newyorker--2020-08-10--Taking a Blowtorch to the President’s Dad

Christopher Columbus was tossed into a lake in Richmond , Virginia .
King Leopold II , of Belgium , was burned and hauled off by a crane .
When activists came for Fred Trump , the late father of the sitting U.S. President , they brought a five-gallon can of paint , a paint roller , and a blowtorch .
The monument that they were targeting—before officers responding to a 911 call foiled their operation—did not include a plinth .
It was a modest metal plaque on a pole , rising over a pen of shopping carts in the parking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Avenue , in Woodhaven , Queens .
What stands out about the incident is , as a police report notes , the location ’ s “ historical connection with the current President of the United States of America.
” Also , one of the alleged vandals is associated with Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez , the representative for parts of Queens and the Bronx .
The four perpetrators entered the parking lot , under the elevated tracks of the J train , at around 1:20 A.M. on June 20th .
According to the police report , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the store ’ s awning before getting down to business .
The square of metal that they came to do battle with , painted in the blue-and-yellow color scheme of a New York State license plate , read , When police arrived at the scene , Officer Bryan Hagmaier arrested Justine Medina , a former chair of the Queens Democratic Socialists of America ; her three accomplices , described as two men wearing black clothing and a mysterious third person , presumably got away .
The next morning , the historical marker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there were many unanswered questions : Had the plaque been defaced ?
Would it be returned to its spot over the shopping carts ?
Did people in Woodhaven even want a commemoration of Fred Trump ?
Why hadn ’ t the vandals used spray paint ?
Edward Wendell is the president of the Woodhaven Cultural and Historical Society , which the police report lists as one of two victims .
( The other is the grocery store . )
Wendell ’ s organization erected the plaque in 1999 , when Fred Trump died @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Eighty-eighth Street , a similar marker notes the birthplace of Mae West . )
Wendell , a gregarious , bearded man of imposing size who works as an I.T .
director , did not want to discuss the state of the plaque ; he was dealing with a wasp problem in his front yard .
“ The only thing I will publicly say is that the sign is down , and that we will discuss it at the next Historical Society meeting , ” he said .
He later added , “ We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back in place.
” Fred Trump built the grocery store during the Depression , when the real-estate market was sagging .
The Woodhaven that he lived in , a century ago , was a remote byway .
( An ad from the period , for a Trump development in nearby Hollis , boasted such amenities as “ sewers , concrete street and sidewalks.
” ) It also was overwhelmingly white .
Joel Kuszai , a professor of English at Queensborough Community College , is writing a book about the Ku Klux Klan ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It includes a chapter that describes the President ’ s father , who attended a Klan rally that began on Jamaica Avenue , in 1927 .
“ It doesn ’ t matter whether Fred Trump was a dues-paying member of the Klan , ” Kuszai said .
“ He was situated within a community in which there were thousands of Klan members.
” Woodhaven has changed since then .
People of color make up eighty per cent of the population , and only twenty per cent of residents voted for Donald Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Trump family persists among some locals .
Tony Rinaldi , the owner of Hardware City , a store down the street from where the historical marker stood , said that Trump had a good bit of support among his customers .
“ A lot of people are upset by the things that are going on in this country , ” he explained , without elaborating .
The District Attorney charged Medina with attempted criminal mischief .
( The case is pending , with a court date set for October . )
Medina @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ridgewood , not far from Woodhaven .
Petite , with cropped blond hair and a nose ring , she answered her door the other day but didn ’ t have much to say about her arrest .
“ It makes me a little nervous , because I work for A.O.C.
, ” she said , and excused herself to return to a conference call .
( Ocasio-Cortez did not respond to a request for comment , but financial disclosures show that Medina was on her campaign ’ s payroll . )
As for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Rinaldi didn ’ t think much of them .
“ A blowtorch ?
” he said , suggesting that a reciprocating saw would have been better .
“ If you had a good blade , it would take one or two minutes to saw down a pole like that.
” ♦

Christopher Columbus was tossed into a lake in Richmond, Virginia. King Leopold II, of Belgium, was burned and hauled off by a crane. When activists came for Fred Trump, the late father of the sitting U.S. President, they brought a five-gallon can of paint, a paint roller, and a blowtorch. The monument that they were targeting—before officers responding to a 911 call foiled their operation—did not include a plinth. It was a modest metal plaque on a pole, rising over a pen of shopping carts in the parking lot of a small grocery on Jamaica Avenue, in Woodhaven, Queens.
What stands out about the incident is, as a police report notes, the location’s “historical connection with the current President of the United States of America.” Also, one of the alleged vandals is associated with Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, the representative for parts of Queens and the Bronx.
The four perpetrators entered the parking lot, under the elevated tracks of the J train, at around 1:20 A.M. on June 20th. According to the police report, they tried to tamper with surveillance cameras on the store’s awning before getting down to business. The square of metal that they came to do battle with, painted in the blue-and-yellow color scheme of a New York State license plate, read,
FRED CHRIST TRUMP
BORN IN WOODHAVEN OCT. 11, 1905
BEGAN BUILDING AT AGE 15, BUILT
THIS STORE FOUNDED E. TRUMP
& SON NOW TRUMP ORGANIZATION
FATHER OF “THE DONALD”
When police arrived at the scene, Officer Bryan Hagmaier arrested Justine Medina, a former chair of the Queens Democratic Socialists of America; her three accomplices, described as two men wearing black clothing and a mysterious third person, presumably got away.
The next morning, the historical marker was gone, and for local residents there were many unanswered questions: Had the plaque been defaced? Would it be returned to its spot over the shopping carts? Did people in Woodhaven even want a commemoration of Fred Trump? Why hadn’t the vandals used spray paint?
Edward Wendell is the president of the Woodhaven Cultural and Historical Society, which the police report lists as one of two victims. (The other is the grocery store.) Wendell’s organization erected the plaque in 1999, when Fred Trump died. (Seven blocks away, on Eighty-eighth Street, a similar marker notes the birthplace of Mae West.) Wendell, a gregarious, bearded man of imposing size who works as an I.T. director, did not want to discuss the state of the plaque; he was dealing with a wasp problem in his front yard. “The only thing I will publicly say is that the sign is down, and that we will discuss it at the next Historical Society meeting,” he said. He later added, “We have no plans to put the sign back in place.”
Fred Trump built the grocery store during the Depression, when the real-estate market was sagging. The Woodhaven that he lived in, a century ago, was a remote byway. (An ad from the period, for a Trump development in nearby Hollis, boasted such amenities as “sewers, concrete street and sidewalks.”) It also was overwhelmingly white. Joel Kuszai, a professor of English at Queensborough Community College, is writing a book about the Ku Klux Klan’s influence in Queens during the nineteen-twenties. It includes a chapter that describes the President’s father, who attended a Klan rally that began on Jamaica Avenue, in 1927. “It doesn’t matter whether Fred Trump was a dues-paying member of the Klan,” Kuszai said. “He was situated within a community in which there were thousands of Klan members.”
Woodhaven has changed since then. People of color make up eighty per cent of the population, and only twenty per cent of residents voted for Donald Trump in 2016. Still, affection for the Trump family persists among some locals. Tony Rinaldi, the owner of Hardware City, a store down the street from where the historical marker stood, said that Trump had a good bit of support among his customers. “A lot of people are upset by the things that are going on in this country,” he explained, without elaborating.
The District Attorney charged Medina with attempted criminal mischief. (The case is pending, with a court date set for October.) Medina, a self-described activist, lives in Ridgewood, not far from Woodhaven. Petite, with cropped blond hair and a nose ring, she answered her door the other day but didn’t have much to say about her arrest. “It makes me a little nervous, because I work for A.O.C.,” she said, and excused herself to return to a conference call. (Ocasio-Cortez did not respond to a request for comment, but financial disclosures show that Medina was on her campaign’s payroll.)
As for Medina’s methods, Hardware City’s Rinaldi didn’t think much of them. “A blowtorch?” he said, suggesting that a reciprocating saw would have been better. “If you had a good blade, it would take one or two minutes to saw down a pole like that.” ♦


newyorker--2020-08-10--Bill de Blasio Slept Here

Bill de Blasio Slept Here

It was a three-story yellow clapboard house in Park Slope , with blue French doors and southern exposures .
There were three bedrooms—easily convertible to four—and amenities such as a dishwasher and a soaker hose for the back garden ( herbs , rose of Sharon , a dwarf crab-apple tree ) .
The rent was reasonable : four thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars a month .
And it was only a five-minute walk to the Prospect Park Y.M.C.A .
“ It felt like a bit of a fixer-upper , ” Julian Hornik , a twenty-five-year-old theatre composer , said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ house , and it was in our price range .
We could clean it up and make it lovely.
” Hornik and his roommates—Lauren Modiano , who also works in theatre , and Spencer Bokat-Lindell , an editor at the Times—were looking to move out of their six-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot apartment in the neighborhood .
“ There ’ s an upright piano in our living room that Julian uses for work , ” Bokat-Lindell explained .
“ When both Lauren and I were working in offices , this wasn ’ t an issue .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ confined to the same workspace , it ’ s not really tenable , because my room , like , abuts the piano.
” When they saw the listing on StreetEasy for the yellow house , which had three times more space than their current place , Hornik e-mailed the broker , Trisha Webster , a former body-parts model .
( Her hands have been used as stand-ins for Farrah Fawcett ’ s . )
When Webster called , she had a lot of questions .
“ She asked , ‘ Why are you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ ‘ Who are you moving with ?
How do you know your roommates ?
How long have you lived together ?
What do you do ?
How much do you make ?
’ ” She told him that he and his friends seemed like “ decent candidates ” for the house and offered to show it to them if they all signed nondisclosure agreements .
“ Do you know who the landlord is ?
” she asked .
They did not .
She said , “ Well , it ’ s the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ found that out , I was like , O.K.
, I don ’ t think this is going to work , ” Bokat-Lindell said .
He contacted the standards editor at the Times and asked , “ What is the policy about renting an apartment from the Mayor ?
” ( The gist of the response : If you can avoid taking the place , that ’ d be great . )
Bill de Blasio bought the yellow house on Eleventh Street in 2000 , for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ than $ 1.5 million . )
It was his family ’ s primary residence before they moved into Gracie Mansion , in 2014 .
It is not the only property that de Blasio rents out ; he also owns a two-family house , down the block , where his late mother lived , and where he now has two sets of tenants .
The upstairs one-bedroom unit ( dressing alcove , subway-tiled bathroom ) goes for eighteen hundred and twenty-five dollars a month , and the ground-floor apartment ( E.I.K.
, three ceiling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two thousand nine hundred and fifty .
Webster was the rental agent for both .
Bokat-Lindell was surprised to hear that the Mayor had a side gig as a landlord .
The notion of signing an N.D.A .
just to look at the place made him uneasy .
He wondered , he said , if there was also “ going to be a clause in the lease saying that you can ’ t talk about your landlord.
” But his roommates were excited about the house—the back yard !
—so they submitted their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the confidentiality agreement in person .
The next morning , Webster sent them an e-mail .
“ I ’ ve spoken to the Landlord about your inquiry to see the house , ” she wrote .
“ Your combined income would need a guarantor and they said they are not comfortable with that rental situation.
” The friends were puzzled : their combined incomes were more than forty times the monthly rent , a typical threshold for New York City landlords .
Hornik , looking through public records , found that de Blasio @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what he and his roommates earned .
On the other hand , the lease was for only one year : de Blasio will be out of office by the end of 2021 , and even though he and his wife are empty nesters , perhaps they will move back into the yellow house .
The roommates found another place in Park Slope .
It ’ s about the same square footage as de Blasio ’ s house , but there ’ s no back yard .
It ’ s above Haenyeo , one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a lady named Janice .
“ As far as I know , she ’ s a normal person , ” Bokat-Lindell said .
“ She ’ s at least not the mayor.
” ♦

Bill de Blasio Illustration by João Fazenda
It was a three-story yellow clapboard house in Park Slope, with blue French doors and southern exposures. There were three bedrooms—easily convertible to four—and amenities such as a dishwasher and a soaker hose for the back garden (herbs, rose of Sharon, a dwarf crab-apple tree). The rent was reasonable: four thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars a month. And it was only a five-minute walk to the Prospect Park Y.M.C.A.
“It felt like a bit of a fixer-upper,” Julian Hornik, a twenty-five-year-old theatre composer, said. “But it was a whole house, and it was in our price range. We could clean it up and make it lovely.” Hornik and his roommates—Lauren Modiano, who also works in theatre, and Spencer Bokat-Lindell, an editor at the Times—were looking to move out of their six-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot apartment in the neighborhood. “There’s an upright piano in our living room that Julian uses for work,” Bokat-Lindell explained. “When both Lauren and I were working in offices, this wasn’t an issue. But, now that we’re all confined to the same workspace, it’s not really tenable, because my room, like, abuts the piano.”
When they saw the listing on StreetEasy for the yellow house, which had three times more space than their current place, Hornik e-mailed the broker, Trisha Webster, a former body-parts model. (Her hands have been used as stand-ins for Farrah Fawcett’s.) When Webster called, she had a lot of questions. “She asked, ‘Why are you moving?’ ” Hornik said. “ ‘Who are you moving with? How do you know your roommates? How long have you lived together? What do you do? How much do you make?’ ” She told him that he and his friends seemed like “decent candidates” for the house and offered to show it to them if they all signed nondisclosure agreements.
“Do you know who the landlord is?” she asked. They did not. She said, “Well, it’s the Mayor.”
“As soon as I found that out, I was like, O.K., I don’t think this is going to work,” Bokat-Lindell said. He contacted the standards editor at the Times and asked, “What is the policy about renting an apartment from the Mayor?” (The gist of the response: If you can avoid taking the place, that’d be great.)
Bill de Blasio bought the yellow house on Eleventh Street in 2000, for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. (It’s now worth more than $1.5 million.) It was his family’s primary residence before they moved into Gracie Mansion, in 2014. It is not the only property that de Blasio rents out; he also owns a two-family house, down the block, where his late mother lived, and where he now has two sets of tenants. The upstairs one-bedroom unit (dressing alcove, subway-tiled bathroom) goes for eighteen hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, and the ground-floor apartment (E.I.K., three ceiling fans, no pets) goes for two thousand nine hundred and fifty. Webster was the rental agent for both.
Bokat-Lindell was surprised to hear that the Mayor had a side gig as a landlord. The notion of signing an N.D.A. just to look at the place made him uneasy. He wondered, he said, if there was also “going to be a clause in the lease saying that you can’t talk about your landlord.” But his roommates were excited about the house—the back yard!—so they submitted their paperwork to Webster, planning to sign the confidentiality agreement in person.
The next morning, Webster sent them an e-mail. “I’ve spoken to the Landlord about your inquiry to see the house,” she wrote. “Your combined income would need a guarantor and they said they are not comfortable with that rental situation.” The friends were puzzled: their combined incomes were more than forty times the monthly rent, a typical threshold for New York City landlords. Hornik, looking through public records, found that de Blasio’s pre-mayoral salary was comparable to what he and his roommates earned. On the other hand, the lease was for only one year: de Blasio will be out of office by the end of 2021, and even though he and his wife are empty nesters, perhaps they will move back into the yellow house.
The roommates found another place in Park Slope. It’s about the same square footage as de Blasio’s house, but there’s no back yard. It’s above Haenyeo, one of their favorite restaurants. The landlord is a lady named Janice. “As far as I know, she’s a normal person,” Bokat-Lindell said. “She’s at least not the mayor.” ♦


newyorker--2020-08-10--“Aubade as Fuel,” by Traci Brimhall

“Aubade as Fuel,” by Traci Brimhall

Your lip an abstraction of iris always arousing the question of the bed .
Which goodbye lasts ?
Only yesterday my hands rich with dirt .
I told you Milkweed is my new salvation addiction .
You know I always need to save something , to control it .
I can make a pollen island , make your collarbone a spiritual landscape , the air around us orange and alive .
The shape you left in the sheets a Rorschach I read as a rattlesnake ’ s skeleton in the silverware drawer , no , a fire in a cabin @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the absence it will make .
But look at me now , my heat signature a whole bouquet of howling , straddling scarves of smoke .
It ’ s O.K .
that it ’ s over .
Leaving is a lesson of pleasure .
My ribs , sets of parentheses .
My heart , an aside , an apple ready for the twist .
My legs around your hips , a pillory , our shame public to the night .
Tulip shadows on the nightstand , an apology marooned and lightless , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with grief .
You ask me to brush the match against the red phosphorus of Goodbye in a way that makes you believe it .
I ask to be the one on top , the one struck bright when God pours out the lightning .

Audio: Read by the author.
Your lip an abstraction of iris always arousing
the question of the bed. Which goodbye lasts?
Only yesterday my hands rich with dirt. I told you
Milkweed is my new salvation addiction. You know
I always need to save something, to control it.
I can make a pollen island, make your collarbone
a spiritual landscape, the air around us orange
and alive. The shape you left in the sheets
a Rorschach I read as a rattlesnake’s skeleton
in the silverware drawer, no, a fire in a cabin,
no, a cabin on fire, the absence it will make.
But look at me now, my heat signature a whole
bouquet of howling, straddling scarves of smoke.
It’s O.K. that it’s over. Leaving is a lesson of
pleasure. My ribs, sets of parentheses. My heart,
an aside, an apple ready for the twist. My legs
around your hips, a pillory, our shame public
to the night. Tulip shadows on the nightstand,
an apology marooned and lightless, each bite
mark on your shoulder synonymous with grief.
You ask me to brush the match against the red
phosphorus of Goodbye in a way that makes
you believe it. I ask to be the one on top, the one
struck bright when God pours out the lightning.


newyorker--2020-08-10--Raven Leilani’s Début Novel Deconstructs Domesticity

One reason that the novel , despite so many tedious predictions to the contrary , stubbornly refuses to die is that the world that fiction helps us see keeps shifting shape .
Take Raven Leilani ’ s first book , “ Luster ” ( Farrar , Straus & Giroux ) , which tells the story of Edie , a twenty-three-year-old publishing peon who begins an affair with a married man she meets on a dating site .
You could be forgiven for thinking that adultery , a cornerstone of so many great nineteenth-century novels , had been exhausted as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been torn down , taboos lifted , transgressions neutralized ; from Anna Karenina ’ s point of view , things would look positively utopian .
Yet the heart is as muddled by freedom as it was by constraint , and that is where the mordant , bruising “ Luster ” charges in .
Leilani is twenty-nine , a graduate of New York University ’ s M.F.A .
program in fiction , and from the opening sentence her novel showcases her style with , well , a bang : “ The first time we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clothed , at our desks during working hours , bathed in blue computer light.
” That casual disclosure is typical of Leilani ’ s knowing , understated wit .
She is a sharp phrasemaker—we get “ the high-fructose sun ” of an amusement park , and an older co-worker ’ s “ bleached , Warholian cool ” —and she loves catching her reader off guard by tweaking a sentence midway through , switching up speeds , like a pitcher , so that a passage that begins modestly suddenly gathers momentum , shooting forward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ improbably in flight .
Here is Edie with Eric , the guy she ’ s having cybersex with at the start , together at a club ’ s throwback disco night : This is a hundred and forty-two words and still Leilani hurtles on , taking Edie to Eric ’ s house in suburban New Jersey and into his bedroom , “ where all the pictures are facedown , which is a level of premeditation that gives me pause , but that ultimately eases me out of my clothes because to do all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would say yes , he would have to believe himself capable of finessing the initial yes into the terminal yes in such perfect order that I would even go to Jersey and the idea that he understands this , his total control of the situation , is what does me in.
” There ’ s a “ look what I can do ” joy in Leilani ’ s prose that delights in the rapture it describes , capped , in that surrender to “ yes , ” by a nod to Molly Bloom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ herself about the erotics of a breathless run-on .
The novel is narrated in the present tense , for a reason .
Edie can ’ t get much purchase on her past .
If she could , she might avoid making the same mistakes that sink her over and over .
Sex is the big one .
She is , by her own description , the “ office slut ” at the publishing house where she works as something called the “ managing editorial coordinator ” of the children ’ s imprint , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I.T .
guy to the head of the art department .
This has done nothing to advance her career—quite the contrary—though there is a recalled episode of humiliation in which Edie begs the art-department head to take a look at her sketchbook .
( Even the past is rendered in the blunt present tense . )
She wants to be an artist , but doubts her chances : “ I am good , but not good enough , which is worse than simply being bad.
” Sometimes Edie allows herself to dream of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fatter and happier , ” she paints in her own studio .
It ’ s telling that this fantasy is seen from the outside , like a magazine clipping taped to a vision board .
In reality , she barely eats , lives in a mouse-infested apartment in Bushwick , and has been in a state of creative paralysis for two years .
Edie is drawn to Eric by “ the potent drug of a keen power imbalance , ” a familiar aphrodisiac , and here a lightly comedic one ; Eric is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mogul , and it ’ s debatable who holds the advantage .
During the heat of the MeToo movement , it was often said , by people who were dismayed by the explosion of so much fury and retribution , that young women wield their own power over older men .
This is undoubtedly true , as Edie knows ; the trouble is that such power quickly expires , and tends to leave the woman the poorer for having spent it .
But it is exactly this threat of being used , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Disappointment is assumed ; so is the expectation of pain , queasily reframed as desire .
To the loaded differences of age , gender , and income , Leilani adds another : race .
Seen through Eric ’ s eyes , Edie , in the American formulation that expresses racial embarrassment by attempting to hide it , “ happens to be black , ” while Eric is white , and awkwardly sidesteps the subject : “ I can feel it in how cautiously he says African American .
How he absolutely refuses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is used to navigating white self-consciousness .
It ’ s an unspoken requirement at the office , where she is one of only two Black women .
The other , Aria , is a sparkling overachiever who does “ that unthreatening aw-shucks shtick for all the professional whites.
” Edie wishes that they could be in cahoots .
Instead , they are nemeses , Aria repelled by Edie ’ s alienation and slacker ’ s petulance , Edie envious of Aria ’ s cold-eyed , obsequious compliance , her willingness to play the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this setting to lampoon the grist that passes through the corporate publishing mill for the “ general ” reader—the lurid fetish for historical trauma redeemed by white heroics , the ill-informed cultural voyeurism :

One reason that the novel, despite so many tedious predictions to the contrary, stubbornly refuses to die is that the world that fiction helps us see keeps shifting shape. Take Raven Leilani’s first book, “Luster” (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), which tells the story of Edie, a twenty-three-year-old publishing peon who begins an affair with a married man she meets on a dating site. You could be forgiven for thinking that adultery, a cornerstone of so many great nineteenth-century novels, had been exhausted as a subject. Sexual barriers have long since been torn down, taboos lifted, transgressions neutralized; from Anna Karenina’s point of view, things would look positively utopian. Yet the heart is as muddled by freedom as it was by constraint, and that is where the mordant, bruising “Luster” charges in.
Leilani is twenty-nine, a graduate of New York University’s M.F.A. program in fiction, and from the opening sentence her novel showcases her style with, well, a bang: “The first time we have sex, we are both fully clothed, at our desks during working hours, bathed in blue computer light.” That casual disclosure is typical of Leilani’s knowing, understated wit. She is a sharp phrasemaker—we get “the high-fructose sun” of an amusement park, and an older co-worker’s “bleached, Warholian cool”—and she loves catching her reader off guard by tweaking a sentence midway through, switching up speeds, like a pitcher, so that a passage that begins modestly suddenly gathers momentum, shooting forward in long, arcing phrases that stay improbably in flight. Here is Edie with Eric, the guy she’s having cybersex with at the start, together at a club’s throwback disco night:
But the beauty of disco is the too much, is the horn section and the cheese, and so Eric and I convene in the bathroom over a spoon and someone is in the stall next to us with bare feet weeping and we go out into the middle and Eric is a very coordinated white man but given to fall back on the cabbage patch and the diddy bop, which is fine, and then we’re in his car with the AC all the way up, on a reasonable clip through the Holland Tunnel, and he’s handing me his phone and asking me to decline a call from his wife, which makes me feel terrible, not out of any fealty to Rebecca but because this night appears to have generated from some greater marital drama, though of course I relish denying the call . . .
This is a hundred and forty-two words and still Leilani hurtles on, taking Edie to Eric’s house in suburban New Jersey and into his bedroom, “where all the pictures are facedown, which is a level of premeditation that gives me pause, but that ultimately eases me out of my clothes because to do all this he would have to know I would say yes, he would have to believe himself capable of finessing the initial yes into the terminal yes in such perfect order that I would even go to Jersey and the idea that he understands this, his total control of the situation, is what does me in.” There’s a “look what I can do” joy in Leilani’s prose that delights in the rapture it describes, capped, in that surrender to “yes,” by a nod to Molly Bloom, who knows a thing or two herself about the erotics of a breathless run-on.
The novel is narrated in the present tense, for a reason. Edie can’t get much purchase on her past. If she could, she might avoid making the same mistakes that sink her over and over. Sex is the big one. She is, by her own description, the “office slut” at the publishing house where she works as something called the “managing editorial coordinator” of the children’s imprint, and has slept with everyone from the I.T. guy to the head of the art department. This has done nothing to advance her career—quite the contrary—though there is a recalled episode of humiliation in which Edie begs the art-department head to take a look at her sketchbook. (Even the past is rendered in the blunt present tense.) She wants to be an artist, but doubts her chances: “I am good, but not good enough, which is worse than simply being bad.” Sometimes Edie allows herself to dream of a parallel life in which, “fatter and happier,” she paints in her own studio. It’s telling that this fantasy is seen from the outside, like a magazine clipping taped to a vision board. In reality, she barely eats, lives in a mouse-infested apartment in Bushwick, and has been in a state of creative paralysis for two years.
Edie is drawn to Eric by “the potent drug of a keen power imbalance,” a familiar aphrodisiac, and here a lightly comedic one; Eric is a depressive library archivist, not some mogul, and it’s debatable who holds the advantage. During the heat of the MeToo movement, it was often said, by people who were dismayed by the explosion of so much fury and retribution, that young women wield their own power over older men. This is undoubtedly true, as Edie knows; the trouble is that such power quickly expires, and tends to leave the woman the poorer for having spent it. But it is exactly this threat of being used, and used up, that appeals to Edie. Disappointment is assumed; so is the expectation of pain, queasily reframed as desire.
To the loaded differences of age, gender, and income, Leilani adds another: race. Seen through Eric’s eyes, Edie, in the American formulation that expresses racial embarrassment by attempting to hide it, “happens to be black,” while Eric is white, and awkwardly sidesteps the subject: “I can feel it in how cautiously he says African American. How he absolutely refuses to say the word black.” Edie is used to navigating white self-consciousness. It’s an unspoken requirement at the office, where she is one of only two Black women. The other, Aria, is a sparkling overachiever who does “that unthreatening aw-shucks shtick for all the professional whites.” Edie wishes that they could be in cahoots. Instead, they are nemeses, Aria repelled by Edie’s alienation and slacker’s petulance, Edie envious of Aria’s cold-eyed, obsequious compliance, her willingness to play the corporate game. Leilani takes advantage of this setting to lampoon the grist that passes through the corporate publishing mill for the “general” reader—the lurid fetish for historical trauma redeemed by white heroics, the ill-informed cultural voyeurism:
I go up to the table and scan the books, and there are a few new ones: a slave narrative about a mixed-race house girl fighting for a piece of her father’s estate; a slave narrative about a runaway’s friendship with the white schoolteacher who selflessly teaches her how to read; a slave narrative about a tragic mulatto who raises the dead with her magic chitlin pies; a domestic drama about a black maid who, like Schrödinger’s cat, is both alive and dead, an unseen, nurturing presence who exists only within the bounds of her employer’s four walls; an “urban” romance where everybody dies by gang violence; and a book about a Cantonese restaurant, which may or may not have been written by a white woman from Utah, whose descriptions of her characters rely primarily on rice-based foods.
“We decided to restore our home to its original state.” Cartoon by Lonnie Millsap Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
It’s daring of Leilani to launch such a hilarious salvo on the publishing industry from within, and her timing turns out to be spot on. The resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement has led to public critiques of the persistent whiteness of the publishing world—and, perhaps less usefully, to the circulation of a slew of anti-racist reading lists on social media which tend to posit books by Black authors as the broccoli of American literature, to be consumed by white readers for nutrition, not enjoyment. It seems like a delicious trick that “Luster,” a highly pleasurable interrogation of pleasure, should be born into this context. Imagine looking for a lesson and finding, instead, lonely, mixed-up Edie, mercifully unqualified to teach anyone, least of all herself.
Actually, you don’t have to imagine. The novel dramatizes this situation, not through Edie’s affair with Eric but, unexpectedly, through her relationship with his wife. Eric’s marriage is open, an arrangement that resolves ethical tangles by creating new emotional ones. For the first stretch of the novel, the wife, Rebecca, is visible only as a name on a cell-phone screen, or in the list of rules that she has written to govern Eric and Edie’s behavior: no unprotected sex, no ignoring her calls. Edie sees such boundaries as provocations, and one afternoon, crazed with longing and loneliness, she sneaks into Eric’s house. She is rifling through his wife’s closet when the woman herself appears, in a Yale T-shirt and yellow dish-scrubbing gloves. Disaster! Except, weirdly, not: instead of kicking her out of the house, Rebecca insists that Edie stay for what turns out to be the couple’s anniversary party. She even lends her a dress.
The spy has made it inside the gates only to be recruited by the enemy for some obscure, possibly vengeful purpose. In short order, Edie loses her job and her apartment, and, after a harried stint as a messenger for a delivery app, is taken in by Rebecca, while Eric is away on a business trip. The invitation to stay, as much an act of brazen aggression as it is one of charity, disguises a grudging call for help. Eric and Rebecca had recently adopted a Black preteen girl, Akila. Rebecca’s idea seems to be that Edie can serve as a figure of solidarity and support, a “Trusty Black Spirit Guide” who will help the friendless Akila find her way. Akila, sniffing out Edie’s own isolation, will have none of it. Armed with brutal adolescent candor, she would rather sit behind her closed door, playing video games and watching anime, than take pity on her father’s flailing girlfriend.


newyorker--2020-08-10--Toyin Ojih Odutola’s Visions of Power

Toyin Ojih Odutola’s Visions of Power

A woman stands in an otherworldly landscape , looking out .
The landscape is sublime , though not the European sublime of cliffs , peaks , and mist .
Here the sublime is African .
It has many textures—conglomerations of stone , waterfalls , verdant grasslands—and may remind Nigerians of their own Jos Plateau .
The woman stands with her left leg raised , surveying it all , with no sense of urgency ; indeed , she appears to be in a state of philosophical contemplation .
She seems assured both of her mastery over this land and of her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is expressed primarily by her body—the fabrics she wears , the pose she strikes , all of which find their reflection in the land around her .
The same dark lines tracing her impressive musculature render the rippling rocks ; the ridges of her bald head match the ridges in the stone ; the luxurious folds of the fabric are answered by the intricate layering of the earth beneath her feet .
Toyin Ojih Odutola ’ s “ The Ruling Class ( Eshu ) ” appears , at first glance , to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rule is to believe the land is made in your image , and , moreover , that everyone within it submits to you .
Structurally , it recalls Caspar David Friedrich ’ s depiction of Enlightenment dominion , “ Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog ” : the same raised left leg , the same contemplation of power in tranquillity , the echoes of hair , pose , and fabric in the textured landscape .
But the red-headed man with the cane and his back to us has been replaced by a black @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The script has been flipped .
The show containing this image is called “ A Countervailing Theory.
” Countervail : to offset the effect of something by countering it with something of equal force .
The word could not be more apposite .
We are in a cultural moment of radical countervailing , perhaps as potent as that experienced in the sixties , when what was offered as counter to the power of the gun , for example , was a daisy placed in its barrel .
A period of hierarchical reversal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that .
And “ The Ruling Class ” might seem wholly part of this countervailing movement , oppositional and constructed of opposites : black replacing white , by way of a restricted black-and-white palette of charcoal , chalk , and pastel .
A picture that offers a new image of power as counter to an old one .
But that ’ s not the whole story .
And Ojih Odutola—who was born in 1985 , in Ife , Nigeria—is an unusually story-driven visual artist .
Her 2017 breakout show , at the Whitney @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” with its depiction of two imagined Nigerian dynasties united in marriage , involved world-building equal to that of any novel , and in “ A Countervailing Theory ” the “ story , ” as the title implies , is not merely a flipped script but also a theory concerning countervailing itself .
The forty pictures in the show are hung on a curving wall at the Barbican , in London , and unfold sequentially , like a Chinese scroll .
Together , they lead us deep into the wilderness of our present @ @ @ @ @ @ @ how it should be wielded—and then out again , a journey as much philosophical as visual .
What are the possibilities and the limits of countervailing , as a political or an aesthetic project ?
Is it sufficient merely to counter ?
Or might a higher synthesis be conceivable ?
The project started , according to Ojih Odutola , with a “ wandering charcoal line , ” which she followed , “ rather blindly , letting my mark making guide me .
.
.
to see what aesthetic characteristics and proclivities recur and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the work.
” ( Though Ojih Odutola ’ s images are often mistaken for painting , she has so far worked exclusively in pen , pencil , charcoal , and pastel . )
Following this line , she arrived at an unexpected destination , framed as a question .
“ What would it look like if women were the only imperialists in known histories across the globe ?
” Which led to another : If the powerful women she was drawing were the masters , over whom did they have mastery ?
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Akanke , who is a member of the Eshu—the ruling class of women—and Aldo , one of the Koba , male humanoids manufactured to work for the Eshu , mining and cultivating food .
The Koba far outnumber the Eshu—just as slave populations usually dwarf their overseers—but , like slaves , their lives are not their own and they live in fear that their masters will “ decommission ” them at any time , for any reason .
The first eight pictures give us an idea of what it is to be Aldo @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through his body , etched into the skin , through a process implemented , as another image , “ This Is How You Were Made ; Final Stages , ” suggests , by the Eshu .
And , as is true for all beings , Aldo ’ s own existence seems to be a puzzlement to him , although perhaps , as an oppressed being , he puzzles over it more intensely than the ruling class , who , in their tranquillity , tend to think only of their own power .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) , ” this existential anxiety is expressed through the depiction of hard-to-parse liminal spaces , for Koba seem to come into being in a zone somewhere between the bardo , the depths of a mine , and a penal colony—amid circles , lines , waves , and shadows , where it is difficult to say what is floor or ceiling , ground or sky .
In this strange , transitional place , Koba avert their eyes ; they seem fearful ; each grips his own naked body , which appears to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what we glimpse , in “ Unsupervised Education , ” of Eshu childhood is striking .
Young girls , future rulers , roam their environment freely , evidently curious , touching and examining the land , even breaking off pieces of it , at ease within their surroundings and never doubting that ease .
When Ojih Odutola was asked about some of her sources of inspiration for Eshu society , she offered a line of Camille Paglia ’ s— “ Society is a system of inherited forms reducing our humiliating passivity to nature @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Dutch designer Iris van Herpen .
It is easy to see , in the imperious Eshu , the ways in which this feared vulnerability is systemically disguised and obscured , by staffs and helmets , by bodies trained to show no sign of weakness or potential decay , and by clothing that , like van Herpen ’ s , mimics the patterns of nature and aspires to nature ’ s authority of form .

A woman stands in an otherworldly landscape, looking out. The landscape is sublime, though not the European sublime of cliffs, peaks, and mist. Here the sublime is African. It has many textures—conglomerations of stone, waterfalls, verdant grasslands—and may remind Nigerians of their own Jos Plateau. The woman stands with her left leg raised, surveying it all, with no sense of urgency; indeed, she appears to be in a state of philosophical contemplation. She seems assured both of her mastery over this land and of her natural right to it. This sovereignty is expressed primarily by her body—the fabrics she wears, the pose she strikes, all of which find their reflection in the land around her. The same dark lines tracing her impressive musculature render the rippling rocks; the ridges of her bald head match the ridges in the stone; the luxurious folds of the fabric are answered by the intricate layering of the earth beneath her feet. Toyin Ojih Odutola’s “The Ruling Class (Eshu)” appears, at first glance, to be a portrait of dominion. For to rule is to believe the land is made in your image, and, moreover, that everyone within it submits to you. Structurally, it recalls Caspar David Friedrich’s depiction of Enlightenment dominion, “Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog”: the same raised left leg, the same contemplation of power in tranquillity, the echoes of hair, pose, and fabric in the textured landscape. But the red-headed man with the cane and his back to us has been replaced by a black woman with a staff, facing forward. The script has been flipped.
The show containing this image is called “A Countervailing Theory.” Countervail: to offset the effect of something by countering it with something of equal force. The word could not be more apposite. We are in a cultural moment of radical countervailing, perhaps as potent as that experienced in the sixties, when what was offered as counter to the power of the gun, for example, was a daisy placed in its barrel. A period of hierarchical reversal, or replacement, of this for that. And “The Ruling Class” might seem wholly part of this countervailing movement, oppositional and constructed of opposites: black replacing white, by way of a restricted black-and-white palette of charcoal, chalk, and pastel. A picture that offers a new image of power as counter to an old one.
“The Ruling Class (Eshu),” from 2019. Courtesy the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery © Toyin Ojih Odutola
But that’s not the whole story. And Ojih Odutola—who was born in 1985, in Ife, Nigeria—is an unusually story-driven visual artist. Her 2017 breakout show, at the Whitney Museum, “To Wander Determined,” with its depiction of two imagined Nigerian dynasties united in marriage, involved world-building equal to that of any novel, and in “A Countervailing Theory” the “story,” as the title implies, is not merely a flipped script but also a theory concerning countervailing itself. The forty pictures in the show are hung on a curving wall at the Barbican, in London, and unfold sequentially, like a Chinese scroll. Together, they lead us deep into the wilderness of our present ideas about power—who should have it, how it should be wielded—and then out again, a journey as much philosophical as visual. What are the possibilities and the limits of countervailing, as a political or an aesthetic project? Is it sufficient merely to counter? Or might a higher synthesis be conceivable?
The project started, according to Ojih Odutola, with a “wandering charcoal line,” which she followed, “rather blindly, letting my mark making guide me . . . to see what aesthetic characteristics and proclivities recur and how to incorporate these as motifs in the work.” (Though Ojih Odutola’s images are often mistaken for painting, she has so far worked exclusively in pen, pencil, charcoal, and pastel.) Following this line, she arrived at an unexpected destination, framed as a question. “What would it look like if women were the only imperialists in known histories across the globe?” Which led to another: If the powerful women she was drawing were the masters, over whom did they have mastery? The story developed:
My initial aim was to tell a tale of two beings, one born, another made/manufactured, who exist within a system that enterprises and stratifies war, imperialism and hierarchies—and how these two mitigate their respective lives within it to, ultimately, cross over and come together to bring the whole system down. But they fail.
“This Is How You Were Made; Final Stages,” from 2019. Courtesy the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery © Toyin Ojih Odutola
The two beings are Akanke, who is a member of the Eshu—the ruling class of women—and Aldo, one of the Koba, male humanoids manufactured to work for the Eshu, mining and cultivating food. The Koba far outnumber the Eshu—just as slave populations usually dwarf their overseers—but, like slaves, their lives are not their own and they live in fear that their masters will “decommission” them at any time, for any reason. The first eight pictures give us an idea of what it is to be Aldo. Like all Koba, seams run through his body, etched into the skin, through a process implemented, as another image, “This Is How You Were Made; Final Stages,” suggests, by the Eshu. And, as is true for all beings, Aldo’s own existence seems to be a puzzlement to him, although perhaps, as an oppressed being, he puzzles over it more intensely than the ruling class, who, in their tranquillity, tend to think only of their own power. In “Introductions: Early Embodiment (Koba),” this existential anxiety is expressed through the depiction of hard-to-parse liminal spaces, for Koba seem to come into being in a zone somewhere between the bardo, the depths of a mine, and a penal colony—amid circles, lines, waves, and shadows, where it is difficult to say what is floor or ceiling, ground or sky. In this strange, transitional place, Koba avert their eyes; they seem fearful; each grips his own naked body, which appears to be his only possession.
The contrast with what we glimpse, in “Unsupervised Education,” of Eshu childhood is striking. Young girls, future rulers, roam their environment freely, evidently curious, touching and examining the land, even breaking off pieces of it, at ease within their surroundings and never doubting that ease. When Ojih Odutola was asked about some of her sources of inspiration for Eshu society, she offered a line of Camille Paglia’s—“Society is a system of inherited forms reducing our humiliating passivity to nature”—and also the geometric costumery of the Dutch designer Iris van Herpen. It is easy to see, in the imperious Eshu, the ways in which this feared vulnerability is systemically disguised and obscured, by staffs and helmets, by bodies trained to show no sign of weakness or potential decay, and by clothing that, like van Herpen’s, mimics the patterns of nature and aspires to nature’s authority of form.
And yet Ojih Odutola never loses sight of the mutual melancholy that pervades asymmetric relationships of power. In “Suspicions Left Behind,” an Eshu woman crouches on the ground, her staff set aside, her helmet in her hand. She has a troubled look on her face. What is she thinking? Has she begun to suspect (like many a colonialist before her) that the asymmetric relationship between the Eshu and the Koba is untenable? For what Hegel revealed about the master-slave dialectic—and Frantz Fanon took and usefully applied to the asymmetries within both slavery and the colonial relationship—applies equally to the Eshu and the Koba: the Koba recognize the Eshu only on pain of punishment or death, while the Eshu recognize the Koba only as far as doing so supports their own distorted self-recognition as “masters.” And, further, as it is in slavery, the more the Eshu rely on the Koba’s labor, the more dependent they in fact become on the Koba, and the more the Koba understand their own creativity and usefulness vis-à-vis the land, and demand to be truly recognized. In this mournful fable of mutual misrecognition, the secret relationship that we see develop between one Eshu, Akanke, and one Koba, Aldo, results in the creation of a third kind of being (conceived, in this world, through the act of cunnilingus—the Koba have no penises). In “Consequences Unforeseen,” twin fetuses emerge, half Eshu, half Koba, the product of a disruptive affection.
“Mating Ritual,” from 2019. Courtesy the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery © Toyin Ojih Odutola
These future beings would seem to lend visual expression to Fanonian ideas of hybridity, and to offer a promising departure from a Manichaean world. But hybridity alone is insufficient. There is still the law—unjust, half blind, written by the tranquil conquerors—and in the concluding series of images we see the law crush Aldo (he is accused of killing an Eshu, a crime he did not commit). Akanke and her female partner, another Eshu, do not intervene, and Aldo, as a subject with no rights, who cannot be saved by love alone, perishes. An important lesson: recognition of the other is never solely an individual’s gift to give. Love is not law. The system in its entirety must recognize the other.
Instead, the system is oblivious; it is always facing the other way. In “To the Next Outpost,” Akanke gazes out toward a distant point of her people’s colonies while Aldo, facing the viewer, carries a heavy cable, his labor unacknowledged. In “Mating Ritual,” we see several Koba, naked as ever, bending their bodies into striking vogue-like shapes, all without actually touching one another; perhaps sexual activity between them is only psychic or virtual. No Eshu are present, but we can assume they know little of the mating rituals of their underlings. Why would they imagine a complex culture exists within a community they have refused to recognize as autonomous? In truth, power sees so little. Ojih Odutola herself had cause to note this paradox when she came across another vital reference point for “A Countervailing Theory,” an installment of the BBC’s 2010 radio series “A History of the World in 100 Objects.” The episode in question concerned an example of one of Nigeria’s greatest art treasures, the sculpted Ife heads, which, when it was first discovered, in 1910, by the anthropologist Leo Frobenius, was believed to have been created by Greek “Atlantians,” so improbable did it seem to Frobenius that such fine work could be the product of “savage” Africans on African soil. (Modern scholarship suggests that the heads were sculpted sometime around the fifteenth century, exactly where they were found.) For Ojih Odutola, this absurd analysis is not only a pathetic error of the past but a continuing problem:
How could such a vivid imagination be afforded to a very misguided German anthropologist—to the point of insult in concocting such a tale—yet the very creations of our ancestors and that of our own today are seen with such limited scope and complexity?
Listening to the episode, I was struck not only by the ugly racial theory but by the form of the countervail, which was offered, in the episode, by the Nigerian poet and novelist Ben Okri:
The presence of tranquillity in a work of art speaks of a great internal civilization. Because you can’t have the tranquillity without reflection, you can’t have the tranquillity without having asked the great questions about your place in the universe, and having answered those questions to some degree of satisfaction. And that, for me, is what civilization is.
It is, of course, natural that when we are “othered” by the deficient colonial imagination we should want to defend ourselves against the accusation of “savagery” by asserting our own claim to “civilization.” However, I couldn’t help but remind myself that what is called “civilization” always and everywhere has its discontents, that is, those people who are not satisfied by your answers. When Walter Benjamin claimed that every document of civilization is at the same time a document of barbarism, he made no exceptions, and, painful as it can be to acknowledge, the historical fact remains that the same community that made the exquisite Ife heads also proved capable of slave raids, of selling their fellow-Africans to European slavers, just as the same culture that produced Constable conceived the Royal African Company, which issued slave-trading licenses to the merchants and middlemen of a thriving global business. When we are tranquil, when we believe ourselves perfectly civilized, it is usually because the claims of others are invisible to us. And there are always claims.
“Unsupervised Education,” from 2019. Courtesy the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery © Toyin Ojih Odutola
Ojih Odutola’s radical visual reversals function like thought experiments that take us beyond the merely hierarchical. By positioning the unexpected figure of the black woman as master, as oppressor, she suspends, for a moment, our focus on the individual sins of people—the Mississippi overseer, the British slave merchant, the West African slave raider—and turns it back upon enabling systems. It was a racist global system of capital and exploitation—coupled with a perverse and asymmetric understanding of human resource and value—that allowed the trade in humans to occur, and although that trade no longer exists in its previous form, many of its habits of mind persist. In “A Countervailing Theory,” the habit of thought that recognizes some beings and ignores others is presented to us as an element of a physical landscape, the better to emphasize its all-encompassing nature. That system is the air Akanke and Aldo breathe, the bodies they’re in, the land they walk on. For Ojih Odutola, it is expressed by one unending, unfurling charcoal line:
The purpose of beginning the story from the perspective of Aldo, one who is subjugated, is intentional: to show how easily one can be indoctrinated into a systemic predicament. Between Aldo and Akanke, there isn’t a clear demarcation of good or bad with regard to their respective worlds and who they are. The system in which they coexist is illustrated through the striated systems in place—with literal motifs of lines throughout the pictures—representing how the system is ever present and felt, but not explicitly stated. The system is fact.
How can such systems be dismantled? Surely, as Audre Lorde knew, it is not by using the master’s tools. “A Countervailing Theory” offers some alternative possibilities. Here love is radical—between women, between men, between women and men, between human and nonhuman—because it forces us into a fuller recognition of the other. And cunnilingus is radical, and seeing is radical, and listening is radical, for the same reason. We know we don’t want to be victims of history. We know we refuse to be slaves. But do we want to be masters—to behave like masters? To expect as they expect? To be as tranquil and entitled as they are? To claim as righteous our decision not to include them in our human considerations? Are we content that all our attacks on them be ad hominem, as they once spoke of us? If our first response to these portraits of black, female masters is some variation on #bowdownbitches or #girlboss, well, no one can deny the profound pleasures of role reversal, of the flipped script, but when we speak thus we must acknowledge that we can make no simultaneous claim to having put down the master’s tools. Akanke is in these images—but so is Aldo. He must be recognized. The dream of Frantz Fanon was not the replacement of one unjust power with another unjust power; it was a revolutionary humanism, neither assimilationist nor supremacist, in which the Manichaean logic of dominant/submissive as it applies to people is finally and completely dismantled, and the right of every being to its dignity is recognized. That is decolonization.
One of the premises of this complex visual tale is that everything we see on the walls is archeology: pictographic images found in a black-shale deposit, with Ojih Odutola playing the role of anthropologist, directing the research. I realized, working through these documents of a vanished system, how indoctrinated I am within my own systemic predicament, for I read “Parable Rock, Riyom, Nigeria, c. 2200 BC”—in which the heads of Akanke and Aldo are carved in stone, pressed lovingly together, and loom over the land—the same way I read Stone Mountain, in Georgia, or Mt. Rushmore, or the many giant Stalins that once dominated the landscape of the Soviet Union, that is, as an example of sentimental and deceitful state-sanctioned memory. But to the artist herself, I discovered, this rendering in rock of Akanke and Aldo is sincere—a celebration. It speaks of two beings who hoped to start a revolution by genuinely recognizing each other, in their full selves, and thus momentarily challenged a system expressly constructed to keep them apart. It almost worked. ♦


newyorker--2020-08-10--Will Charleston, a Fanciful Bloomsbury Shrine, Be a COVID Casualty?

“ The house wants doing up—and the wallpapers are awful , ” Virginia Woolf wrote to her sister , Vanessa Bell , during the midst of the First World War , about a farmhouse called Charleston , in Sussex .
The bathwater was cold , and the tenants had given animals the run of the rooms , but the garden was charming— “ a pond , and fruit trees , and vegetables ” —and Bell moved her household there in 1916 .
She brought her lover , Duncan Grant , his lover David Garnett , and her two children by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ waiting out the war elsewhere .
( Complicated but harmonious . )
The farmwork enabled the men , both conscientious objectors , to avoid conscription , and the house offered the family an idyllic , secluded retreat from the outside world , not unlike the one imagined by Woolf for her character Orlando , who “ naturally loved solitary places , vast views , and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.
” One benefit of idyllic retreats is privacy ; another is freedom in décor .
Bell and Grant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a canvas , painting the walls , the furniture , the doorways : a God of Sleep bed frame and a Ballet Russes log box .
They painted their visitors , too , among them Roger Fry , Lytton Strachey , E. M. Forster , and John Maynard Keynes , who had his own bedroom .
In the garden , they had zinnias and narcissus , sweet peas and dahlias , a tiled pond and a piazza .
For decades , Charleston served as a Bloomsbury watering hole .
Then its occupants gradually @ @ @ @ @ @ @ decline .
In 1980 , a trust was established , and the house was restored ; it hosted paying visitors and an annual literary festival , which this year would have featured Gloria Steinem and Salman Rushdie .
“ That ’ s all gone down the tubes , and we are seriously worried , ” Virginia Nicholson , the president of the Charleston Trust and Bell ’ s granddaughter , said recently .
A truncated version of the festival ( “ Charleston at Home ” ) took place online , but the house @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This is a problem .
Charleston is self-funded : its income comes from foot traffic ( banned ) , the festival ( cancelled ) , and gift-shop sales ( online only ) .
In March , the trust launched an emergency appeal for donations .
Emily Maude , an artist in Brighton , ran an Instagram auction , which raised about fifty-five thousand pounds .
Fans pitched in , too , selling hand-painted tables , special-edition books , and a selection of fountain-pen inks .
The gardener at Charleston sold bunches of flowers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are obviously at risk of permanent closure , ” Nicholson said .
The other day , Nicholson , who is also an author and a historian , had a Zoom call with her younger sister , the designer Cressida Bell , about Charleston ’ s future .
Their father , the art historian Quentin Bell , who grew up at Charleston , had been instrumental in saving the house the last time it was in trouble .
Nicholson , in a poppy-red cardigan , was calling from her study , in Sussex , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her grandmother .
Cressida was in her studio , in East London ’ s Hackney neighborhood , painting the base of a table lamp .
( Her work includes lamps , textiles , stationery , and scarves , and she runs a popular lampshade-painting workshop , now postponed . )
Both women have short blond bobs , glasses , and elegant , angular faces .
They compared memories of the house , where they spent summers and weekends as children .
Nicholson was only five years old when Vanessa died ( Cressida was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ painted by her grandmother at Charleston .
“ They paid six pence an hour , ” she said , of modelling .
“ I loved the studio best , because it was the only warm room in the house.
” “ I loved the dining room , ” Cressida said .
“ I love the fact that the walls are black , almost charcoal.
” Vanessa would always sit at the same place at the wide , circular table , which was painted with rings of pastel yellow , pink , and green @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Grant , were all different , and the children fought over them .
( Cressida loved an orange-and-turquoise one . )
On Saturdays , Cressida would visit the house to make pottery with her father and spend time with Grant , whom they regarded as a beloved grandfather .
“ He had this wonderful slew of gay admirers , ” Cressida recalled .
“ It never struck any of us that it was odd or peculiar that we had , on that side of the family , three grandparents instead of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ When the sisters stayed overnight , they braved the baths ( scalding hot and scummy ) , and the camp beds in the attic , where they slept .
“ The attic wasn ’ t very luxurious , but it was full of very exciting things , ” Nicholson said .
A doll ’ s house , a dress-up closet , an old typewriter .
“ The butterfly chest !
” Cressida said .
She had almost finished the lamp , an order for a customer in Texas .
She held up its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pattern .
Nicholson was feeling nostalgic .
“ Charleston still smells the same to me .
It smells like turpentine and old books , ” she said .
“ You can feel the ghosts.
” ♦

“The house wants doing up—and the wallpapers are awful,” Virginia Woolf wrote to her sister, Vanessa Bell, during the midst of the First World War, about a farmhouse called Charleston, in Sussex. The bathwater was cold, and the tenants had given animals the run of the rooms, but the garden was charming—“a pond, and fruit trees, and vegetables”—and Bell moved her household there in 1916. She brought her lover, Duncan Grant, his lover David Garnett, and her two children by her husband, Clive, who was waiting out the war elsewhere. (Complicated but harmonious.) The farmwork enabled the men, both conscientious objectors, to avoid conscription, and the house offered the family an idyllic, secluded retreat from the outside world, not unlike the one imagined by Woolf for her character Orlando, who “naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.”
The studio at Charleston, which was used by Duncan Grant almost until his death, in 1978. The tiles behind the stove are by Vanessa Bell. Photograph by Penelope Fewster
One benefit of idyllic retreats is privacy; another is freedom in décor. Bell and Grant, both artists, treated Charleston like a canvas, painting the walls, the furniture, the doorways: a God of Sleep bed frame and a Ballet Russes log box. They painted their visitors, too, among them Roger Fry, Lytton Strachey, E. M. Forster, and John Maynard Keynes, who had his own bedroom. In the garden, they had zinnias and narcissus, sweet peas and dahlias, a tiled pond and a piazza. For decades, Charleston served as a Bloomsbury watering hole. Then its occupants gradually died off, and it fell into decline. In 1980, a trust was established, and the house was restored; it hosted paying visitors and an annual literary festival, which this year would have featured Gloria Steinem and Salman Rushdie.
The studio fireplace was painted by Grant, around 1935. Photograph by Penelope Fewster
“That’s all gone down the tubes, and we are seriously worried,” Virginia Nicholson, the president of the Charleston Trust and Bell’s granddaughter, said recently. A truncated version of the festival (“Charleston at Home”) took place online, but the house remains closed because of the pandemic. This is a problem. Charleston is self-funded: its income comes from foot traffic (banned), the festival (cancelled), and gift-shop sales (online only). In March, the trust launched an emergency appeal for donations. Emily Maude, an artist in Brighton, ran an Instagram auction, which raised about fifty-five thousand pounds. Fans pitched in, too, selling hand-painted tables, special-edition books, and a selection of fountain-pen inks. The gardener at Charleston sold bunches of flowers outside an antique shop. “We are obviously at risk of permanent closure,” Nicholson said.
The library at Charleston. The hound beneath the window was painted by Grant. Photograph by Jon Santa Cruz
The other day, Nicholson, who is also an author and a historian, had a Zoom call with her younger sister, the designer Cressida Bell, about Charleston’s future. Their father, the art historian Quentin Bell, who grew up at Charleston, had been instrumental in saving the house the last time it was in trouble. Nicholson, in a poppy-red cardigan, was calling from her study, in Sussex, surrounded by books and a bust of her grandmother. Cressida was in her studio, in East London’s Hackney neighborhood, painting the base of a table lamp. (Her work includes lamps, textiles, stationery, and scarves, and she runs a popular lampshade-painting workshop, now postponed.) Both women have short blond bobs, glasses, and elegant, angular faces.
“Seagulls aren’t about food anymore—now they want experiences.” Cartoon by Emma Hunsinger Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
They compared memories of the house, where they spent summers and weekends as children. Nicholson was only five years old when Vanessa died (Cressida was one), but she remembers being painted by her grandmother at Charleston. “They paid six pence an hour,” she said, of modelling. “I loved the studio best, because it was the only warm room in the house.”
“I loved the dining room,” Cressida said. “I love the fact that the walls are black, almost charcoal.” Vanessa would always sit at the same place at the wide, circular table, which was painted with rings of pastel yellow, pink, and green. The plates, painted by Vanessa and Grant, were all different, and the children fought over them. (Cressida loved an orange-and-turquoise one.)
On Saturdays, Cressida would visit the house to make pottery with her father and spend time with Grant, whom they regarded as a beloved grandfather. “He had this wonderful slew of gay admirers,” Cressida recalled. “It never struck any of us that it was odd or peculiar that we had, on that side of the family, three grandparents instead of the usual two,” Nicholson added.
When the sisters stayed overnight, they braved the baths (scalding hot and scummy), and the camp beds in the attic, where they slept. “The attic wasn’t very luxurious, but it was full of very exciting things,” Nicholson said. A doll’s house, a dress-up closet, an old typewriter.
“The butterfly chest!” Cressida said. She had almost finished the lamp, an order for a customer in Texas. She held up its matching shade: blue-green with a leafy pattern.
Nicholson was feeling nostalgic. “Charleston still smells the same to me. It smells like turpentine and old books,” she said. “You can feel the ghosts.” ♦


newyorker--2020-08-10--“Pseudacris Crucifer,” by Terrance Hayes

The father begins to make the sound a tree frog makes When he comes with his son & daughter to a pail Of tree frogs for sale in a Deep South flea market Just before the last blood of dusk .
A tree frog is called a tree frog because it chirps Like a bird in a tree , he tells his daughter While her little brother , barely four years old , Busies himself like a small blues piper With a brand-new birthday harmonica .
A single tree frog can sound like a sleigh bell , The father says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Of crickets .
Once in high school , as I dissected A frog , the frog opened its eyes to judge Its deconstruction , its disassembly , My scooping & poking at its soul .
And the little girl ’ s eyes go wide as a tree frog ’ s eyes .
Some call it the “ spring peeper.
” In Latin It ’ s called Pseudacris crucifer .
False locusts , Toads with falsettos , their chimes issuing below The low leaves & petals .
The harmonica playing Is so otherworldly , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Some tree-frog species spend most every day underground .
They don ’ t know what sunlight does at dusk .
They are nocturnal insectivores .
No bigger than A green thumb , they are the first frogs to call In the spring .
They may sound like crickets Only because they eat so many crickets .
Tree frogs mostly sound like birds .
The tree frog overcomes its fear of birds by singing .
The harmonica playing is so bewitching , The boy gathers a crowd in a flea market In the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a frog .
A fox may eat the bird .
A wolf may eat the fox .
And the wolf then may carry varieties of music And cunning in its belly as it roams the countryside .
A wolf hungers because it can not feel the good In its body .
The people clap & gather round With fangs & smiles .
The father lifts the son To his shoulders so the boy ’ s harmonics hover Over varieties of affections , varieties of bodies With their backs to a firmament burning & @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anything in a flea market : Pets , weapons , flags , farm-fresh as well as farm-spoiled Fruits & vegetables , varieties of old wardrobes , A rusty old tin box with old postcards & old photos Of lynchings dusted in the rust of the box .
You can feel it on the tips of your fingers , This rust , which is almost as brown as the father And the boy on his shoulders & the girl making The sound a tree frog makes in a flea market In the Deep South @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before the last blood of dusk .
Just before the dusk .

Audio: Read by the author.
The father begins to make the sound a tree frog makes
When he comes with his son & daughter to a pail
Of tree frogs for sale in a Deep South flea market
Just before the last blood of dusk.
A tree frog is called a tree frog because it chirps
Like a bird in a tree, he tells his daughter
While her little brother, barely four years old,
Busies himself like a small blues piper
With a brand-new birthday harmonica.
A single tree frog can sound like a sleigh bell,
The father says. Several can sound like a choir
Of crickets. Once in high school, as I dissected
A frog, the frog opened its eyes to judge
Its deconstruction, its disassembly,
My scooping & poking at its soul.
And the little girl’s eyes go wide as a tree frog’s eyes.
Some call it the “spring peeper.” In Latin
It’s called Pseudacris crucifer. False locusts,
Toads with falsettos, their chimes issuing below
The low leaves & petals. The harmonica playing
Is so otherworldly, the boy blows with his eyes closed.
Some tree-frog species spend most every day underground.
They don’t know what sunlight does at dusk.
They are nocturnal insectivores. No bigger than
A green thumb, they are the first frogs to call
In the spring. They may sound like crickets
Only because they eat so many crickets.
Tree frogs mostly sound like birds.
The tree frog overcomes its fear of birds by singing.
The harmonica playing is so bewitching,
The boy gathers a crowd in a flea market
In the Deep South. A bird may eat a frog.
A fox may eat the bird. A wolf may eat the fox.
And the wolf then may carry varieties of music
And cunning in its belly as it roams the countryside.
A wolf hungers because it cannot feel the good
In its body. The people clap & gather round
With fangs & smiles. The father lifts the son
To his shoulders so the boy’s harmonics hover
Over varieties of affections, varieties of bodies
With their backs to a firmament burning & opening.
You can find damn near anything in a flea market:
Pets, weapons, flags, farm-fresh as well as farm-spoiled
Fruits & vegetables, varieties of old wardrobes,
A rusty old tin box with old postcards & old photos
Of lynchings dusted in the rust of the box.
You can feel it on the tips of your fingers,
This rust, which is almost as brown as the father
And the boy on his shoulders & the girl making
The sound a tree frog makes in a flea market
In the Deep South before the blood of dusk,
Just before the last blood of dusk. Just before the dusk.


newyorker--2020-08-10--Romeo and Juliet’s Socially Distant Balcony Scene

ROMEO : But , soft !
What light through yonder window breaks ?
It is the east , and Juliet is the sun .
’ Tis not the yondest window I have seen ; In truth , I fear , ’ tis not quite yond enough .
The distance , by my reckoning , is fine , Being thrice the span of my outstretchèd arm ; The real problem here is one of height , With me down here and her up there and all— It is my lady , O , it is my love !
She speaks yet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
I actually prefer that she keep shtum , Because , though I am loth to criticize This maid that o ’ ershines the envious moon ( Who is already sick and pale with grief , That Juliet be far more fair than she ) , The silly dope came out without a mask .
Were she to sneeze or , worse still , blow her nose , Whose tiny tilt and rare perfection ne ’ er Shall beg the rhinoplast ’ rer ’ s careful art , I might lie just inside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this sacred law begot : Thy love is deepest when thou lov ’ st not snot .
( Steps back ) That ’ s better .
Ah , my sweet !
Her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night .
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand !
O , that I were a glove upon that hand , That I might touch that cheek !
( Pause ) Not literally .
ROMEO : Long story .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , But Mom liked Rocco , ’ cause it sounded tough : Rocky Montague , right ?
In the end , They compromised , so Romeo it was .
JULIET : What ’ s in a name ?
That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet .
ROMEO : ’ Tis true , and yet is smelling anything A good idea , when e ’ en the gods themselves , Obeying guidelines , choose to chicken out When bending low to take a mortal sniff ?
JULIET @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , tell me , and wherefore ?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb .
ROMEO : With love ’ s light wings did I o ’ er-perch these walls ; For stony limits can not hold love out .
Also , there are arrows , freshly daubed , That show the aëreal climber where to go , Along a one-way route , in case you meet Another suitor keen to abseil down .
JULIET : By whose direction found ’ st thou out this place ?
ROMEO : By love @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inquire ; And then—the traffic being as sparse as hairs Upon a boyish chin—by Uber .
Lovely guy , Who swore that every inch was sanitiz ’ d .
I gell ’ d my palms before I buckl ’ d up .
JULIET : Thou know ’ st the mask of night is on my face , Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight .
Fain would I dwell on form .
Fain , fain deny What I have spoke— ROMEO : All @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But when you say the mask of night , is that An actual mask , or that weird clayey thing With which the Duke of L ’ Oréal doth add A glow of nourishment to visages Already infant-soft ?
I ’ faith , my love , To show thyself upon a balcony Sans mask is sure to contravene the law .
JULIET : And dost thou love me , though I be unmasked ?
JULIET : O , swear not by the moon , th ’ inconstant moon , That monthly changes in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shall I swear by ?
JULIET : Do not swear at all .
ROMEO ( aside ) : So make your fucking mind up .
( Aloud ) Dearest heart !
JULIET : I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash , too unadvis ’ d , too sudden ; Too like the lightning , which doth cease to be Ere one can say “ It lightens.
” ROMEO : If you mean , Have I been quarantined , the answer ’ s yes .
And let me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for any length of time Doth stretch me as upon the torturer ’ s rack .
No vaccine , though it were distill ’ d within The chambers of our learned friar , could cure A fortnight with my Uncle Lou— JULIET : What satisfaction canst thou have tonight ?
A kiss ?
Give me a break .
No kissing here , Thou dummy , till the breath of next year ’ s spring Shall green once more the wither ’ d bough , if then .
The closest to a kiss that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ full visors , and to clash Adoringly , akin to knights who meet And strike their am ’ rous armor in the joust .
Forgive me , what exactly dost thou crave ?
ROMEO : The exchange of thy love ’ s faithful vow for mine .
JULIET : O.K.
, done .
How ’ bout an elbow bump ?
ROMEO : Not easy from down here .
What else you got ?
JULIET : My bounty is as boundless as the sea , My love as deep ; the more I give @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for both are infinite .
( Nurse calls . )
I hear some noise within ; dear love , adieu !
Anon , good nurse !
Sweet Montague , be true .
Stay but a little , I will come again .
( Exit ) ROMEO : Did she say nurse ?
Forsooth , what gives up there ?
And who is it doth need a physic ’ s care ?
Those damnèd superspreading Capulets : I wouldn ’ t put it past them to have coughed All over every other clan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , dear Romeo , and good night indeed .
If that thy bent of love be honourable , Thy purpose marriage , send me word tomorrow .
ROMEO : A thousand times the worse , to want thy light .
Love goes toward love , as schoolboys from their books , But love from love , toward school with heavy looks .
( Pause ) Not that anyone doth go to school Or glance at books , when learning is remote .
A generation ruined .
Kids these days .
.
.
JULIET @ @ @ @ @ @ @ O , for a falconer ’ s voice , To lure this tassel-gentle back again !
ROMEO : I ’ m sorry , what ?
Who ’ s hissing ?
Gentle how ?
JULIET : Bondage is hoarse , and may not speak aloud .
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies , And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine , With repetition of my Romeo ’ s name .
ROMEO : Whate ’ er thy wooing speech may mean , ’ tis hot .
I like the sound @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But , really , bondage ?
Would you say that ’ s wise , When handshakes are a no-no , and a hug Is no more welcome than the biting asp ?
Is leather biologically secure ?
JULIET : ’ Tis almost morning .
I would have thee gone : And yet no further than a wanton ’ s bird , Who lets it hop a little from her hand , And with a silk thread plucks it back again .
ROMEO : Count me in .
I would I could so hop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ night !
Parting is such sweet sorrow , That I shall say good night till it be morrow .
( Exit ) ROMEO : Sleep dwell upon thine eyes , peace in thy breast !
Would I were sleep and peace , so sweet to rest !
And don ’ t forget to wash thy hands !
Adieu .
( Pause ) Well , that went well .
I haven ’ t got a clue How often I should venture thus .
Desire Doth urge me here , ascending ever higher Toward the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Wherefrom to sip , with souls entwin ’ d .
And yet One drop envenom ’ d might our bodies kill As we make out across the windowsill .
Why feed the fever of my spirit , when Infection rates are off the charts again ?
Love is a sickness , as the sages say .
Veronavirus gets you either way .
( Exit , following the wrong arrow .
Reënter , cursing .
Exit . )
♦

There is just no such thing as social distancing for actors. You cannot prevent contact. That is just not the way our industry works.
—Kate Shindle, president of Actors’ Equity Association.
SCENE: Capulet’s orchard. Juliet appears above at a window.
ROMEO: But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
’Tis not the yondest window I have seen;
In truth, I fear, ’tis not quite yond enough.
The distance, by my reckoning, is fine,
Being thrice the span of my outstretchèd arm;
The real problem here is one of height,
With me down here and her up there and all—
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
I actually prefer that she keep shtum,
Because, though I am loth to criticize
This maid that o’ershines the envious moon
(Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That Juliet be far more fair than she),
The silly dope came out without a mask.
Were she to sneeze or, worse still, blow her nose,
Whose tiny tilt and rare perfection ne’er
Shall beg the rhinoplast’rer’s careful art,
I might lie just inside her mucal range.
By Cupid was this sacred law begot:
Thy love is deepest when thou lov’st not snot.
(Steps back)
That’s better. Ah, my sweet! Her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek! (Pause) Not literally.
JULIET: O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
ROMEO: Long story. My old man was keen on Duane,
But Mom liked Rocco, ’cause it sounded tough:
Rocky Montague, right? In the end,
They compromised, so Romeo it was.
JULIET: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
ROMEO: ’Tis true, and yet is smelling anything
A good idea, when e’en the gods themselves,
Obeying guidelines, choose to chicken out
When bending low to take a mortal sniff?
JULIET: How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb.
ROMEO: With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out.
Also, there are arrows, freshly daubed,
That show the aëreal climber where to go,
Along a one-way route, in case you meet
Another suitor keen to abseil down.
JULIET: By whose direction found’st thou out this place?
ROMEO: By love, that first did prompt me to inquire;
And then—the traffic being as sparse as hairs
Upon a boyish chin—by Uber. Lovely guy,
Who swore that every inch was sanitiz’d.
I gell’d my palms before I buckl’d up.
JULIET: Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.
Fain would I dwell on form. Fain, fain deny
What I have spoke—
ROMEO: All right, I get the fains.
But when you say the mask of night, is that
An actual mask, or that weird clayey thing
With which the Duke of L’Oréal doth add
A glow of nourishment to visages
Already infant-soft? I’faith, my love,
To show thyself upon a balcony
Sans mask is sure to contravene the law.
JULIET: And dost thou love me, though I be unmasked?
ROMEO: Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear—
JULIET: O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb.
ROMEO: What shall I swear by?
JULIET: Do not swear at all.
ROMEO (aside): So make your fucking mind up. (Aloud) Dearest heart!
JULIET: I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say “It lightens.”
ROMEO: If you mean,
Have I been quarantined, the answer’s yes.
And let me tell you, isolating with
The Montagues for any length of time
Doth stretch me as upon the torturer’s rack.
No vaccine, though it were distill’d within
The chambers of our learned friar, could cure
A fortnight with my Uncle Lou—
JULIET: Good night!
ROMEO: O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET: What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
A kiss? Give me a break. No kissing here,
Thou dummy, till the breath of next year’s spring
Shall green once more the wither’d bough, if then.
The closest to a kiss that we may come
Would be to don full visors, and to clash
Adoringly, akin to knights who meet
And strike their am’rous armor in the joust.
Forgive me, what exactly dost thou crave?
ROMEO: The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
JULIET: O.K., done. How ’bout an elbow bump?
ROMEO: Not easy from down here. What else you got?