newyorker--2020-06-29--Michaela Coel’s Chaos and Charisma in HBO’s “I May Destroy You”

Who hasn ’ t been there ?
A deadline looms , but inspiration won ’ t come .
In the pilot of “ I May Destroy You , ” a mesmerizing twelve-episode series for HBO and BBC One , written and co-directed by the aggressively free-minded Michaela Coel , Arabella ( Coel ) , a young East London writer who owes her book agents a draft , abandons her laptop and slips into the night—just for an hour .
She and an acquaintance drift to a place called Ego Death Bar .
A late-night crew parties and shares a round @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the bar begins to disintegrate and blur .
Arabella dizzily claws her way to the door .
Is the scene comedic ?
Then a temporal blackness : Arabella bolts awake at her writing desk , a gash on her forehead .
Somehow , she meets her deadline , but the next day a reel of horrible action colonizes her brain : a man , sweating and panting , thrusting in a bathroom stall .
It will be a while before she can acknowledge that the image is a memory .
Many of us @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is thirty-two , was born to Ghanaian parents and grew up in East London public housing with her mother and sister .
A prodigiously talented writer , director , showrunner , and actor , she has an anthropological interest in all kinds of physical congress , in what happens when one body encounters another .
In 2015 , she made “ Chewing Gum , ” a joyful series adapted from a one-woman play she wrote while in acting school , in which she portrayed Tracey Gordon , an awkward virgin fanatically attempting to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ entrance into womanhood is a cringe comedy : dressed in nauseating tribal costume , she dances for a white paramour , the seduction a hilarious failure of grunts and flailing limbs .
Coel is an astonishingly inventive physical performer ; a cerebral clown , she brings to mind , in her wiriness , and her willingness to contort her angular face , both Lucille Ball and Kim Wayans .
Coel treats sex as slapstick and desire as an embarrassment , and finds a freedom in abjection .
This black woman can not live @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Like “ Chewing Gum , ” which drew on an early-adult dalliance Coel had with Christianity , “ I May Destroy You ” is a semi-fictional portrait of the artist and her social world .
In 2018 , Coel revealed that she had been drugged and assaulted while working on Season 2 of “ Chewing Gum.
” Arabella , like Coel until a few years ago , lives in a cluttered East London flat with a gentle white male roommate , Ben ( Stephen Wight ) , who supports her like a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sam Miller direct the series with an unaffected intimacy—we hardly notice how many shots of Arabella feature her sitting on the toilet , her panties hugging her calves .
Arabella has improvised a family in her mates Kwame ( Paapa Essiedu ) , a gay aerobics instructor with a Grindr addiction , and Terry ( Weruche Opia ) , an aspiring actress .
The world of these characters , who have scrambled together their own avant-garde , feels lived-in .
Combat boots are scuffed ; there ’ s not a lot of money @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , flirted with , consumed .
Arabella carries with her a trippy ikat-print bomber jacket like a comfort blanket , and loves her pink ombré wig like someone who ’ s been told that she alone can get away with wearing such a flashy thing .
Essiedu and Opia are understated and frequently superb , while Coel channels her enormous energy into a standout performance .
A wreck of charisma , Arabella dodges inquiries about the status of her book , willing her white agents into shell-shocked submission .
At a trashy night @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Arabella sojourns with Terry on the publishing agency ’ s dime , she gets high on “ ket ” and coke and upstages the go-go dancers .
She lives precariously , attracting bemused protectors ; as she staggers out of the night club , the moralizing drug dealer Biagio ( Marouane Zotti ) follows her home , picking up the house keys that she drops , and later becomes her on-off boyfriend .
As ever , in Coel ’ s hands , cheer can turn to darkness in an instant .
Soon after @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Arabella , realizing what must have happened , calls Terry : “ Yo , T. , I just got spiked , you know.
” At the police station , she describes to two kindly female officers the image that has been replaying in her mind .
“ Who is he looking at ?
” one of the policewomen asks .
Arabella , who has been quipping and alert , suddenly shrinks and crumbles , hiding her face in her sweater .
Arabella ’ s philosophy of art is distinct from that of her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she tells another writer , “ Everyone on Twitter was , like , ‘ You should make a book.
’ ” For Arabella—the author of the self-published “ Chronicles of a Fed-Up Millennial , ” drawn from her viral tweets—writing is either something to avoid or an act of improvisational bombast .
Her black fans often stop her on the street , shouting her pithy sayings back to her .
Coel , by contrast , a meticulous psychological observer , resists rhetoric ; her ear is so attuned to the rhythm of East @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shit to one another , it feels not written but overheard .
“ I May Destroy You ” is a beguiling study of friendship and casual trauma and writing as a path—albeit not a simple one—to reinvention .
The arc of the narrative deals with the aftermath of Arabella ’ s assault .
She tries not to dwell on it .
“ I just make sure I ’ m around someone , anyone , ” she tells her therapist .
“ If I ’ m not , I say , ‘ There are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has a smartphone.
” On the therapist ’ s advice , she takes up painting .
She experiences panic on seeing a waiter serve glasses of water in a hotel lobby .
She shaves her head , then goes back to the wig .
Her symptoms blend into the usual chaos of her adult life , becoming baggage and also momentum .
“ I May Destroy You ” embraces sprawling tangents , and these further furnish its nonjudgmental world view .
Two episodes take us back to Arabella ’ s adolescence , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protectors of the entitled black teen-age boys around them .
In another episode , an adult Arabella grapples with the memory of her rolling-stone father ’ s infidelity .
Coel exerts a kinetic control over the story ’ s many threads and characters—especially the calm Kwame , the attitudinal opposite of Arabella , who is also a victim of sexual assault .
The tone is never stable .
“ I May Destroy You ” is a hangout vehicle , a detective story , a nonlinear travelogue , and a comic bildungsroman .
Because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ black queer people , I could say that the show is political , but mostly the writing steers away from didacticism .
It resides in the gray areas of the post-liberation sexual economy : the punishingly banal moment when a consensual hookup between two men turns forceful ; the awkward atmosphere when a gay black man goes stealth , thinking that he can find safety in a white woman , who , in turn , fetishizes black men .
In “ I May Destroy You , ” violation is the omnipresent , cultural @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and refuses to infantilize or pity the victims .
In the fourth episode , Arabella ’ s exasperated agents suggest that she confer with a Cambridge graduate , Zain ( Karan Gill ) , also a writer .
At the meeting , Arabella blushes as he finishes her sentences .
The two end up having sex ; Zain removes the condom without Arabella ’ s consent .
At first , Arabella is merely annoyed that she has to take a morning-after pill , and they start dating .
But later , listening @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Arabella concludes that Zain breached a boundary .
At an event for writers hosted by her publishing company , she takes the stage and outs him publicly .
“ He is a rapist , ” she says , high on her strange new power .
“ Not rape-adjacent , or a bit rape-y—he ’ s a rapist.
” Her dramatic speech breaks the Internet , and she becomes a sort of rape-survivor influencer , a phenomenon of our confused time .
Isn ’ t it the dark genius of many black women artists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Her gift is the ability to create communion around the particularities of her race , her gender , her voice .
When Arabella suggests that she pivot the topic of her book , her publisher , a haughty black woman , shouts , “ Rape !
Fantastic !
” Later , Arabella develops a queasy friendship with an old high-school acquaintance , Theo ( portrayed with eerie subtlety by Harriet Webb and , in flashback , Gaby French ) , who runs a therapy group for sexual-assault survivors , and who similarly draws @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so-called # MeToo era , there is a basic hunger for narratives of sexual assault and consent .
How can artists maintain their creative dignity when encouraged to exploit their own selves ?
Coel ’ s honest mimicry of empowerment talk , and her depiction of the murky appeal of the social-media outrage cycle , at times approach the satirical .
Toward the end of the series , some of its daring tonal ambiguity is lost , as plotlines are coerced into social commentary .
But at its best this show is abrasively @ @ @ @ @ @ @ good art can be , “ triggering , ” because it sounds and feels and moves the way we do .
In Coel ’ s universe , as in ours , pleasurable experiences are everywhere imperilled , always risky , always subject to audit .
And yet we yearn for experience .
We tend toward survival and evolution .
We put our trauma to use .
We finish the goddam book .
♦

Who hasn’t been there? A deadline looms, but inspiration won’t come. In the pilot of “I May Destroy You,” a mesmerizing twelve-episode series for HBO and BBC One, written and co-directed by the aggressively free-minded Michaela Coel, Arabella (Coel), a young East London writer who owes her book agents a draft, abandons her laptop and slips into the night—just for an hour. She and an acquaintance drift to a place called Ego Death Bar. A late-night crew parties and shares a round of shots. At some point, the bar begins to disintegrate and blur. Arabella dizzily claws her way to the door. Is the scene comedic? Then a temporal blackness: Arabella bolts awake at her writing desk, a gash on her forehead. Somehow, she meets her deadline, but the next day a reel of horrible action colonizes her brain: a man, sweating and panting, thrusting in a bathroom stall. It will be a while before she can acknowledge that the image is a memory. Many of us have been there.
Coel, who is thirty-two, was born to Ghanaian parents and grew up in East London public housing with her mother and sister. A prodigiously talented writer, director, showrunner, and actor, she has an anthropological interest in all kinds of physical congress, in what happens when one body encounters another. In 2015, she made “Chewing Gum,” a joyful series adapted from a one-woman play she wrote while in acting school, in which she portrayed Tracey Gordon, an awkward virgin fanatically attempting to shed her chastity. Tracey’s entrance into womanhood is a cringe comedy: dressed in nauseating tribal costume, she dances for a white paramour, the seduction a hilarious failure of grunts and flailing limbs. Coel is an astonishingly inventive physical performer; a cerebral clown, she brings to mind, in her wiriness, and her willingness to contort her angular face, both Lucille Ball and Kim Wayans. Coel treats sex as slapstick and desire as an embarrassment, and finds a freedom in abjection. This black woman cannot live, or create, in the margins.
Like “Chewing Gum,” which drew on an early-adult dalliance Coel had with Christianity, “I May Destroy You” is a semi-fictional portrait of the artist and her social world. In 2018, Coel revealed that she had been drugged and assaulted while working on Season 2 of “Chewing Gum.” Arabella, like Coel until a few years ago, lives in a cluttered East London flat with a gentle white male roommate, Ben (Stephen Wight), who supports her like a piece of old furniture. Coel and Sam Miller direct the series with an unaffected intimacy—we hardly notice how many shots of Arabella feature her sitting on the toilet, her panties hugging her calves. Arabella has improvised a family in her mates Kwame (Paapa Essiedu), a gay aerobics instructor with a Grindr addiction, and Terry (Weruche Opia), an aspiring actress. The world of these characters, who have scrambled together their own avant-garde, feels lived-in. Combat boots are scuffed; there’s not a lot of money, but everyone wants to be seen, flirted with, consumed. Arabella carries with her a trippy ikat-print bomber jacket like a comfort blanket, and loves her pink ombré wig like someone who’s been told that she alone can get away with wearing such a flashy thing.
Essiedu and Opia are understated and frequently superb, while Coel channels her enormous energy into a standout performance. A wreck of charisma, Arabella dodges inquiries about the status of her book, willing her white agents into shell-shocked submission. At a trashy night club in Ostia, Italy, where Arabella sojourns with Terry on the publishing agency’s dime, she gets high on “ket” and coke and upstages the go-go dancers. She lives precariously, attracting bemused protectors; as she staggers out of the night club, the moralizing drug dealer Biagio (Marouane Zotti) follows her home, picking up the house keys that she drops, and later becomes her on-off boyfriend. As ever, in Coel’s hands, cheer can turn to darkness in an instant. Soon after her night at Ego Death Bar, Arabella, realizing what must have happened, calls Terry: “Yo, T., I just got spiked, you know.” At the police station, she describes to two kindly female officers the image that has been replaying in her mind. “Who is he looking at?” one of the policewomen asks. Arabella, who has been quipping and alert, suddenly shrinks and crumbles, hiding her face in her sweater.
Arabella’s philosophy of art is distinct from that of her creator. Explaining her career path, she tells another writer, “Everyone on Twitter was, like, ‘You should make a book.’ ” For Arabella—the author of the self-published “Chronicles of a Fed-Up Millennial,” drawn from her viral tweets—writing is either something to avoid or an act of improvisational bombast. Her black fans often stop her on the street, shouting her pithy sayings back to her. Coel, by contrast, a meticulous psychological observer, resists rhetoric; her ear is so attuned to the rhythm of East London chatter that, when characters talk shit to one another, it feels not written but overheard.
“I May Destroy You” is a beguiling study of friendship and casual trauma and writing as a path—albeit not a simple one—to reinvention. The arc of the narrative deals with the aftermath of Arabella’s assault. She tries not to dwell on it. “I just make sure I’m around someone, anyone,” she tells her therapist. “If I’m not, I say, ‘There are hungry children . . . not everyone has a smartphone.” On the therapist’s advice, she takes up painting. She experiences panic on seeing a waiter serve glasses of water in a hotel lobby. She shaves her head, then goes back to the wig. Her symptoms blend into the usual chaos of her adult life, becoming baggage and also momentum. “I May Destroy You” embraces sprawling tangents, and these further furnish its nonjudgmental world view. Two episodes take us back to Arabella’s adolescence, in which she and Terry act as unwitting protectors of the entitled black teen-age boys around them. In another episode, an adult Arabella grapples with the memory of her rolling-stone father’s infidelity. Coel exerts a kinetic control over the story’s many threads and characters—especially the calm Kwame, the attitudinal opposite of Arabella, who is also a victim of sexual assault. The tone is never stable. “I May Destroy You” is a hangout vehicle, a detective story, a nonlinear travelogue, and a comic bildungsroman. Because Coel focusses on hustling black women and black queer people, I could say that the show is political, but mostly the writing steers away from didacticism. It resides in the gray areas of the post-liberation sexual economy: the punishingly banal moment when a consensual hookup between two men turns forceful; the awkward atmosphere when a gay black man goes stealth, thinking that he can find safety in a white woman, who, in turn, fetishizes black men.
In “I May Destroy You,” violation is the omnipresent, cultural weather. Coel treats perpetrators with curiosity, and refuses to infantilize or pity the victims. In the fourth episode, Arabella’s exasperated agents suggest that she confer with a Cambridge graduate, Zain (Karan Gill), also a writer. At the meeting, Arabella blushes as he finishes her sentences. The two end up having sex; Zain removes the condom without Arabella’s consent. At first, Arabella is merely annoyed that she has to take a morning-after pill, and they start dating. But later, listening to a podcast for sexual-assault survivors, Arabella concludes that Zain breached a boundary. At an event for writers hosted by her publishing company, she takes the stage and outs him publicly. “He is a rapist,” she says, high on her strange new power. “Not rape-adjacent, or a bit rape-y—he’s a rapist.” Her dramatic speech breaks the Internet, and she becomes a sort of rape-survivor influencer, a phenomenon of our confused time. Isn’t it the dark genius of many black women artists to turn their hardship into material? Her gift is the ability to create communion around the particularities of her race, her gender, her voice. When Arabella suggests that she pivot the topic of her book, her publisher, a haughty black woman, shouts, “Rape! Fantastic!” Later, Arabella develops a queasy friendship with an old high-school acquaintance, Theo (portrayed with eerie subtlety by Harriet Webb and, in flashback, Gaby French), who runs a therapy group for sexual-assault survivors, and who similarly draws on victimhood for affirmation.
In the so-called #MeToo era, there is a basic hunger for narratives of sexual assault and consent. How can artists maintain their creative dignity when encouraged to exploit their own selves? Coel’s honest mimicry of empowerment talk, and her depiction of the murky appeal of the social-media outrage cycle, at times approach the satirical. Toward the end of the series, some of its daring tonal ambiguity is lost, as plotlines are coerced into social commentary. But at its best this show is abrasively psychological; it is, as all good art can be, “triggering,” because it sounds and feels and moves the way we do. In Coel’s universe, as in ours, pleasurable experiences are everywhere imperilled, always risky, always subject to audit. And yet we yearn for experience. We tend toward survival and evolution. We put our trauma to use. We finish the goddam book. ♦


newyorker--2020-06-29--The Coronavirus Pandemic’s Wider Health-Care Crisis

Gwen Darien is a three-time cancer survivor .
When she was thirty-five , she was diagnosed with lymphoma ; in her fifties , she was treated for breast cancer ; two years ago , she learned that she had endometrial cancer .
With curly black hair and an indomitable personality , she embodies vibrancy , courage , and resilience .
Even so , last month , when she received a call from her doctor ’ s office about an upcoming visit , she decided to postpone it indefinitely .
“ I was very unnerved , ” she told me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
First , I ’ d have to get transportation—Uber or train or subway .
Then I ’ d have to walk into the doctor ’ s office , near a hospital with COVID-19 patients .
Then I ’ d have to be in the office with other people , even if they are socially distanced .
I ’ d much rather just wait.
” During the pandemic , many patients and physicians have felt this kind of hesitation .
Some people with chronic illnesses , fearful of entering a medical setting or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doctors altogether .
Others have tried to make appointments but found clinics closed and routine care suspended .
At many hospitals , non-urgent or “ elective ” care has been postponed for months .
It ’ s difficult to say for sure what the effects of such postponements have been and will be .
But statistics show that , across the United States , so-called excess deaths—deaths beyond those that are historically typical—have surged .
Although many of these deaths can be attributed to COVID-19 , delayed or cancelled care is probably a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of death certificates shows that a fifth of the twenty-four thousand excess deaths that occurred in New York City between March 11th and May 2nd were caused by factors other than COVID-19 ; according to a study currently in pre-publication review , hospitals saw a thirty-eight-per-cent drop in serious heart-attack cases in March alone , suggesting that even people with acute , life-threatening illnesses have been avoiding medical visits .
( The American College of Cardiology has gone so far as to issue a statement urging people to seek medical attention if they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A nationwide survey conducted in April found that a quarter of cancer patients receiving active treatment had seen their care delayed .
Ultimately , it ’ s not just people with COVID-19 who are suffering ; those with other illnesses are affected by the pandemic , too .
The coronavirus crisis itself continues to deepen .
Although the first peak has passed in a few major cities , cases have held steady in many parts of the country and are rising in twenty-six states .
North Carolina saw its highest single-day increase in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Arizona , and Texas saw record spikes this week .
Some of this growth reflects increased testing , but , in many places , deaths caused by the virus are also rising—a sign that the spike is real and not a statistical artefact .
The U.S. still records more than thirty thousand new cases each day ; according to projections from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention , the national death toll could reach a hundred and forty thousand by the Fourth of July ; the country ’ s public-health response @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and contact tracing ; and mass protests and planned reopenings , which are continuing despite the risks , have given the virus new breathing room .
America as a whole seems to have entered a long viral plateau .
The pandemic is now a rolling collection of mini-epidemics that surge and subside as the virus bobs and weaves its way across the country .
It will be a long time before life returns to normal .
The persistence of the pandemic is creating serious challenges , many of them unforeseen , for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , many hospitals were in precarious financial condition : in 2018 , the average hospital had a two-per-cent operating margin and less than two months of cash on hand ; the situation was worse for rural hospitals , a fifth of which were already at risk of closing due to financial problems .
Having lost billions of dollars in revenue , hospitals must now figure out how to reintroduce routine care while keeping patients safe and preparing for possible surges of COVID-19 .
( As my colleague Atul Gawande has written , it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ becoming vectors for the virus ; doing so , however , requires time , resources , and personnel . )
Hospitals in Massachusetts are losing $ 1.4 billion in revenue per month , and project total losses of five billion dollars by the end of July .
The Mayo Clinic alone , which runs twenty-three hospitals nationwide , is set to lose three billion dollars this year .
The American Hospital Association estimates that , altogether , U.S. hospitals are bleeding fifty billion dollars a month during the pandemic .
The hundreds of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more limited capital reserves , and many may be forced to shutter their operations or merge them with others .
In the context of the economy as a whole , these losses are substantial .
According to the Department of Commerce , the American economy shrank by nearly five per cent in the first quarter of 2020 .
Nearly half of this change—the biggest single-quarter drop since the Great Recession—had to do with reductions in health care .
In a few months ’ time , the coronavirus has accomplished what lawmakers have been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flattening the curve of infection , we have bent the curve of health-care spending .
But it ’ s been bent haphazardly , by the hurried cancellation or postponement of colonoscopies and mammograms , hip replacements and cataract surgeries , stress tests and root canals—and those unsustainable choices will have real consequences for the health of patients .
As the virus continues to spread , the clinical damage will almost certainly compound .
It ’ s vitally important , therefore—both for the health of individuals and of the system as a whole—for doctors @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t have COVID-19 .
In April , medical organizations , including the American Hospital Association , began releasing road maps for the resumption of regular care ; since then , governors have announced various protocols in their own states .
The details vary , but the basic principles are the same : wait for a sustained reduction in COVID-19 cases ; insure an adequate supply of personal protective equipment ( P.P.E . )
; test constantly ; and plan to throttle back on the expansion of services if the virus surges again .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ which procedures should be prioritized and which delayed , is usually left unanswered .
Vivek Prachand , a surgeon at the University of Chicago , has been thinking about this problem since early March , when hospitals first started grappling with how to rank procedures in terms of their clinical urgency .
Often , he told me , the decisions were being made by individual physicians or small committees within hospitals .
“ It was really just surgeons saying , ‘ O.K.
, go ahead , ’ or , ‘ No , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he said .
“ You can imagine the emotional and ethical challenges of being in that position.
” He and his colleagues have developed a rubric to help guide such decisions during the pandemic , which they call the Medically Necessary , Time-Sensitive System , or MENTS .
Prachand dislikes referring to care as “ elective , ” because the term suggests that procedures are optional or unnecessary ; really , elective care is just care that can be scheduled .
( Setting a broken arm is “ urgent ” care ; brain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ isn ’ t . )
To help set the schedule , the MENTS protocol asks three kinds of questions .
First , it assesses procedural factors , such as how long the surgery will take , how many clinicians will be exposed , how much P.P.E .
will be used , and how likely the patient is to be intubated or require a prolonged stay in the hospital .
Second , it grades the dangers presented by the problems the surgery hopes to solve , asking how bad the condition will get if @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any effective non-surgical remedies .
Finally , it sizes up how much viral risk the operation poses to the patient .
Is she immunosuppressed ?
Does she have an underlying lung disease ?
What are the chances that she ’ s already been exposed to the virus ?
The answers to all of these questions are combined into a formula that yields a recommendation about when the team should proceed .

Gwen Darien is a three-time cancer survivor. When she was thirty-five, she was diagnosed with lymphoma; in her fifties, she was treated for breast cancer; two years ago, she learned that she had endometrial cancer. With curly black hair and an indomitable personality, she embodies vibrancy, courage, and resilience. Even so, last month, when she received a call from her doctor’s office about an upcoming visit, she decided to postpone it indefinitely. “I was very unnerved,” she told me. “I thought about all the risks. First, I’d have to get transportation—Uber or train or subway. Then I’d have to walk into the doctor’s office, near a hospital with COVID-19 patients. Then I’d have to be in the office with other people, even if they are socially distanced. I’d much rather just wait.”
During the pandemic, many patients and physicians have felt this kind of hesitation. Some people with chronic illnesses, fearful of entering a medical setting or even venturing outside, have stopped seeing doctors altogether. Others have tried to make appointments but found clinics closed and routine care suspended. At many hospitals, non-urgent or “elective” care has been postponed for months. It’s difficult to say for sure what the effects of such postponements have been and will be. But statistics show that, across the United States, so-called excess deaths—deaths beyond those that are historically typical—have surged. Although many of these deaths can be attributed to COVID-19, delayed or cancelled care is probably a contributing factor, too. An analysis of death certificates shows that a fifth of the twenty-four thousand excess deaths that occurred in New York City between March 11th and May 2nd were caused by factors other than COVID-19; according to a study currently in pre-publication review, hospitals saw a thirty-eight-per-cent drop in serious heart-attack cases in March alone, suggesting that even people with acute, life-threatening illnesses have been avoiding medical visits. (The American College of Cardiology has gone so far as to issue a statement urging people to seek medical attention if they’re having cardiac symptoms.) A nationwide survey conducted in April found that a quarter of cancer patients receiving active treatment had seen their care delayed. Ultimately, it’s not just people with COVID-19 who are suffering; those with other illnesses are affected by the pandemic, too.
The coronavirus crisis itself continues to deepen. Although the first peak has passed in a few major cities, cases have held steady in many parts of the country and are rising in twenty-six states. North Carolina saw its highest single-day increase in coronavirus cases on June 12th; Florida, Arizona, and Texas saw record spikes this week. Some of this growth reflects increased testing, but, in many places, deaths caused by the virus are also rising—a sign that the spike is real and not a statistical artefact. The U.S. still records more than thirty thousand new cases each day; according to projections from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the national death toll could reach a hundred and forty thousand by the Fourth of July; the country’s public-health response remains scattershot, with grossly inadequate testing and contact tracing; and mass protests and planned reopenings, which are continuing despite the risks, have given the virus new breathing room. America as a whole seems to have entered a long viral plateau. The pandemic is now a rolling collection of mini-epidemics that surge and subside as the virus bobs and weaves its way across the country. It will be a long time before life returns to normal.
The persistence of the pandemic is creating serious challenges, many of them unforeseen, for the health-care system. Even before the pandemic, many hospitals were in precarious financial condition: in 2018, the average hospital had a two-per-cent operating margin and less than two months of cash on hand; the situation was worse for rural hospitals, a fifth of which were already at risk of closing due to financial problems. Having lost billions of dollars in revenue, hospitals must now figure out how to reintroduce routine care while keeping patients safe and preparing for possible surges of COVID-19. (As my colleague Atul Gawande has written, it is possible for hospitals to reopen without becoming vectors for the virus; doing so, however, requires time, resources, and personnel.) Hospitals in Massachusetts are losing $1.4 billion in revenue per month, and project total losses of five billion dollars by the end of July. The Mayo Clinic alone, which runs twenty-three hospitals nationwide, is set to lose three billion dollars this year. The American Hospital Association estimates that, altogether, U.S. hospitals are bleeding fifty billion dollars a month during the pandemic. The hundreds of thousands of doctors in independent practice have more limited capital reserves, and many may be forced to shutter their operations or merge them with others.
In the context of the economy as a whole, these losses are substantial. According to the Department of Commerce, the American economy shrank by nearly five per cent in the first quarter of 2020. Nearly half of this change—the biggest single-quarter drop since the Great Recession—had to do with reductions in health care. In a few months’ time, the coronavirus has accomplished what lawmakers have been trying to do for decades: by flattening the curve of infection, we have bent the curve of health-care spending. But it’s been bent haphazardly, by the hurried cancellation or postponement of colonoscopies and mammograms, hip replacements and cataract surgeries, stress tests and root canals—and those unsustainable choices will have real consequences for the health of patients. As the virus continues to spread, the clinical damage will almost certainly compound.
It’s vitally important, therefore—both for the health of individuals and of the system as a whole—for doctors to resume seeing patients who don’t have COVID-19. In April, medical organizations, including the American Hospital Association, began releasing road maps for the resumption of regular care; since then, governors have announced various protocols in their own states. The details vary, but the basic principles are the same: wait for a sustained reduction in COVID-19 cases; insure an adequate supply of personal protective equipment (P.P.E.); test constantly; and plan to throttle back on the expansion of services if the virus surges again. The more fine-grained question, of exactly which procedures should be prioritized and which delayed, is usually left unanswered.
Vivek Prachand, a surgeon at the University of Chicago, has been thinking about this problem since early March, when hospitals first started grappling with how to rank procedures in terms of their clinical urgency. Often, he told me, the decisions were being made by individual physicians or small committees within hospitals. “It was really just surgeons saying, ‘O.K., go ahead,’ or, ‘No, we need to hold off,’ ” he said. “You can imagine the emotional and ethical challenges of being in that position.” He and his colleagues have developed a rubric to help guide such decisions during the pandemic, which they call the Medically Necessary, Time-Sensitive System, or MENTS.
Prachand dislikes referring to care as “elective,” because the term suggests that procedures are optional or unnecessary; really, elective care is just care that can be scheduled. (Setting a broken arm is “urgent” care; brain surgery, most of the time, isn’t.) To help set the schedule, the MENTS protocol asks three kinds of questions. First, it assesses procedural factors, such as how long the surgery will take, how many clinicians will be exposed, how much P.P.E. will be used, and how likely the patient is to be intubated or require a prolonged stay in the hospital. Second, it grades the dangers presented by the problems the surgery hopes to solve, asking how bad the condition will get if doctors wait, and whether there are any effective non-surgical remedies. Finally, it sizes up how much viral risk the operation poses to the patient. Is she immunosuppressed? Does she have an underlying lung disease? What are the chances that she’s already been exposed to the virus? The answers to all of these questions are combined into a formula that yields a recommendation about when the team should proceed.
After Prachand published the scoring system, it was adopted by other departments in his hospital. He received e-mail inquiries from American hospitals, and from places as far afield as London, Gibraltar, and South Africa. The American Hospital Association included the system in its statement about how to reopen. In theory, the tool can be used at any time during the pandemic: during a coronavirus spike, on a plateau, or when the virus is quiescent. Surgeons simply adjust the “score threshold” at which they are willing to operate.
MENTS holds a broader lesson for reopenings generally. It’s important to have a decision-making system that’s transparent, that anyone can understand, and that takes into account all of the relevant factors. Without such a system, those in charge could be seen as acting arbitrarily, and consumers will feel hesitation and fear. “This is meant to reassure patients, clinicians, and hospital leaders that the choices we’re making have some basis other than our gut feelings,” Prachand said. “It’s really a microcosm of what we need to do to open the economy. If we do it in a way that makes sense to people, that’s transparent, that’s dynamically adjustable, the public can feel confident that we know what we’re doing.”
Smaller, independent medical practices face a different sort of problem: they must resolve many practical issues for themselves while staying solvent. Ripley Hollister, a native Californian with an easygoing drawl and an independent streak, runs a five-clinician family-medicine practice in Colorado Springs. On March 17th, within hours of the announcement that the federal Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services would be significantly increasing its reimbursements for telemedicine, he began seeing patients via videoconference. (In the past, Medicare paid for telemedicine only if patients lived in a rural area, or if they were in a medical facility when they received the service—an odd requirement that undermined the point of virtual care.) Hollister, who’s been in practice for more than thirty years, had never done a virtual visit before the pandemic; when we spoke, about two-thirds of his practice had gone remote. “I have millennials who work for me,” he explained.
Yul Ejnes, a primary-care doctor in Rhode Island, told me in May that he had not seen a patient face-to-face in two months. “My stethoscope has been very lonely,” he said. As he contemplated moving back to in-person visits—he recently started seeing patients again on a trial basis—his chief concern was the waiting area. “The waiting room was a problem even before COVID-19,” he told me. “You’d have twenty-five people sitting next to each other. Some of them were there for a flu shot, others were there with the flu—throw in coronavirus and that setting is totally unacceptable.” His office has been doing its research. “We’re borrowing from the airlines. We’ll have online check-in. We’re borrowing from restaurants—wait outside and we’ll text you when your exam room is ready. We’re going to experiment with things like dedicated hours for sick visits and other times for well visits. Some futuristic practices probably already do this stuff, but we’re an old-school office, and this is new for us.”
These success stories are heartening—but many other practices, even very successful ones, are struggling. Gary Price, a surgeon in solo practice in Guilford, Connecticut, employs seven people; when we spoke last month, I asked him what proportion of his usual patient volume he’d been seeing. “Somewhere between zero and one per cent,” he said. As a surgeon, Price cannot pivot to telemedicine. During the pandemic, he has performed a few minor surgeries—treating a three-year-old with a facial laceration, for example, and an older patient with a cancerous ulcer of the scalp. “The complete absence of income has forced me to consider, for the first time, a scenario in which my practice might not survive,” he said. His patients are trickling back, but the Paycheck Protection Program—the part of the CARES Act passed by Congress that offers forgivable loans to help small businesses keep employees on payroll—was all that kept his practice afloat.
Of the ten major flu pandemics since the late eighteen-nineties, seven had a second, deadly peak within a year of the first. Compared to the flu, the coronavirus appears to be harder to contain: it has a longer incubation period, more asymptomatic infections, and a higher reproduction rate. On May 28th, the United States reached a sombre milestone: a hundred thousand COVID-19 deaths. In the days since, twenty-two thousand more people have died. And yet the virus’s harm extends to individuals whose lungs it never reaches, and who aren’t included in those grim totals: patients with diabetes, depression, cancer, and high blood pressure; people suffering heart attacks and strokes; families who can’t hold their dying loved ones, and the nurses who must hold the phones through which people say goodbye. There are doctors who can’t keep their COVID-19 patients alive, and others who can’t keep their practices open.
Even before the pandemic, American health care was in trouble. Although it is the most expensive system in the world, with a cost roughly equivalent to Germany’s G.D.P., it has delivered variable quality, produced mediocre outcomes, and left millions of people behind. Now the coronavirus has shaken its unsteady foundation, siphoning attention and resources away from patients who need other types of care. We tend to follow the virus’s toll narrowly—cases, hospitalizations, deaths—but the damage to public health is also vast, and the longer the pandemic persists, the larger it will grow. Children go unvaccinated; blood pressure is left uncontrolled; cancer survivors miss their checkups. The extent of the collateral damage won’t be known for years, if ever. But it’s clear that mitigating the harm starts by getting the virus under control.
More Medical Dispatches


newyorker--2020-06-29--Musicians and Composers Respond to a Chaotic Moment

On May 27th , two days after a Minneapolis police officer murdered George Floyd , Anthony McGill , the principal clarinettist of the New York Philharmonic , posted a recording of himself playing “ America the Beautiful.
” It is a rendition with a difference .
McGill begins by swelling slowly into an initial G , from silence .
When he reaches the portion of the melody matching the words “ America , America , ” he changes a high E-natural to an E-flat , thereby wrenching the key from C major to C minor .
He remains in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he goes down on both knees , his clarinet behind his back , as if shackled , and bends his head .
The video , titled “ TakeTwoKnees , ” lasts about ninety seconds , but it has the weight of a symphonic statement .
McGill later recounted that he had been searching for some way to respond to Floyd ’ s killing .
His wife , Abby , suggested “ America the Beautiful , ” and as he was trying out the song on his clarinet he played a wrong note and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ point he found his message .
“ We shouldn ’ t pretend like life and the world is always major because we want it to be , ” he told NPR .
“ Sometimes life is minor .
It goes off its true melody .
It goes off of that simple , beautiful melody that we all expect it to be.
” Jimi Hendrix ’ s dissonant fantasia on “ The Star-Spangled Banner ” set a precedent for this kind of politically charged musical commentary , but McGill ’ s gesture has an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It has inspired a torrent of responses from other musicians .
Billy Hunter , the principal trumpeter of the Metropolitan Opera , has offered a rendition of the national anthem that goes silent at the words “ free ” and “ brave.
” African-Americans are severely underrepresented in classical music , although you wouldn ’ t necessarily know it from the frequency with which people of color are now featured in promotional brochures .
Online discussions in the wake of nationwide Black Lives Matter protests have made clear how uncomfortable the role @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
One day , with the collaboration of the Los Angeles Opera , the mezzo-soprano J ’ Nai Bridges led a Zoom panel on racial inequality with a distinguished group of colleagues : Julia Bullock , Karen Slack , Lawrence Brownlee , Russell Thomas , and Morris Robinson .
After the singers described their reactions to Floyd ’ s killing and their own fraught encounters with the police , they addressed subtler but pervasive tensions in the opera world .
Robinson spoke of the “ perpetual paranoia ” that he felt as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I walk around every opera rehearsal I ’ ve ever been to guarded , cognizant of the fact that my interaction needs to be very public , in front of everyone and very innocuous .
.
.
.
This practicing safe distance has always been a practice of mine.
” He revealed that he has never been hired by a black administrator , has never shared the stage with a black director , and has never taken a cue from a black conductor .
The conversation became even more piercing when Bullock queried @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to deliberate age-old racial disparities .
To her , it seemed a possible cover for inaction .
“ What are we even doing here ?
” she asked .
“ We ’ ve had that conversation.
” Thomas—who , like the others , lost his principal work in March—declared that one issue on his mind was whether he was going to have enough food to feed his family .
I watched the video twice , noting how my own nagging unease affirmed the truth of what was being said .
Brownlee made the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like Alcoholics Anonymous , you have to state and realize that you have a problem.
” Classical music , which is to say white classical music , has a problem .
The prevalent sensation of the world cracking in two—Willa Cather said this of the year 1922 , and it might be said of 2020 as well—is palpable enough that I ’ ve been wondering how soon the rupture will leave traces in the work of composers .
The lack of any immediate opportunity for performance has made it unlikely that composers will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they ’ ve been meaning to tackle , yet the coronavirus pandemic and its attendant isolation have already yielded some notable experimental scores .
The turn toward protest may inspire a wave of work in a much different register .
The strangeness of this moment lies in how it has pulled people both toward an extreme inwardness and toward an outward explosion of feeling .
The radically expanded vocabulary of music since 1900 is equipped to span that divide .
One striking response to COVID-19 comes from the composer and intermedia artist Ash @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her sensorially engulfing sound environments , including the installation-opera “ The Force of Things.
” The prospect of creating works that could be heard only via streaming technology , with its compression of data , initially challenged her .
She hit on the idea of composing an electronic piece that would pass into an acoustical environment assembled by listeners at home .
After experimenting with various possibilities , she became fascinated by the sonic properties of Mason jars , which , when held up to the ears , act as filters , blocking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ghost ocean that we all heard in conch shells as kids is a related effect .
The result was “ Interior Listening Protocol 01 , ” an eight-minute video piece that appeared on an online program by the International Contemporary Ensemble .
The listener , equipped with a pair of Mason jars or tall glasses , mirrors movements that Fure makes in the video , for which Leah Wulfman supplied a hypnotic visual design .
The audio component is a gradually mutating field of electronic noise , with deep bass tones periodically intruding @ @ @ @ @ @ @ your ears , the general wash of frequencies drops out , and a shimmering spectrum of isolated tones emerges .
When the jars cover your ears , the booming bass predominates .
As Fure later explained to me , “ Your skull becomes a kind of contact microphone—you ’ re hearing through the bones of your body.
” I had my computer hooked up to speakers , through a digital-audio converter , and with the volume cranked up high those interior pulsations became disconcertingly intense .
Fure had achieved her goal : far @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her piece delivered an experience so vivid that I almost felt the need to lie down afterward .
On another day , I attended a virtual concert by the Nadar Ensemble , a Belgian new-music group .
It was offering “ FITTINGinSIDE , ” a participatory 2007 work by Stefan Prins .
The score calls for audience members to walk outside a performance space , listening on earphones to a recording of a trombonist .
They then go inside to see the trombonist in person , with city sounds encroaching through the earphones @ @ @ @ @ @ @ audience of thirty-five signed in to a Zoom meeting and ambled around their neighborhoods for fifteen minutes , experiencing a montage of sights and sounds on their phones : the playing of the trombonist , Thomas Moore ; visual feeds from other people ’ s walks ; and a prepared ambient soundtrack .
The bleeding together of these experiences was grippingly disorienting .
Was that dog barking on my street or on one in Riga ?
Was that the noise of a motorcycle or a trombone ?
As I half blindly shuffled about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stares , to which I wanted to respond that I was no phone-addicted zombie—I was attending a global musical event .

On May 27th, two days after a Minneapolis police officer murdered George Floyd, Anthony McGill, the principal clarinettist of the New York Philharmonic, posted a recording of himself playing “America the Beautiful.” It is a rendition with a difference. McGill begins by swelling slowly into an initial G, from silence. When he reaches the portion of the melody matching the words “America, America,” he changes a high E-natural to an E-flat, thereby wrenching the key from C major to C minor. He remains in the minor mode to the end. Then he goes down on both knees, his clarinet behind his back, as if shackled, and bends his head. The video, titled “TakeTwoKnees,” lasts about ninety seconds, but it has the weight of a symphonic statement.
McGill later recounted that he had been searching for some way to respond to Floyd’s killing. His wife, Abby, suggested “America the Beautiful,” and as he was trying out the song on his clarinet he played a wrong note and slipped into the minor, at which point he found his message. “We shouldn’t pretend like life and the world is always major because we want it to be,” he told NPR. “Sometimes life is minor. It goes off its true melody. It goes off of that simple, beautiful melody that we all expect it to be.” Jimi Hendrix’s dissonant fantasia on “The Star-Spangled Banner” set a precedent for this kind of politically charged musical commentary, but McGill’s gesture has an eerie stillness, almost like a meditation. It has inspired a torrent of responses from other musicians. Billy Hunter, the principal trumpeter of the Metropolitan Opera, has offered a rendition of the national anthem that goes silent at the words “free” and “brave.”
African-Americans are severely underrepresented in classical music, although you wouldn’t necessarily know it from the frequency with which people of color are now featured in promotional brochures. Online discussions in the wake of nationwide Black Lives Matter protests have made clear how uncomfortable the role of a black classical musician can be. One day, with the collaboration of the Los Angeles Opera, the mezzo-soprano J’Nai Bridges led a Zoom panel on racial inequality with a distinguished group of colleagues: Julia Bullock, Karen Slack, Lawrence Brownlee, Russell Thomas, and Morris Robinson. After the singers described their reactions to Floyd’s killing and their own fraught encounters with the police, they addressed subtler but pervasive tensions in the opera world. Robinson spoke of the “perpetual paranoia” that he felt as a six-foot-three, three-hundred-pound black man: “I walk around every opera rehearsal I’ve ever been to guarded, cognizant of the fact that my interaction needs to be very public, in front of everyone and very innocuous. . . . This practicing safe distance has always been a practice of mine.” He revealed that he has never been hired by a black administrator, has never shared the stage with a black director, and has never taken a cue from a black conductor.
The conversation became even more piercing when Bullock queried the very gesture of gathering black singers to deliberate age-old racial disparities. To her, it seemed a possible cover for inaction. “What are we even doing here?” she asked. “We’ve had that conversation.” Thomas—who, like the others, lost his principal work in March—declared that one issue on his mind was whether he was going to have enough food to feed his family. I watched the video twice, noting how my own nagging unease affirmed the truth of what was being said. Brownlee made the point with maximum directness: “Just like Alcoholics Anonymous, you have to state and realize that you have a problem.” Classical music, which is to say white classical music, has a problem.
The prevalent sensation of the world cracking in two—Willa Cather said this of the year 1922, and it might be said of 2020 as well—is palpable enough that I’ve been wondering how soon the rupture will leave traces in the work of composers. The lack of any immediate opportunity for performance has made it unlikely that composers will sit down to write the hour-long symphony they’ve been meaning to tackle, yet the coronavirus pandemic and its attendant isolation have already yielded some notable experimental scores. The turn toward protest may inspire a wave of work in a much different register. The strangeness of this moment lies in how it has pulled people both toward an extreme inwardness and toward an outward explosion of feeling. The radically expanded vocabulary of music since 1900 is equipped to span that divide.
One striking response to COVID-19 comes from the composer and intermedia artist Ash Fure, who has won notice for her sensorially engulfing sound environments, including the installation-opera “The Force of Things.” The prospect of creating works that could be heard only via streaming technology, with its compression of data, initially challenged her. She hit on the idea of composing an electronic piece that would pass into an acoustical environment assembled by listeners at home. After experimenting with various possibilities, she became fascinated by the sonic properties of Mason jars, which, when held up to the ears, act as filters, blocking certain sounds and highlighting others. The ghost ocean that we all heard in conch shells as kids is a related effect.
The result was “Interior Listening Protocol 01,” an eight-minute video piece that appeared on an online program by the International Contemporary Ensemble. The listener, equipped with a pair of Mason jars or tall glasses, mirrors movements that Fure makes in the video, for which Leah Wulfman supplied a hypnotic visual design. The audio component is a gradually mutating field of electronic noise, with deep bass tones periodically intruding. As you move the jars toward your ears, the general wash of frequencies drops out, and a shimmering spectrum of isolated tones emerges. When the jars cover your ears, the booming bass predominates. As Fure later explained to me, “Your skull becomes a kind of contact microphone—you’re hearing through the bones of your body.” I had my computer hooked up to speakers, through a digital-audio converter, and with the volume cranked up high those interior pulsations became disconcertingly intense. Fure had achieved her goal: far from being attenuated by digital transmission, her piece delivered an experience so vivid that I almost felt the need to lie down afterward.
On another day, I attended a virtual concert by the Nadar Ensemble, a Belgian new-music group. It was offering “FITTINGinSIDE,” a participatory 2007 work by Stefan Prins. The score calls for audience members to walk outside a performance space, listening on earphones to a recording of a trombonist. They then go inside to see the trombonist in person, with city sounds encroaching through the earphones. For this online version, an audience of thirty-five signed in to a Zoom meeting and ambled around their neighborhoods for fifteen minutes, experiencing a montage of sights and sounds on their phones: the playing of the trombonist, Thomas Moore; visual feeds from other people’s walks; and a prepared ambient soundtrack. The bleeding together of these experiences was grippingly disorienting. Was that dog barking on my street or on one in Riga? Was that the noise of a motorcycle or a trombone? As I half blindly shuffled about, I drew a couple of reproving stares, to which I wanted to respond that I was no phone-addicted zombie—I was attending a global musical event.
An extensive library of COVID-era sound art has accumulated at AMPLIFY 2020: Quarantine, an online festival headed by Jon Abbey, of Erstwhile Records. Culled from experimental composers around the world, these projects conjure sonic otherness from the constricted, mundane circumstances of lockdown. In one recording, Choi Joonyong throws golf balls into a washing machine; in another, Stephen Cornford creates a moody soundscape with piano, amplified central heating, and cherry-tree twigs. I was especially haunted by Kate Carr’s “on every stair another stairway is set in negative,” which the composer describes as “a piece on lamentation and rage.” It is dominated by a murky old reel-to-reel tape of hymn-singing, run backward. The acoustic is that of an underwater canyon, but it was recorded in Carr’s bathroom, in London.
Lamentation and rage, artfully refracted, also surfaced in Bang on a Can’s second online marathon of the pandemic period, which took place on June 14th. Amid a slew of premières, the composer-cellist Tomeka Reid offered a new piano piece, “Lamenting G.F., A.A., B.T., T.M.,” which marks four recent killings of African-Americans: George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade. Following a technique made famous by Bach, Reid converts the letters into note names, with “M” becoming mi, or E, and “T” translated to C-sharp. Notes representing “B.,” “L.,” and “M.” also come into play. The work, which was given a full-bore performance by Vicky Chow, veers from shivery strummings of the interior piano strings to a kind of dissonant boogie-woogie frenzy and, finally, to an extended coda in a withdrawn lyrical mode, suggestive of speechless grief.
The Bang on a Can stream also travelled to Madison, Wisconsin, for an all-too-brief visit with Roscoe Mitchell—a founding member of the Art Ensemble of Chicago, a titanic figure in avant-garde music, and a great African-American artist. Mitchell’s appearance had no explicit political message, but it carried immense weight all the same. He stood before a panoply of cymbals, bells, and other resonating percussion, with an array of paintings behind him—his own creations, in a vibrant, semi-Surrealist style. He began with a delicate wash of metallic timbres, and then picked up a soprano saxophone to issue a pointillistic smattering of tones. Like so much of Mitchell’s work, the performance conjured otherworldly vistas with economical means. Serene and severe, it gave its own unyielding answer to a history of hate. ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-06-29--“A Transparent Woman,” by Hari Kunzru

“A Transparent Woman,” by Hari Kunzru

After she got out , she moved to Potsdam and eventually found work in a factory canteen .
She served and swept and scrubbed , and tried her best , as far as possible , never to speak to another living soul .
Then one day she arrived to find the canteen workers gathered round a radio , listening as if their lives depended on what the announcer was saying .
Hadn ’ t she heard ?
The borders were open in Hungary .
She didn ’ t believe it .
She thought it must be a ruse , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on , things moved very fast .
The G.D.R .
began to collapse .
People were packing and leaving for the West .
Not her .
She wasn ’ t fooled .
It was impossible to believe that the whole system would fold just like that .
Everything happened without her .
The dancing on the Wall , the champagne , the banners hanging in the stairwells of the occupied Stasi buildings .
She didn ’ t even visit the West until almost a year after the change .
A day walking around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ looking in the windows of the shops .
She went into the KaDeWe , the big department store , and rode the glass elevator up and down .
When she came to the food hall , the luxurious displays of chocolate and fruit and delicatessen goods , she couldn ’ t take it anymore and hurried away .
She did not belong in such a place .
Soon enough , the secrets started to come out .
Researchers were looking through the Stasi files , trying to reconstruct documents that had been hastily @ @ @ @ @ @ @ talk about who had done what .
There were ugly scenes on the TV , media denunciations .
Friends found out the truth about friends .
Heroes turned out to have feet of clay .
Maybe it was a sign of her naïveté , or her isolation , but it didn ’ t occur to Monika that any of that would touch her .
After all , who was she ?
Nobody .
Nothing .
She didn ’ t recognize the man who came to the door , until he reminded her that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Then she remembered him , one of the Köpenick boys .
He used to wear a dog collar and an army shirt .
Turned out he ’ d done well in the new Germany , learned the tricks .
He was now a journalist for a big weekly news magazine .
Out of his writing he ’ d squeezed a watch and a fancy tape recorder and a little VW Golf , parked on the street outside .
He wanted to put certain questions to her , accusations of an unpleasant nature .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ informer .
She ’ d sent people to prison .
Go away , she said .
She had nothing to say to him .
Though she never read what he wrote , her neighbors did .
They began to spit on the ground when she walked past and let their dogs do their business outside her door .
Someone pushed a note through the letter box , calling her terrible names .
By that time she had another job , quite a nice one , serving lunch to children at a kindergarten .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ someone like her ” had no business near children .
They didn ’ t fire her .
They didn ’ t have to .
She took her things and never went back .
Through all this , she had doubts .
Everyone said that the Stasi was gone , but was it really true ?
For her , it had simply sunk underground , into the walls and the floorboards , the fabric of things .
Objects still moved around in her apartment .
She ’ d find the tea in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ different order on her shelves .
There were unexplained setbacks .
A stolen bike , lost parcels at the post office .
All of it was suspicious .
The texture of her reality was soft , spongy .
She couldn ’ t trust that anything would take her weight .
She often wondered what had happened to Roll-neck .
Sometimes it was as if he were still with her .
At any time he might walk in , smirking and carrying a bottle of cheap booze .
And then quite unexpectedly she saw @ @ @ @ @ @ @ selling pickles at a street market .
He was wearing a cap with earflaps , and his breath was spilling out in a frosty plume , and somehow the sight of him , wrapped in his hat and scarf , offering samples to the shoppers , was pathetic .
It was like a balloon bursting .
Finally she could believe that it was gone , the thing whose face he had been .
She hurried away before he could spot her .
That night she cried as she hadn ’ t done for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ made a life for herself .
One with small dimensions , but safe and sustainable .
Sometimes at weekends she packed a picnic and went to the lake , or took a bus out to the countryside .
Then came the revelations about Katja , and everything was difficult again .
Naturally , with the fall of the Wall , Katja had become an important person .
It was inevitable , a woman with her charisma .
After her days in the band , she ’ d been part of the movement for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and made speeches and chanted slogans .
At the reunification ceremony she ’ d even been invited to sing a song at the Brandenburg Gate .
She was an artist , an activist , a victim of the Stasi , a national symbol of resilience in the face of oppression .
She ’ d just published a memoir when they found her file , and for Monika it felt like the night of the skinhead attack all over again , when she ’ d turned round to find Tommy standing in the doorway @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
When she looked back , it seemed to Monika that her best memories of Katja were actually invented .
She had usually been kind , but it was the sort of kindness that cost nothing .
She ’ d always won so effortlessly , and no one had ever thought to question how she did it .
Now it seemed so obvious , the ease with which she could get hold of things , make things happen .
Monika could barely process what was in the articles , couldn ’ t draw @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , so she made an appointment at the office that handled the Stasi archives .
She was allowed to read only the material that pertained to her , but that was enough .
Katja had been recruited by the Ministry for State Security in high school .
She was described as “ highly motivated , ” and “ committed to the cause of socialism.
” She had reported everything , worked as hard as she could to undermine the influence of the decadent West .
Most of Roll-neck ’ s cruelties—the way he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he ’ d made her feel—had served no useful purpose at all , because Katja had already been telling them everything .
It was even more perverse than she ’ d imagined .
In a secret ceremony , during the time that they were in the band , the Stasi had awarded Katja a medal and the rank of captain .
Finally Monika understood the purpose of parading her in front of her friends on the day of the raid .
It had been to protect Katja , to divert suspicion from their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the newspapers .
A tabloid printed a picture of Katja holding up a hand to ward off a photographer .
There were other pictures , interviews with people the band had known in Berlin , all saying how shocked they were to discover the truth about their famous friend .
There was a brief revival of interest in D.G.F.
, the three-piece band with two informers .
Monika moved again , though that didn ’ t stop a journalist from finding her and following her down the street to ask about her Stasi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two , things died down again .
And that was more or less that .
She did a lot of drinking and tried to work out what she would say to her friend if she ever saw her again .
Ten years after reunification , someone found Katja in a small South German town and persuaded her to give an interview for a TV documentary .
Monika barely recognized her .
She ’ d got fat , and her hair was badly dyed .
The bohemian disorder of her youth had become an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , or rabbits , or something .
Animals for pet shops .
She said she didn ’ t regret what she ’ d done .
She ’ d followed her heart .
So what if things had changed around her ?
She ’ d turned out not to be right about the world .
That was true of many young people .
Who could see into the future ?
A few months later , Monika saw Katja ’ s face again , in a newspaper obituary .
She had gone out to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She had taken a lot of sleeping pills and filled a backpack with rocks .
♦

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: Hari Kunzru reads.
Her family was happy about it. It was a big deal to get one of the new places. The entire district was a building site, a showcase for the socialist future. She reckoned she had about five more years before she turned into one of the horrible sows who gave her the evil eye from behind their net curtains when she walked past with her friends. Five years of life. At weekends she’d take the train to Alexanderplatz and hang around with other teen-agers. Sooner or later they were always chased away by the police.
She never got on at school and left to become an apprentice at a textile factory in a town just outside Berlin, which improved things because she could move out of the family home and live in a hostel. It was O.K. at first, but the boredom was like acid. She had a bad temper, and sometimes got into fights. One day some old piss-schnapps-cabbage man at the factory called her into an office and gave her an official warning. She already had a mark against her because she didn’t want to join the Free German Youth.
Every weekend she would take the train back to the city. The first time she saw punks, it was amazing, like being electrocuted, jolted out of her dead skin. A couple sitting in a square in Friedrichshain, like two peacocks. The boy had a leather jacket, and his hair was spiked up. The girl wore a dog collar, and her head was shaved so that only a sort of lock or tuft hung down at the front. They just didn’t give a shit.
She didn’t have to think twice. She hacked off her hair, dyed the tufts with watercolors, and spiked them up with soap. Then she went back to look for the punks. Why not? She had nothing else going on. Even then it wasn’t as if she were really doing anything. Taking the train, drinking, wandering around, drinking more, hoping for something to happen. But that was all anyone was doing. It was what there was to do. Soon she knew most of the crew, at least by sight. The peacock couple, everyone. The boys from Köpenick, the idiot with the army greatcoat who stabbed his own leg on a dare. It wasn’t such a big scene. Bored kids. She went to a party where a band played in the attic of someone’s house. Fifty of them in there, throwing themselves around, drinking and dancing and smoking cigarettes. It was the greatest evening of her life.
All they wanted was to jump around. It wasn’t a big deal, but it sent the piss-schnapps-cabbage men crazy. They thought the punks were agents of the C.I.A. Poison from the West, a threat to good order. Not that you could get any of the real punk clothes unless you knew someone who could cross over. You had to improvise, make studs and patches and buttons out of whatever was available. You sat on park benches in your homemade outfits. You couldn’t stay put for ten minutes without the cops coming.
At the factory she got another talking to, and they told her someone else needed her place at the hostel. It was a punishment, of course—they didn’t really bother hiding it. What could she do? Better to lie down on the tracks than go back to live with her doormat of a mother and her piss-schnapps-cabbage dad. There seemed to be no third option, so she went into the city and got fucked up on paint thinner and tried to shake her head off her shoulders, pogoing in a courtyard behind a church in Prenzlauer Berg as a band thrashed cheap guitars and a singer rhymed “shit and boredom have no borders” with “everyone is taking orders.” Two cool girls were dancing next to her, jerking their heads and punching the air. When some limp dick tried to hit on one of them, Monika gave him a shove, sent him sprawling.
We need a drummer, the girl with the bleached crop said. Monika told her she couldn’t play drums. That’s O.K., she said. It doesn’t matter. And just like that a third option opened up. The girls, Katja and Elli, were living in a place on Linienstrasse, with a rotating cast of boyfriends to carry furniture and fix things. It was a tenement that had been declared unfit for habitation—on one side there was nothing but rubble, on the other a building whose frontage had collapsed, a sort of skeleton that no one had got around to demolishing—but several of the apartments were occupied by young people who didn’t have a hope of getting on the list for official housing. That was where they took her to jam, in this building whose façade was pocked with thousands of wartime bullet holes, and it was sort of understood, without her needing to ask, that she was going to move in. The equipment was set up in their living room. The guitar and vocal plugged into a single amp. She bashed away at someone’s borrowed kit. She didn’t know what to do, so at first she did everything at the same time, hit with the sticks and stamped on the pedal, making a big lumbering primitive noise. She would get better, but not much.
Then it was the three of them. Katja sang, and Elli played guitar. Monika had never met anyone like them, girls from art school who spent their days making things, as if it were a job. They weren’t ashamed of being different. They laughed at the idea that they could ever end up as net-curtain twitchers, disgusting baby factories doing the ironing while some man drank himself stupid in front of the TV. Katja declaimed her crazy poetry into the microphone, all this gothic stuff about blood and graves and ravens, while Elli threw poses and windmilled her arm as she slammed down on the strings.
Elli was shy, except when she played guitar. Katja was a social force. She seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to make things happen. Whatever you needed, whatever plot you’d just hatched in the bar, she would be there with an idea, a connection. It would turn out she’d seen exactly the thing you needed, discarded in the street, or had bumped into someone from the old days—Katja had old days, it was one of the sophisticated things about her—a guy who liked her and could be persuaded to help. One day she breezed in and told them she’d got the band a gig. She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but to Monika the prospect was terrifying. Getting up in front of people, making a spectacle of herself.
In the G.D.R., you needed permission from the authorities to play music in front of an audience. You had to audition for a committee. The official pop musicians were all balding men who’d done their military service and trained at the conservatory. Of course no one was ever going to give the green light to some dirty punk girls, so they had no option, really. The gig was a secret, or as much of a secret as something like that can be.
So there were official bands and unofficial bands, but few as unofficial as Die Gläsernen Frauen. They’d needed a name, and naturally Katja had one. The Transparent Women. There had once been a transparent woman and a transparent man, anatomical models made out of some kind of see-through plastic, technological marvels of the nineteen-twenties that children were taken to see on school trips to the German Hygiene Museum, in Dresden. It was a good name, Monika thought, a defiant name.
“False alarm—the King is just sleeping. Long sleep the King!” Cartoon by Brendan Loper Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
The concert wasn’t much. A couple of dozen people in a dusty room, the cellar of a building where some friend of Katja’s worked or lived, Monika wasn’t exactly sure. They borrowed another amp and found a drum kit that was a little better than the first, though one of the heads was patched with tape, and the cymbals were the kind with leather straps, made to be used in an orchestra or carried in a marching band. The kit’s owner had hung them awkwardly from a pair of homemade stands. There wasn’t a stage; they just walked out into silence, some scattered clapping. And then they attacked. One two three four, into their first number, which was just Katja shouting “Stupid bear! Stupid bear!” while Elli played some chords she’d copied from a Ramones song. Everyone was surprised, of course—three girls playing music—but soon people were dancing. Katja and Elli’s art-school friends, the kids from the park. A few apprentices from the meatpacking plant hung at the edges while the punks fought in the mosh pit. Monika battered her kit and it sounded like dead bodies hitting the ground and the guitar and the vocal fed back so that the whole thing was just a mess of distortion, you couldn’t say what it was, or if it was music exactly, but it had something. Energy. Life.
Of course the factory hadn’t lasted, but Monika needed to do something; it was illegal not to have a job, and after a lot of hassle she found one in the neighborhood, at a workshop where they electroplated bathroom fixtures. One evening, as she was sweeping up, her last task before leaving, a man in a roll-neck sweater let himself in and stood watching her. He had that look. They all had it, that unclean cleanliness.
He offered her a cigarette. He was older than her, but not by much. In some places, he would have been considered handsome. What are you doing here? he said. This place is not for you. Like a lover, a leading man in a movie. It was absurd. What did he want? Nothing bad. He wanted her to be able to stretch her creative wings. He did a little drumming mime. He swept his hair back from his face and lit a cigarette, doing some kind of cool-cat business with his lighter. He said he had a car outside, could he give her a ride home? No? Well, then, he could take her out instead. He would buy her a drink, hear about her big dreams. She was a girl with big dreams, he could tell.


newyorker--2020-06-29--Kadir Nelson’s “Distant Summer”

Kadir Nelson’s “Distant Summer”

The artist Kadir Nelson , who lives in Los Angeles , began contributing to The New Yorker in 2013 .
Since then , readers might have noticed his summer-themed covers , which tend to be bright , poignant images that feature , somewhere on the canvas , a popsicle .
( “ Distant Summer ” follows two previous covers in this vein . )
Nelson recently spoke to us about how he likes to depict the season .
A few years ago , you painted a crowd of kids having fun on a hot summer day .
There are many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prior ones , but what stands out to you ?
I think of its effect on youngsters , for whom the season will likely involve mixed feelings .
It comes in the midst of a pandemic , with a large part of the country still in lockdown .
There are global protests against ongoing discrimination and violence against black people .
And it could be a very lonely summer for children ( and adults ) who haven ’ t seen their friends or family for months , because of social distancing .
You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in your work .
Does your process vary compared with when you ’ re painting adults ?
My process is very similar , whether I ’ m painting children or adults .
Every painting is rooted in telling a story .
I begin with that , and work toward creating a composition that visually communicates the idea and the mood for the subject .
When depicting children , the most important thing for me is to tell the truth and paint directly from the heart .
You recently painted a cover to commemorate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of police brutality , and the history of racism in our country .
What do you feel is most important in the fight against that racism ?
What ’ s most important is keeping the conversation going , around the world—whether through film , TV , literature , the visual arts , broadcasting , music , or social media .
All of it needs to address the problem head on .
We also need to look honestly at our attitudes and prejudices if we want to see them shift .
Racism affects us @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if we can earnestly work together to obliterate it .
See below for more covers depicting children :

The artist Kadir Nelson, who lives in Los Angeles, began contributing to The New Yorker in 2013. Since then, readers might have noticed his summer-themed covers, which tend to be bright, poignant images that feature, somewhere on the canvas, a popsicle. (“Distant Summer” follows two previous covers in this vein.) Nelson recently spoke to us about how he likes to depict the season.
A few years ago, you painted a crowd of kids having fun on a hot summer day. There are many reasons why this summer is different from prior ones, but what stands out to you?
I think of its effect on youngsters, for whom the season will likely involve mixed feelings. It comes in the midst of a pandemic, with a large part of the country still in lockdown. There are global protests against ongoing discrimination and violence against black people. And it could be a very lonely summer for children (and adults) who haven’t seen their friends or family for months, because of social distancing.
You've depicted a wide range of children in your work. Does your process vary compared with when you’re painting adults?
Nelson's early sketch.
My process is very similar, whether I’m painting children or adults. Every painting is rooted in telling a story. I begin with that, and work toward creating a composition that visually communicates the idea and the mood for the subject. When depicting children, the most important thing for me is to tell the truth and paint directly from the heart.
You recently painted a cover to commemorate George Floyd, the many black victims of police brutality, and the history of racism in our country. What do you feel is most important in the fight against that racism?
What’s most important is keeping the conversation going, around the world—whether through film, TV, literature, the visual arts, broadcasting, music, or social media. All of it needs to address the problem head on. We also need to look honestly at our attitudes and prejudices if we want to see them shift. Racism affects us all. It will only be resolved if we can earnestly work together to obliterate it.
See below for more covers depicting children:


newyorker--2020-06-29--Would You Like to Buy a Bunker?

Would You Like to Buy a Bunker?

Janeece Smith is an agent at Klickitat Valley Realty , in Goldendale , Washington , about three hours southeast of the six-block strip , in Seattle , that protesters have called the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone .
According to Smith ’ s Web site , she sells “ property to retreat to from the metropolitan cities like Portland , Vancouver , Seattle , Tri-cities and other areas in Washington and Oregon.
” She refers to this as “ doomsday-prepper land.
” Business is always good for Smith in times of calamity .
When the pandemic arrived ( the first confirmed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Washington State , in January ) , she was getting several inquiries a day .
Then “ police lost control of the cities , ” she said , referring to the protests in response to the killings of unarmed black people , and now “ interest is off the charts.
” Nearly all her customers mention the coronavirus and civil unrest .
She recently finalized a deal : twenty acres for fifty-seven thousand dollars .
“ It doesn ’ t matter who you talk to , ” she said , noting that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ House official , and a Google employee had all contacted her .
“ Even people who won ’ t wear a mask , who think the government is trying to take your rights away.
” In the end , she said , “ they ’ ll go ” —to a secluded cabin , a bunker , or another hideout of their choice .
The other day , Smith was preparing to show a visitor some land that was available for purchase .
“ Normally , there ’ s a chainsaw back here , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bed of her Ford F-150 .
She was taking inventory of her truck before heading to the property , which was fifteen miles away from her already remote realty office .
Smith , who is forty-three and has hair down to her waist , wore an ivory choker and a camo-print shirt .
Before she became a real-estate agent , in 2006 , she was a horse dealer .
( “ I moved to Goldendale because I ’ d had enough of the crooked horse industry.
” ) What kinds of things do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ e-mail from a new client , who was planning a “ community-building defensive homestead.
” He wanted neighbors to be “ at least a mile away.
” Also , if possible , owner financing .
Smith continued to rifle through her supplies .
“ A bunch of chains , ” she said .
“ Oils , tow straps for anchoring loads , a case of water.
” She opened up her truck ’ s center console .
“ Neosporin .
A few Old Timers , for gutting , ” she said , removing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ remnant on it from something.
” There was also jerky , toothpaste , C.B.D .
oil , binoculars , dip , a solar-powered charger , and ammo for her sidearm .
“ Smith & Wesson .380 with the laser sight , ” she said , unholstering it .
“ I ’ ve heard that ninety-two per cent of assailants walk away when you put the laser on them.
” Equally important was her Garmin Rino 650 radio .
“ It has a chip in it that shows you the land parcels and who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Walkie-talkie capabilities , too .
If you ’ re a prepper , you get one.
” ( She has her own bug-out spot : a pine cabin , an hour northeast , that sits on sixty acres . )
Her visitor pointed out one item that seemed to be missing .
“ I don ’ t do the face mask , ” Smith replied .
“ You need proper air.
” She drove down Highway 142 , past hills peppered with volcanic rock , and ranches where roping steers roamed .
( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Smith said , waving at them . )
She turned onto a dead-end road , passing a rival agent ’ s sign .
“ That guy is eightysomething , ” she said , “ and I guarantee he ’ d hump a hill faster than you.
” She reached a few dozen acres of land surrounded by evergreens , with the hulking white mass of Mt .
Adams in the distance .
“ People have been buying here recently .
They have ‘ well witchers ’ with welding rods come and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with wind or sun or both.
” She pointed to a small , prefab off-grid home : “ This is the average prepper .
Most aren ’ t in cabins or bunkers .
They ’ ve got full pantries , though , like you wouldn ’ t believe—buckets of powdered milk and rice , deer they ’ ve had canned up for years .
They ’ ve got their cows going , their chickens , their jerky , their go bags.
” Back to the truck .
She wanted to get home before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , she noticed that her gas tank was nearly empty .
♦

Janeece Smith is an agent at Klickitat Valley Realty, in Goldendale, Washington, about three hours southeast of the six-block strip, in Seattle, that protesters have called the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone. According to Smith’s Web site, she sells “property to retreat to from the metropolitan cities like Portland, Vancouver, Seattle, Tri-cities and other areas in Washington and Oregon.” She refers to this as “doomsday-prepper land.” Business is always good for Smith in times of calamity. When the pandemic arrived (the first confirmed case of COVID in the U.S. was in Washington State, in January), she was getting several inquiries a day. Then “police lost control of the cities,” she said, referring to the protests in response to the killings of unarmed black people, and now “interest is off the charts.” Nearly all her customers mention the coronavirus and civil unrest. She recently finalized a deal: twenty acres for fifty-seven thousand dollars. “It doesn’t matter who you talk to,” she said, noting that lawyers, doctors, a former White House official, and a Google employee had all contacted her. “Even people who won’t wear a mask, who think the government is trying to take your rights away.” In the end, she said, “they’ll go”—to a secluded cabin, a bunker, or another hideout of their choice.
The other day, Smith was preparing to show a visitor some land that was available for purchase. “Normally, there’s a chainsaw back here,” she said, leaning over the bed of her Ford F-150. She was taking inventory of her truck before heading to the property, which was fifteen miles away from her already remote realty office. Smith, who is forty-three and has hair down to her waist, wore an ivory choker and a camo-print shirt. Before she became a real-estate agent, in 2006, she was a horse dealer. (“I moved to Goldendale because I’d had enough of the crooked horse industry.”) What kinds of things do her customers want? She opened an e-mail from a new client, who was planning a “community-building defensive homestead.” He wanted neighbors to be “at least a mile away.” Also, if possible, owner financing.
Smith continued to rifle through her supplies. “A bunch of chains,” she said. “Oils, tow straps for anchoring loads, a case of water.” She opened up her truck’s center console. “Neosporin. A few Old Timers, for gutting,” she said, removing a knife that had “a little remnant on it from something.” There was also jerky, toothpaste, C.B.D. oil, binoculars, dip, a solar-powered charger, and ammo for her sidearm. “Smith & Wesson .380 with the laser sight,” she said, unholstering it. “I’ve heard that ninety-two per cent of assailants walk away when you put the laser on them.” Equally important was her Garmin Rino 650 radio. “It has a chip in it that shows you the land parcels and who owns them,” she said. “Walkie-talkie capabilities, too. If you’re a prepper, you get one.” (She has her own bug-out spot: a pine cabin, an hour northeast, that sits on sixty acres.) Her visitor pointed out one item that seemed to be missing. “I don’t do the face mask,” Smith replied. “You need proper air.”
She drove down Highway 142, past hills peppered with volcanic rock, and ranches where roping steers roamed. (“No balls, and short horns,” Smith said, waving at them.) She turned onto a dead-end road, passing a rival agent’s sign. “That guy is eightysomething,” she said, “and I guarantee he’d hump a hill faster than you.” She reached a few dozen acres of land surrounded by evergreens, with the hulking white mass of Mt. Adams in the distance. “People have been buying here recently. They have ‘well witchers’ with welding rods come and find water underground. They get power with wind or sun or both.” She pointed to a small, prefab off-grid home: “This is the average prepper. Most aren’t in cabins or bunkers. They’ve got full pantries, though, like you wouldn’t believe—buckets of powdered milk and rice, deer they’ve had canned up for years. They’ve got their cows going, their chickens, their jerky, their go bags.” Back to the truck. She wanted to get home before dark. When she cranked the engine, she noticed that her gas tank was nearly empty. ♦