ever before, more ways to find potential fans who might support your passion for calligraphy or painting portraits of other people’s pets. Every post on Twitter or TikTok is an easy, cost-free path to discovery for an upstart comedian, actor, or cinematographer. In “The Death of the Artist: How Creators Are Struggling to Survive in the Age of Billionaires and Big Tech” (Holt), the critic William Deresiewicz considers how we arrived at a situation in which it’s easier than ever to share your creativity with the world, and harder than ever to make a living doing so. He interviewed roughly a hundred and forty writers, musicians, visual artists, and filmmakers about their experiences working in the so-called “creative economy.” Most spend a disproportionate amount of their time effectively running a small business, focussing on winning the attention war through “the overlapping trio of self-marketing, self-promotion, and self-branding.” Even established artists spend their days fielding requests to work for free or, worse yet, for “exposure,” which, Deresiewicz writes, is “a synonym for nothing.” As the novelist and essayist Alexander Chee explains, “There’s an illusory ‘made it’ point, the point at which the writer no longer has to worry about money. It doesn’t exist unless you were born someone who didn’t ever have to worry about it.”
Maybe you think all this is simply what happens when improvident artists, determined to do what they love, finally face reality. Deresiewicz wouldn’t entirely disagree; art is “not a job, not in the sense that anybody asked you to do it,” he writes. But artists “do deserve to get paid for doing something you love, something other people love.” Nor is there anything corrosive to the artistic program in seeking your just reward. “Wanting to get paid does not mean that you’re a capitalist,” he writes. “It doesn’t even mean that you assent to capitalism. It only means that you live in a capitalist society.” He quotes the cartoonist and writer Molly Crabapple, who once argued that “not talking about money is a tool of class war.”
There’s still plenty of money to be made in art, or writing, or music. It’s just not being made by the creators. Increasingly, their quest for personal artistic fulfillment is part of someone else’s racket.
When did money and art go their separate ways? Before there was a culture industry or an art market, there were the whims of élites, who saw art as just another outlet for their largesse. Art—at least the traditions that comprise the Western canon—was once beholden to religious authority and political power, not critical of it. Being an artist was a job like any other. Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel because he was commissioned by the Pope. Shakespeare was supported by wealthy patrons. Even famous, sought-after artists couldn’t integrate themselves into the upper classes.
“News flash—shoulder-surgery patient’s wife can’t do anything right.” Cartoon by Kim Warp Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
In the eighteenth century, art became a unified concept, “a distinct realm of social activity not subordinate to any other,” Deresiewicz writes. Art, in the wake of the Enlightenment, became a kind of “secular religion” and, consequently, artists began viewing themselves as independent from the powerful or the holy. The archetype of the starving artist emerged, the visionary straying from the crowd, sacrificing economic well-being in order to carve out something new and special. The Muses were no longer part of an antiquated religious cosmology but forces for creativity. And yearnings that may once have strengthened one’s spiritual devotion found aesthetic outlets: “Instead of looking in the Bible, you read Dostoyevsky, or listened to Wagner, or went to see an Ibsen play. Libraries, theaters, museums, and concert halls became the new cathedrals, places where you went to court the old emotions of catharsis, transcendence, redemption, and joy.”
In America, the New Deal’s mobilization of artists helped enshrine creative expression as a public good. The institutionalization of art resulted in new standards and types of credentials (M.F.A. programs began only in the late thirties), as well as more nuanced distinctions between professionals and amateurs, high culture and low. The twentieth-century proliferation of American music, writing, film, and visual art was nurtured both by the state—American culture became a key export during the Cold War—and by new industries that had arisen to manufacture, distribute, and sell such wares. The sheer size of these industries up until the two-thousands guaranteed the livelihoods of a range of people—executives and managers, but also those engaged on the technical side of things, to say nothing of the mid-level hopefuls and critics’ darlings whose careers were essentially bankrolled by a company’s superstars.
The Internet was supposed to free the artist, and to democratize and de-professionalize the practice of art. In some measure, it did—while also demonetizing art itself. Perhaps our shift in values can be traced to the emergence of file-sharing networks, like Napster or LimeWire, when a generation of consumers glimpsed the convenience and ease of digital culture. I remember feeling faint the first time I used LimeWire, and convincing myself that this was the proper state of things: music was meant to be free and accessible. Who needed a CD collection if you had a decent Internet connection and an up-to-date computer?
The sheer volume of stuff on the Internet scrambled our sense of how art and artistic labor should be valued. As Deresiewicz constantly reminds us, “price is a signal of worth.” Furthermore, it was easy to focus on the exploitative record label, and rally behind the artists’ cry that their creativity was being stifled. It became much harder to feel scorn toward the company that was selling us our Internet connection or headphones or portable listening devices, even though they had almost completely infiltrated our lives. The shift to digital replaced the fusty, out-of-touch old business model with a new one that didn’t seem like a business at all. It was a platform, a device, a raft of free services. Deresiewicz writes about how the Electronic Frontier Foundation, which advocated for both privacy rights and the free flow of information, was partially founded by people in the tech industry. What you did on the Internet mattered less than the fact that you were there all the time.


newyorker--2020-09-07--The Joys of Nineteenth-Century French Drawings

“ Lines from Life : French Drawings from the Diamond Collection , ” at the Clark Art Institute , in Williamstown , Massachusetts , is a pleasant show of forty-three drawings and a lithograph , largely middling studies for figure paintings , by thirty-three nineteenth-century French artists , some of whom were unfamiliar to me .
I loved it !
It proved to be just my speed as I return to savoring art in person after half a year ’ s diet of digital gruel .
( The pandemic has schooled us , by deprivation , in the indispensable materiality @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) Thirty-two of the drawings , many of them gifts to the Clark , were collected by Herbert and Carol Diamond , who have a house near Williamstown and exercise generally conservative taste with catchy zeal .
Styles in the show range from orthodox figure studies , favored by the École des Beaux-Arts , in Paris , and the Académie de France , in Rome , to examples of Realism and early onsets of Symbolism .
There aren ’ t many surprises in the works by the show ’ s big names—Ingres , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Millet , Redon , Toulouse-Lautrec , Cézanne—but one , by an artist who is little regarded now , Jean-François Raffaëlli , “ Man in the City ’ s Outskirts ” ( circa 1885 ) , stands out .
The energetic limning , in black chalk and pastels , of a rough workman feels poised at an eclectic intersection of Realism , Impressionism , and Symbolism , and hints at the raw expressiveness that Edvard Munch would unclench a few years later .
In 1880 and 1881 , Edgar Degas tried to induct @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Impressionists , over grumbling from the group .
An artist whom Claude Monet disdained as a “ dauber ” here merits a consolatory star turn .
The show ’ s charm , over all , resides in the purity of its preoccupations .
The Diamonds aren ’ t trophy hunters .
They respond to personalities , cherishing the signature qualities , rather than the crowning feats , of artists who made nineteenth-century Paris the global epicenter of contemporary art , powered by one competitive , temporarily commanding manner after another .
( All @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Think of the selections as notes in bottles washed up from a land bygone , such as Atlantis . )
I felt admitted to backstage company with both marquee thespians and creditable troupers .
During my visit , I spent only a little time with the Clark ’ s terrific permanent collections—notably , in Impressionism and nineteenth-century American art—because I was in a mood less for Sunday punches than for the gentle touches of a show that suited a tranquil weekday afternoon .
But I paid renewed reverence to the jewel in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ della Francesca ’ s “ Virgin and Child Enthroned with Four Angels ” ( circa 1460-70 ) , the most consummate of Madonnas .
Under Mary ’ s gaze , the naked baby Jesus reaches toward a symbol of the Crucifixion , attended by hauntingly cognizant angels .
By contrast , the drawings , as drawings will , let me pursue thoughts about how art comes to be before it turns ceremonious .
To put it clumsily , I did connoisseurship—anyone can ; it ’ s calisthenics for sensitivity—which is always more fun @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Masterpieces traffic in the inexplicable . )
It avails best with drawings , which speak directly from the artist in pre- and mid-creation , hatching little big bangs of ideas that any finished work tends to diffuse .
We can register the makers ’ period sensibilities , with resemblances to other art , and winkle out differences , the subtler the better .
The Clark ’ s show reinvigorates the old story of a sea change in French cultural fashion from Beaux-Arts artifice to modes of engagement with lived reality .
Senses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ never have got more of a kick from less to look at than I did with a sheet of undated , faint pencil sketches , “ Women in the Garden , ” crudely outlined figures with fugitive indications of a background , that probably took Camille Pissarro about twenty seconds to dash off .
I relished a break from the blank ground—the idealist non-atmosphere—of images like the one by Alexandre Cabanel , “ Study for Florentine Poet ” ( circa 1853 ) , of a carefully posed prone figure .
Pissarro immediately activates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ edge : the modern picture .
The trifle is like a little pill that , dropped in the proper liquid , could exfoliate a world .
I imagined glimpsing it among other scraps on a studio visit to Pissarro—a fantasy spurred by the Diamonds ’ spirit of infectious fandom .
Two minuscule mythological drawings , on a single sheet , by Théodore Géricault , of the rape of Antiope by Jupiter , riveted me .
They date from roughly 1815-16 , shortly before this supreme artist began work on “ The Raft of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his colossal canvas , a touchstone of the Louvre , that dramatizes desperation , death , and cannibalism among survivors of an 1816 shipwreck off the northwest coast of Africa .
In the drawings , a god grapples with a lividly naked nymph .
The clarities of mass in pictorial depth , achieved with sharply contrasting dark and light , that sculpturally define the convulsive action and turn its scale from tiny in the eye to monumental in the mind astonish .
( Is the subject upsetting ?
Upset was Géricault ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anew at his death , in 1824 , from a slew of maladies , at the age of thirty-two .
With psychological acuity to match his vehemence , and ambition pitched to the skies , he seemed destined to reach the unexplored far shores of Romanticism—imagination flooded with subjectivity while addressing subjects of real-world importance ( he had plans for an epic composition on the African slave trade ) —and perhaps beyond , to something we will never know .
Absent him , leadership in the movement fell to Eugène Delacroix , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inspired occasion , tended toward formulaic theatrics that needed critical boosterism from Charles Baudelaire to ennoble them .
The show includes two Delacroix drawings , one of which is an entertaining melee , like a mud wrestle , with motifs from Rubens .
There are lovely things , such as the portrait drawing ( circa 1867 ) of a young woman by Degas , striking for the Ingres-esque , crisp contour of the softly appealing face .
That kind of decisive line had intoxicated artists of Ingres ’ s time , for good @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ Drawing is the probity of art.
” Bushwa .
No one ever drew better , but to a befuddling effect that allowed him to get away with high-handed distortions of the human anatomy .
( You must look long and skeptically at Ingres ’ s paintings to detect the weirdnesses . )
But I understand the yen , reported to me by a friend who has seen the show , to steal and take home the artist ’ s “ A Couple Embracing ” ( circa 1813-14 ) , a tender @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ingres ’ s linear sorcery is addictive .
Degas would integrate it into more spontaneous forms—again , modern pictures—with a pertinacity that is prophesied by a sheet of five overlapping studies , from 1856 , of , presumably , his own left hand .
( I ’ d filch that . )
The most enjoyable of the show ’ s conservative works , made in 1867 by Jean-Léon Gérôme , perches Napoleon comfortably on camelback .
Others rouse more scholarly than aesthetic interest , though with fealty to the Diamonds ’ passion for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a century ’ s vogues in figuration .
Then there ’ s the always happy shock of Berthe Morisot , who is represented by a small pencil rendering , “ Marthe Givaudan ” ( circa 1890-91 ) , of a smartly dressed woman which is as economical in form as a calling card .
Since seeing a Morisot retrospective at the Barnes Foundation , in Philadelphia , in 2018 , I ’ ve been in on a widely shared awakening to the singularity of the distaff Impressionist , who subliminally opposed her male @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as spectacle , with truths attesting to the inward as well as the outward poetics of female existence .
Morisot ’ s perspicacity and unique liberties of brushwork deserve inclusion among the movement ’ s established stylistic repertoires .
The sexism of the period had to have been merciless to marginalize her .
Observe the impact in the Clark ’ s permanent collection of a Morisot painting , “ The Bath ” ( 1885-86 ) , amid several girly Renoirs : it ’ s like a blast of vitality in a wax museum @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arbitrarily fussy things with their hands .
Morisot ’ s puts up her hair , anchoring in immediate experience the work ’ s lambent lyricism .
What makes anyone draw one line and then add another ?
How does the second affect the first and determine the character of a third and a fourth ?
Drawings are commonly understood as process rather than product : things aborning .
Do we take a rooting interest in the efforts—binding us to artists as personal heroes of wit and skill , if only for an instant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the decisions unfolding on the page bore us ?
( This , at least , affords us the wan joy of feeling smart . )
Context enlivens .
The concentration of a show , like the Clark ’ s , on the predilections of specific collectors , committed to specific categories , fosters a conversation that is already under way when we join it .
Intimacy reigns : talents are unmasked , social distancing is forgotten .
♦

“Lines from Life: French Drawings from the Diamond Collection,” at the Clark Art Institute, in Williamstown, Massachusetts, is a pleasant show of forty-three drawings and a lithograph, largely middling studies for figure paintings, by thirty-three nineteenth-century French artists, some of whom were unfamiliar to me. I loved it! It proved to be just my speed as I return to savoring art in person after half a year’s diet of digital gruel. (The pandemic has schooled us, by deprivation, in the indispensable materiality of art works as made things.) Thirty-two of the drawings, many of them gifts to the Clark, were collected by Herbert and Carol Diamond, who have a house near Williamstown and exercise generally conservative taste with catchy zeal. Styles in the show range from orthodox figure studies, favored by the École des Beaux-Arts, in Paris, and the Académie de France, in Rome, to examples of Realism and early onsets of Symbolism. There aren’t many surprises in the works by the show’s big names—Ingres, Géricault, Delacroix, Degas, Morisot, Millet, Redon, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne—but one, by an artist who is little regarded now, Jean-François Raffaëlli, “Man in the City’s Outskirts” (circa 1885), stands out. The energetic limning, in black chalk and pastels, of a rough workman feels poised at an eclectic intersection of Realism, Impressionism, and Symbolism, and hints at the raw expressiveness that Edvard Munch would unclench a few years later. In 1880 and 1881, Edgar Degas tried to induct Raffaëlli into the inner circle of the Impressionists, over grumbling from the group. An artist whom Claude Monet disdained as a “dauber” here merits a consolatory star turn.
“Antiope Ravished by Jupiter,” by Théodore Géricault, circa 1815-16. Photograph from Thomas Clark / Clark Art Institute / Art work courtesy Collection of Herbert and Carol Diamond
“Antiope Ravished by Jupiter,” by Théodore Géricault, circa 1815-16. Photograph from Thomas Clark / Clark Art Institute / Art work courtesy Collection of Herbert and Carol Diamond
The show’s charm, over all, resides in the purity of its preoccupations. The Diamonds aren’t trophy hunters. They respond to personalities, cherishing the signature qualities, rather than the crowning feats, of artists who made nineteenth-century Paris the global epicenter of contemporary art, powered by one competitive, temporarily commanding manner after another. (All but one of the artists are men. Think of the selections as notes in bottles washed up from a land bygone, such as Atlantis.) I felt admitted to backstage company with both marquee thespians and creditable troupers. During my visit, I spent only a little time with the Clark’s terrific permanent collections—notably, in Impressionism and nineteenth-century American art—because I was in a mood less for Sunday punches than for the gentle touches of a show that suited a tranquil weekday afternoon. But I paid renewed reverence to the jewel in the Clark’s crown, Piero della Francesca’s “Virgin and Child Enthroned with Four Angels” (circa 1460-70), the most consummate of Madonnas. Under Mary’s gaze, the naked baby Jesus reaches toward a symbol of the Crucifixion, attended by hauntingly cognizant angels. By contrast, the drawings, as drawings will, let me pursue thoughts about how art comes to be before it turns ceremonious.
To put it clumsily, I did connoisseurship—anyone can; it’s calisthenics for sensitivity—which is always more fun with minor than with major art. (Masterpieces traffic in the inexplicable.) It avails best with drawings, which speak directly from the artist in pre- and mid-creation, hatching little big bangs of ideas that any finished work tends to diffuse. We can register the makers’ period sensibilities, with resemblances to other art, and winkle out differences, the subtler the better. The Clark’s show reinvigorates the old story of a sea change in French cultural fashion from Beaux-Arts artifice to modes of engagement with lived reality. Senses of space evinced this. I may never have got more of a kick from less to look at than I did with a sheet of undated, faint pencil sketches, “Women in the Garden,” crudely outlined figures with fugitive indications of a background, that probably took Camille Pissarro about twenty seconds to dash off. I relished a break from the blank ground—the idealist non-atmosphere—of images like the one by Alexandre Cabanel, “Study for Florentine Poet” (circa 1853), of a carefully posed prone figure. Pissarro immediately activates an entire surface, from edge to edge: the modern picture. The trifle is like a little pill that, dropped in the proper liquid, could exfoliate a world. I imagined glimpsing it among other scraps on a studio visit to Pissarro—a fantasy spurred by the Diamonds’ spirit of infectious fandom.
“A Couple Embracing,” by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, circa 1813-14. Photograph from Clark Art Institute / Art work courtesy Collection of Herbert and Carol Diamond
Two minuscule mythological drawings, on a single sheet, by Théodore Géricault, of the rape of Antiope by Jupiter, riveted me. They date from roughly 1815-16, shortly before this supreme artist began work on “The Raft of the Medusa” (1819), his colossal canvas, a touchstone of the Louvre, that dramatizes desperation, death, and cannibalism among survivors of an 1816 shipwreck off the northwest coast of Africa. In the drawings, a god grapples with a lividly naked nymph. The clarities of mass in pictorial depth, achieved with sharply contrasting dark and light, that sculpturally define the convulsive action and turn its scale from tiny in the eye to monumental in the mind astonish. (Is the subject upsetting? Upset was Géricault’s flywheel.) I found myself aching anew at his death, in 1824, from a slew of maladies, at the age of thirty-two. With psychological acuity to match his vehemence, and ambition pitched to the skies, he seemed destined to reach the unexplored far shores of Romanticism—imagination flooded with subjectivity while addressing subjects of real-world importance (he had plans for an epic composition on the African slave trade)—and perhaps beyond, to something we will never know. Absent him, leadership in the movement fell to Eugène Delacroix, a virtuoso with paint who, except on inspired occasion, tended toward formulaic theatrics that needed critical boosterism from Charles Baudelaire to ennoble them. The show includes two Delacroix drawings, one of which is an entertaining melee, like a mud wrestle, with motifs from Rubens.
There are lovely things, such as the portrait drawing (circa 1867) of a young woman by Degas, striking for the Ingres-esque, crisp contour of the softly appealing face. That kind of decisive line had intoxicated artists of Ingres’s time, for good and for strange. Ingres famously said, “Drawing is the probity of art.” Bushwa. No one ever drew better, but to a befuddling effect that allowed him to get away with high-handed distortions of the human anatomy. (You must look long and skeptically at Ingres’s paintings to detect the weirdnesses.) But I understand the yen, reported to me by a friend who has seen the show, to steal and take home the artist’s “A Couple Embracing” (circa 1813-14), a tender subject seized upon with chilly efficiency. Ingres’s linear sorcery is addictive. Degas would integrate it into more spontaneous forms—again, modern pictures—with a pertinacity that is prophesied by a sheet of five overlapping studies, from 1856, of, presumably, his own left hand. (I’d filch that.) The most enjoyable of the show’s conservative works, made in 1867 by Jean-Léon Gérôme, perches Napoleon comfortably on camelback. Others rouse more scholarly than aesthetic interest, though with fealty to the Diamonds’ passion for facts, not retroactive opinions, of a century’s vogues in figuration.
Then there’s the always happy shock of Berthe Morisot, who is represented by a small pencil rendering, “Marthe Givaudan” (circa 1890-91), of a smartly dressed woman which is as economical in form as a calling card. Since seeing a Morisot retrospective at the Barnes Foundation, in Philadelphia, in 2018, I’ve been in on a widely shared awakening to the singularity of the distaff Impressionist, who subliminally opposed her male peers, and their treatment of women as spectacle, with truths attesting to the inward as well as the outward poetics of female existence. Morisot’s perspicacity and unique liberties of brushwork deserve inclusion among the movement’s established stylistic repertoires. The sexism of the period had to have been merciless to marginalize her. Observe the impact in the Clark’s permanent collection of a Morisot painting, “The Bath” (1885-86), amid several girly Renoirs: it’s like a blast of vitality in a wax museum. Renoir’s rosy-fleshed models do arbitrarily fussy things with their hands. Morisot’s puts up her hair, anchoring in immediate experience the work’s lambent lyricism.
What makes anyone draw one line and then add another? How does the second affect the first and determine the character of a third and a fourth? Drawings are commonly understood as process rather than product: things aborning. Do we take a rooting interest in the efforts—binding us to artists as personal heroes of wit and skill, if only for an instant? Or does something rote or predictable in the decisions unfolding on the page bore us? (This, at least, affords us the wan joy of feeling smart.) Context enlivens. The concentration of a show, like the Clark’s, on the predilections of specific collectors, committed to specific categories, fosters a conversation that is already under way when we join it. Intimacy reigns: talents are unmasked, social distancing is forgotten. ♦


newyorker--2020-09-07--“I have slept in many places, for years on mattresses that entered,” by Diane Seuss

I have slept in many places , for years on mattresses that entered my life via nothing but luck , as a child on wet sheets , I could not contain myself , as a teen on the bed where my father ate his last pomegranate , among crickets and chicken bones in ditches , in the bare grass on the lavish grounds of a crumbling castle , in a flapping German circus tent , in a lean-to , my head on the belly of a sick calf , in a terrible darkness where a shrew tried to stay afloat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a blue belfry , on a pink couch being eaten from the inside by field mice , on bare floorboards by TV light with Mikel on Locust Place , on an amber throne of cockroach casings , on a carpet of needles from a cemetery pine , in a clubhouse circled by crab-apple trees with high-school boys who are now members of a megachurch , in a hotel bathtub in St. Augustine after a sip from the Fountain of Youth , cold on a cliff ’ s edge , passed out cold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bed holding my lamb like an army of lilacs .

Audio: Read by the author.
I have slept in many places, for years on mattresses that entered
my life via nothing but luck, as a child on wet sheets, I could not
contain myself, as a teen on the bed where my father ate his last
pomegranate, among crickets and chicken bones in ditches, in the bare
grass on the lavish grounds of a crumbling castle, in a flapping German
circus tent, in a lean-to, my head on the belly of a sick calf, in a terrible
darkness where a shrew tried to stay afloat in a bucket of well water,
in a blue belfry, on a pink couch being eaten from the inside by field mice,
on bare floorboards by TV light with Mikel on Locust Place, on an amber
throne of cockroach casings, on a carpet of needles from a cemetery pine,
in a clubhouse circled by crab-apple trees with high-school boys who are
now members of a megachurch, in a hotel bathtub in St. Augustine after
a sip from the Fountain of Youth, cold on a cliff’s edge, passed out cold
on train tracks, in a hospital bed holding my lamb like an army of lilacs.