newyorker--2020-10-05--The Dad Who Taught Lin-Manuel Miranda Retail Politics

Though his career is not in the theatre , Luis is possibly even more animated than his son .
“ Everyone who meets Luis Miranda goes , ‘ Your play is good , but your dad is a character , ’ ” Lin-Manuel said .
In “ Siempre , Luis , ” a new HBO documentary about Luis , directed by John James , Lin-Manuel describes his father as a “ relentless motherfucker , ” not unlike another Caribbean-born politico , Alexander Hamilton .
“ It keeps surfacing in my work , ” Lin-Manuel went on .
“ I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to New York from somewhere else and make a life for themselves here.
” Luis grew up in Vega Alta , Puerto Rico , a small town west of San Juan .
His father , Luis , Sr. ( nicknamed Güisin ) , was the local credit-union manager .
“ If you needed five hundred bucks , you went to see Güisin , ” Luis recalled .
“ Lin-Manuel says that he always had the fantasy of my dad being like the banker in ‘ It ’ s a Wonderful Life.
’ You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dad being stopped all the time , so much that I swore to myself that I would never name my kid Luis .
Never ever .
Because I didn ’ t have a name .
I ’ m back to not having a name .
I ’ m Lin-Manuel ’ s dad .
After my eighteen years in Vega Alta , I was ‘ Güisin ’ s son , the one who left and went to New York.
’ ” In 1974 , Luis—young , scrappy , hungry , and newly married to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ program in clinical psychiatry at New York University .
With ten dollars from his father , he left his wife behind in Puerto Rico , moved in with an aunt in Chelsea , and got a job at a nonprofit , where his salary was five dollars an hour , twice what he had made at a Sears back home .
He said , “ I remember calling my wife that night and saying , ‘ Baby , New York is the shit .
My salary just doubled , and all I had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” The marriage didn ’ t last—he met Lin-Manuel ’ s mother , Luz , through the N.Y.U .
program—nor did his career as a therapist .
“ I quickly realized that I am not cut out to be the kind of psychologist that I was being trained to be , ” he recalled .
“ I would be sitting there thinking , You ’ re such a loser !
Do something !
We talked about this problem the last two months !
Please.
” “ Luis Miranda as your psychologist is nightmare @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Luz moved to Washington Heights in 1980 , the year Lin-Manuel was born .
“ We got involved in electing Hispanic school-board members in District 6 , ” Luis said .
“ I had picketed Ed Koch every time he came to our community , because we were fighting for more schools.
” Luis , whose colorful belligerence matched Koch ’ s , talked his way into a job as the mayor ’ s director of Hispanic affairs .
“ I very weirdly remember the day he was hired , ” Lin-Manuel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , recalled .
“ I was watching the episode of ‘ Good Times ’ when John Amos ’ s character died , and I was hysterically crying .
And my dad came home a half hour later with this letter on mayoral stationery and said , ‘ Your dad got a new job !
’ ” Growing up , Lin-Manuel ran around Gracie Mansion at holiday parties and picked up lyrical skills from Inner Circle shows , which featured song parodies making fun of Koch .
“ I never got to go , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” he said .
“ Because I grew up worshipping Weird Al , I just thought it was so cool that they were ripping the mayor to shit to Michael Jackson tunes.
” In 1998 , Luis formed a consulting firm , through which he helped Chuck Schumer and Hillary Clinton win their Senate seats .
( “ The dude was relentless , ” he said of Schumer . )
More recently , he helped Letitia James become the attorney general of New York .
Lin-Manuel , meanwhile , channelled the retail @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I remember Andrew Cuomo seeing the show and saying to me , ‘ You learned politics at the kitchen table , ’ ” he said .
Now that “ Hamilton ” is big business , Luis applies his behind-the-scenes boosterism to his son .
A month before Hurricane Maria , in 2017 , he opened a commercial courtyard in Vega Alta called La Placita de Güisin , with an arepa stand , a mosaic of Lin-Manuel as Hamilton alongside Luis ’ s father , and a gallery called Museo Miranda , displaying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ photos , and one of Lin-Manuel ’ s Tonys .
Lin-Manuel wasn ’ t always the pride of his father ’ s home town .
“ When I went to visit as a kid , ” he recalled , “ I was introduced as ‘ Ese es el de Luisito que se fue ’ : ‘ That ’ s the kid of Luis who left.
’ ” ♦

Lin-Manuel Miranda and Luis Miranda Illustration by João Fazenda
Up in Washington Heights the other day, the political consultant Luis Miranda took a break from reviewing Joe Biden ads aimed at Latino voters in Florida to catch up on Zoom with his son, Lin-Manuel. Miranda père, who is sixty-six, was at an office near his apartment. He wore a loud patterned shirt and round glasses. Miranda fils, in a hoodie and a cap, was upstate, getting ready to direct the movie musical “Tick, Tick . . . Boom!”
Though his career is not in the theatre, Luis is possibly even more animated than his son. “Everyone who meets Luis Miranda goes, ‘Your play is good, but your dad is a character,’ ” Lin-Manuel said. In “Siempre, Luis,” a new HBO documentary about Luis, directed by John James, Lin-Manuel describes his father as a “relentless motherfucker,” not unlike another Caribbean-born politico, Alexander Hamilton. “It keeps surfacing in my work,” Lin-Manuel went on. “I’m in awe of people who come to New York from somewhere else and make a life for themselves here.”
Luis grew up in Vega Alta, Puerto Rico, a small town west of San Juan. His father, Luis, Sr. (nicknamed Güisin), was the local credit-union manager. “If you needed five hundred bucks, you went to see Güisin,” Luis recalled. “Lin-Manuel says that he always had the fantasy of my dad being like the banker in ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ You could not walk through town without my dad being stopped all the time, so much that I swore to myself that I would never name my kid Luis. Never ever. Because I didn’t have a name. I’m back to not having a name. I’m Lin-Manuel’s dad. After my eighteen years in Vega Alta, I was ‘Güisin’s son, the one who left and went to New York.’ ”
In 1974, Luis—young, scrappy, hungry, and newly married to his seventh-grade sweetheart—was recruited to a Ph.D. program in clinical psychiatry at New York University. With ten dollars from his father, he left his wife behind in Puerto Rico, moved in with an aunt in Chelsea, and got a job at a nonprofit, where his salary was five dollars an hour, twice what he had made at a Sears back home. He said, “I remember calling my wife that night and saying, ‘Baby, New York is the shit. My salary just doubled, and all I had to do was take a plane! ” The marriage didn’t last—he met Lin-Manuel’s mother, Luz, through the N.Y.U. program—nor did his career as a therapist. “I quickly realized that I am not cut out to be the kind of psychologist that I was being trained to be,” he recalled. “I would be sitting there thinking, You’re such a loser! Do something! We talked about this problem the last two months! Please.”
“Luis Miranda as your psychologist is nightmare fuel,” Lin-Manuel said.
Luis and Luz moved to Washington Heights in 1980, the year Lin-Manuel was born. “We got involved in electing Hispanic school-board members in District 6,” Luis said. “I had picketed Ed Koch every time he came to our community, because we were fighting for more schools.” Luis, whose colorful belligerence matched Koch’s, talked his way into a job as the mayor’s director of Hispanic affairs. “I very weirdly remember the day he was hired,” Lin-Manuel, who was seven at the time, recalled. “I was watching the episode of ‘Good Times’ when John Amos’s character died, and I was hysterically crying. And my dad came home a half hour later with this letter on mayoral stationery and said, ‘Your dad got a new job!’ ” Growing up, Lin-Manuel ran around Gracie Mansion at holiday parties and picked up lyrical skills from Inner Circle shows, which featured song parodies making fun of Koch. “I never got to go, but my dad would bring home programs,” he said. “Because I grew up worshipping Weird Al, I just thought it was so cool that they were ripping the mayor to shit to Michael Jackson tunes.” In 1998, Luis formed a consulting firm, through which he helped Chuck Schumer and Hillary Clinton win their Senate seats. (“The dude was relentless,” he said of Schumer.) More recently, he helped Letitia James become the attorney general of New York. Lin-Manuel, meanwhile, channelled the retail side of politics into “Hamilton.” “I remember Andrew Cuomo seeing the show and saying to me, ‘You learned politics at the kitchen table,’ ” he said.
Now that “Hamilton” is big business, Luis applies his behind-the-scenes boosterism to his son. A month before Hurricane Maria, in 2017, he opened a commercial courtyard in Vega Alta called La Placita de Güisin, with an arepa stand, a mosaic of Lin-Manuel as Hamilton alongside Luis’s father, and a gallery called Museo Miranda, displaying “Hamilton” fan art, family photos, and one of Lin-Manuel’s Tonys. Lin-Manuel wasn’t always the pride of his father’s home town. “When I went to visit as a kid,” he recalled, “I was introduced as ‘Ese es el de Luisito que se fue’: ‘That’s the kid of Luis who left.’ ” ♦


newyorker--2020-10-05--Three Scenarios for the Future of Climate Change

Hansen ’ s warning was certainly not the first .
A report to President Lyndon Johnson in 1965 noted that the effect of burning fossil fuels was likely to be “ deleterious from the point of view of human beings.
” Another report , prepared for the Department of Energy in 1979 , predicted that even a relatively small increase in temperature could lead to the ultimate “ disintegration ” of the West Antarctic ice sheet , a process that would raise global sea levels by sixteen feet .
A third report , also from 1979 , found that , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there was no doubt that the climate would change and “ no reason to believe ” that the change “ will be negligible.
” But , for some reason , when Hansen spoke up , on that sweltering afternoon in June , the story of climate change shifted .
The Times ran its article at the top of page 1 , under a three-column headline : “ GLOBAL WARMING HAS BEGUN , EXPERT TELLS SENATE.
” The following year , Bill McKibben published “ The End of Nature , ” first as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Reflections , ” and then , in longer form , as a book .
Had the words of either man been heeded in the intervening three decades , the world today would be a very different place—incalculably better off in innumerable ways .
Instead , during that interval , some two hundred billion metric tons of carbon have been spewed into the atmosphere .
( This is roughly as much CO as had been emitted from the start of the Industrial Revolution to that point . )
Meanwhile , trillions of dollars have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ oil pipelines , gas pipelines , liquid-natural-gas export terminals , and a host of other fossil-fuel projects that , in a saner world , would never have been constructed .
And global temperatures , as everyone can by now attest—though some still refuse to acknowledge—have continued to rise , to the point where the sweltering summer of 1988 no longer stands out as particularly hot .
The nineteen-nineties were , on average , warmer than the eighties , the aughts hotter than the nineties , and the past decade hotter still .
Each @ @ @ @ @ @ @ among the warmest on record .
The New Yorker has run dozens of pieces on climate change .
All might be described as “ reflections ” on this fundamental disconnect .
Even as the consequences—rising seas , fiercer droughts , longer wildfire seasons , more devastating storms—have become daily news , global carbon emissions have continued to increase .
In 2019 , they reached a new record of ten billion metric tons .
Emissions in India rose by almost two per cent , and in China by more than two per cent .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ dropped , by about 1.5 per cent .
On November 4 , 2019 , the Trump Administration formally notified the United Nations that it planned to withdraw from the Paris climate accord , negotiated by the Obama Administration back in 2015 .
The very next day , a group called the Alliance of World Scientists released a statement , signed by eleven thousand researchers , warning that “ the climate crisis has arrived and is accelerating faster than most scientists expected.
” “ Especially worrisome , ” the statement continued , were “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crossing of which “ could lead to a catastrophic ‘ hothouse Earth , ’ well beyond the control of humans.
” But to an extent that , depending on your perspective , is either heartening or horrifying , the future—and not just of the next several decades but of the next several millennia—hinges on actions that will be taken by the time today ’ s toddlers reach adulthood .
What ’ s technically referred to as “ dangerous anthropogenic interference with the climate system ” and colloquially known as “ catastrophe ” is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ apt to obliterate whole nations ( such as the Marshall Islands and the Maldives ) and destroy entire ecosystems ( such as coral reefs ) .
A host of scientific studies suggest that a temperature increase of two degrees Celsius ( 3.6 degrees Fahrenheit ) or more would qualify .
A great many studies suggest that warming of 1.5 degrees Celsius ( 2.7 degrees Fahrenheit ) would be enough to do the trick .
At current emissions rates , the 1.5-degree threshold will be crossed in about a decade .
As Drew Shindell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , told Science , “ No longer can we say the window for action will close soon—we ’ re here now.
” So how hot—which is to say , how bad—will things get ?
One of the difficulties of making such predictions is that there are so many forms of uncertainty , from the geopolitical to the geophysical .
( No one , for example , knows exactly where various “ climate tipping points ” lie . )
That being said , I ’ ll offer three scenarios .
In one scenario—let ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ —the world will finally decide to “ stop waffling ” and start to bring emissions down more or less immediately .
In the U.S. , proponents of the Green New Deal have proposed a “ ten-year national mobilization ” in order to meet a hundred per cent of the country ’ s power demand “ through clean , renewable , and zero-emission energy sources.
” Such a timetable is obviously fantastically ambitious , but not for this reason infeasible .
According to a report by the International Energy Agency , using technologies now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country with twice as much electricity as it currently uses , and , according to some estimates , weaning the U.S. off fossil fuels would create tens of millions of jobs .
Bending the emissions curve globally is an even more formidable challenge .
Leaders of many developing nations point out the injustice in asking their countries to forgo carbon-based fuels just because richer nations have already blown through the world ’ s carbon budget .
India , which will soon overtake China as the world ’ s most populous country , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and that proportion has , at least until recently , been growing .
Still , it ’ s possible to imagine that global emissions could peak in the next decade or so .
( At the U.N. last month , China ’ s President , Xi Jinping , pledged that his country ’ s emissions would crest by 2030 . )
Owing to the pandemic , emissions worldwide are expected to drop by about five per cent this year , compared with 2019 .
This would be the largest year-to-year drop since @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could mark an inflection point .
Were it to be sustained , the increase in global temperatures could be held to less than two degrees Celsius .
The world in 2050 would still be hotter than it is now , but it would also be less polluted , less given over to vast concentrations of oil wealth , and , in all likelihood , more just .
As Narasimha Rao , a professor at Yale ’ s School of Forestry & Environmental Studies , put it in the Times , it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could take place without “ increased attention to equity.
” Alternatively , global emissions could continue to grow through the middle of the century and , along with them , global inequality .
In this scenario , by 2050 a temperature increase of two degrees Celsius would , for all intents and purposes , be locked in .
Developed nations would have constructed storm-surge barriers to keep out the sea and erected border walls to keep out refugees .
They would also have started to air-condition the outdoors .
Developing nations , meanwhile @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for themselves .
To a certain extent , all of this is already happening .
A study published in 2019 by Noah Diffenbaugh and Marshall Burke , both of Stanford University , found that in the past fifty years warming had slowed economic growth in those parts of the world which have emitted the least carbon , perhaps by as much as twenty-five per cent .
“ Not only have poor countries not shared in the full benefits of energy consumption , but many have already been made poorer ( in relative terms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ countries , ” the two wrote .
Qatar , one of the world ’ s hottest countries and also one of the richest , already cools its soccer stadiums and its outdoor malls .
In a third scenario , global warming could by 2050 produce global conflict that draws in poor nations and rich ones alike .
This , too , already seems , to a certain extent , to be taking place .
A significant body of research suggests that the Syrian civil war was caused , at least in part , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a million people out of their villages .
The war , which has claimed some four hundred thousand lives , has , in the course of nearly a decade of bloodshed , involved the U.S. , Russia , Saudi Arabia , Iran , and Turkey .
Future droughts in the Middle East are apt to be even more severe and prolonged , as are droughts in other volatile regions , like the Horn of Africa .
It doesn ’ t seem that it would take too many more Syrian-scale conflicts to destabilize large @ @ @ @ @ @ @ very least , climate change “ will endanger the stability of the international political order and the global trading networks upon which American prosperity rests , ” Michael Klare , an expert on resource competition and a professor at Hampshire College , has written .
“ As conditions deteriorate , the United States could face an even more perilous outcome : conflict among the great powers themselves.
” If all these scenarios appear to be either too unrealistic or too unpleasant , I invite readers to write their own .
Here ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drastic change .
At this point , there ’ s simply no possible future that averts dislocation .
The horrific fires this fall in California and Oregon , which were , in a manner of speaking , stoked by climate change , serve as a preview of the world to come .
As Andrew Dessler , a professor of atmospheric sciences at Texas A .
& M. University , recently put it , “ If you don ’ t like all of the climate disasters happening in 2020 , I have some bad @ @ @ @ @ @ @ your life.
” Billions of people will have to dramatically change the way they live or the world will change dramatically or some combination of the two .
My experience reporting on climate change , which now spans almost twenty years , has convinced me that the most extreme outcomes are , unfortunately , among the most likely .
As the warnings have grown more dire and the consequences of warming more obvious , emissions have only increased that much faster .
Until the coronavirus hit , they were tracking the highest of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Panel on Climate Change .
If this continues , the I.P.C.C .
projects that , by the end of this century , global temperatures will have risen by almost eight degrees Fahrenheit .
Let ’ s just say that at that point no amount of outdoor air-conditioning will be sufficient .
A few years ago , I interviewed James Hansen for a video project that I was working on .
Hansen retired from NASA in 2013 , but he has continued to speak out about climate change—and to get arrested protesting projects like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ blunt about the world ’ s failure .
When I asked him if he had a message for young people , he said , “ The simple thing is I ’ m sorry we ’ re leaving such a fucking mess.
” This excerpt was drawn from the afterword of “ The Fragile Earth : Writing from The New Yorker on Climate Change , ” which is out October 6th , from Ecco .

The events of the next several millennia hinge on actions that will be taken by the time today’s toddlers reach adulthood. Photograph by Raphael Neal / Agence VU / Redux
Like millions of other Americans, I first learned about climate change in the summer of 1988. For its day, it was a scorcher: Yellowstone National Park burst into flames; the Mississippi River ran so low that almost four thousand barges got backed up at Memphis; and, for the first time in its history, Harvard University shut down owing to heat. It was on an afternoon when the mercury in Washington, D.C., hit ninety-eight degrees that James Hansen, then the head of NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies, told a Senate committee that “the greenhouse effect has been detected and is changing our climate now.” Speaking to reporters after the hearing, Hansen went a step further: “It is time to stop waffling so much and say that the evidence is pretty strong that the greenhouse effect is here.”
Hansen’s warning was certainly not the first. A report to President Lyndon Johnson in 1965 noted that the effect of burning fossil fuels was likely to be “deleterious from the point of view of human beings.” Another report, prepared for the Department of Energy in 1979, predicted that even a relatively small increase in temperature could lead to the ultimate “disintegration” of the West Antarctic ice sheet, a process that would raise global sea levels by sixteen feet. A third report, also from 1979, found that, as carbon accumulated in the atmosphere, there was no doubt that the climate would change and “no reason to believe” that the change “will be negligible.” But, for some reason, when Hansen spoke up, on that sweltering afternoon in June, the story of climate change shifted. The Times ran its article at the top of page 1, under a three-column headline: “GLOBAL WARMING HAS BEGUN, EXPERT TELLS SENATE.” The following year, Bill McKibben published “The End of Nature,” first as a New Yorker piece under the rubric “Reflections,” and then, in longer form, as a book.
Had the words of either man been heeded in the intervening three decades, the world today would be a very different place—incalculably better off in innumerable ways. Instead, during that interval, some two hundred billion metric tons of carbon have been spewed into the atmosphere. (This is roughly as much CO 2 as had been emitted from the start of the Industrial Revolution to that point.) Meanwhile, trillions of dollars have been sunk into coal-burning power plants, oil pipelines, gas pipelines, liquid-natural-gas export terminals, and a host of other fossil-fuel projects that, in a saner world, would never have been constructed. And global temperatures, as everyone can by now attest—though some still refuse to acknowledge—have continued to rise, to the point where the sweltering summer of 1988 no longer stands out as particularly hot. The nineteen-nineties were, on average, warmer than the eighties, the aughts hotter than the nineties, and the past decade hotter still. Each of the past five years has ranked among the warmest on record.
The New Yorker has run dozens of pieces on climate change. All might be described as “reflections” on this fundamental disconnect. Even as the consequences—rising seas, fiercer droughts, longer wildfire seasons, more devastating storms—have become daily news, global carbon emissions have continued to increase. In 2019, they reached a new record of ten billion metric tons. Emissions in India rose by almost two per cent, and in China by more than two per cent. In the United States, they actually dropped, by about 1.5 per cent. On November 4, 2019, the Trump Administration formally notified the United Nations that it planned to withdraw from the Paris climate accord, negotiated by the Obama Administration back in 2015. The very next day, a group called the Alliance of World Scientists released a statement, signed by eleven thousand researchers, warning that “the climate crisis has arrived and is accelerating faster than most scientists expected.”
“Especially worrisome,” the statement continued, were “irreversible climate tipping points,” the crossing of which “could lead to a catastrophic ‘hothouse Earth,’ well beyond the control of humans.”
What will the Earth look like thirty years from now? To a discomfiting extent, the future has already been written. There’s a great deal of inertia in the climate system; as a result, we’ve yet to experience the full effects of the CO 2 that’s been emitted to date. No matter what happens during the next few decades, it’s pretty much guaranteed that glaciers and ice sheets will continue to melt, as temperatures and sea levels continue to rise.
But to an extent that, depending on your perspective, is either heartening or horrifying, the future—and not just of the next several decades but of the next several millennia—hinges on actions that will be taken by the time today’s toddlers reach adulthood. What’s technically referred to as “dangerous anthropogenic interference with the climate system” and colloquially known as “catastrophe” is warming so dramatic that it’s apt to obliterate whole nations (such as the Marshall Islands and the Maldives) and destroy entire ecosystems (such as coral reefs). A host of scientific studies suggest that a temperature increase of two degrees Celsius (3.6 degrees Fahrenheit) or more would qualify. A great many studies suggest that warming of 1.5 degrees Celsius (2.7 degrees Fahrenheit) would be enough to do the trick. At current emissions rates, the 1.5-degree threshold will be crossed in about a decade. As Drew Shindell, an atmospheric scientist at Duke University, told Science, “No longer can we say the window for action will close soon—we’re here now.”
So how hot—which is to say, how bad—will things get? One of the difficulties of making such predictions is that there are so many forms of uncertainty, from the geopolitical to the geophysical. (No one, for example, knows exactly where various “climate tipping points” lie.) That being said, I’ll offer three scenarios.
In one scenario—let’s call this “blue skies”—the world will finally decide to “stop waffling” and start to bring emissions down more or less immediately. In the U.S., proponents of the Green New Deal have proposed a “ten-year national mobilization” in order to meet a hundred per cent of the country’s power demand “through clean, renewable, and zero-emission energy sources.” Such a timetable is obviously fantastically ambitious, but not for this reason infeasible. According to a report by the International Energy Agency, using technologies now available, offshore wind turbines could provide the country with twice as much electricity as it currently uses, and, according to some estimates, weaning the U.S. off fossil fuels would create tens of millions of jobs.
Bending the emissions curve globally is an even more formidable challenge. Leaders of many developing nations point out the injustice in asking their countries to forgo carbon-based fuels just because richer nations have already blown through the world’s carbon budget. India, which will soon overtake China as the world’s most populous country, gets three-quarters of its electricity from coal, and that proportion has, at least until recently, been growing. Still, it’s possible to imagine that global emissions could peak in the next decade or so. (At the U.N. last month, China’s President, Xi Jinping, pledged that his country’s emissions would crest by 2030.) Owing to the pandemic, emissions worldwide are expected to drop by about five per cent this year, compared with 2019. This would be the largest year-to-year drop since the Second World War, and it could mark an inflection point. Were it to be sustained, the increase in global temperatures could be held to less than two degrees Celsius. The world in 2050 would still be hotter than it is now, but it would also be less polluted, less given over to vast concentrations of oil wealth, and, in all likelihood, more just. As Narasimha Rao, a professor at Yale’s School of Forestry & Environmental Studies, put it in the Times, it’s hard to see how serious global-emissions cuts could take place without “increased attention to equity.”
Alternatively, global emissions could continue to grow through the middle of the century and, along with them, global inequality. In this scenario, by 2050 a temperature increase of two degrees Celsius would, for all intents and purposes, be locked in. Developed nations would have constructed storm-surge barriers to keep out the sea and erected border walls to keep out refugees. They would also have started to air-condition the outdoors. Developing nations, meanwhile, would have been left to fend for themselves. To a certain extent, all of this is already happening. A study published in 2019 by Noah Diffenbaugh and Marshall Burke, both of Stanford University, found that in the past fifty years warming had slowed economic growth in those parts of the world which have emitted the least carbon, perhaps by as much as twenty-five per cent. “Not only have poor countries not shared in the full benefits of energy consumption, but many have already been made poorer (in relative terms) by the energy consumption of wealthy countries,” the two wrote. Qatar, one of the world’s hottest countries and also one of the richest, already cools its soccer stadiums and its outdoor malls.
In a third scenario, global warming could by 2050 produce global conflict that draws in poor nations and rich ones alike. This, too, already seems, to a certain extent, to be taking place. A significant body of research suggests that the Syrian civil war was caused, at least in part, by a drought that pushed more than a million people out of their villages. The war, which has claimed some four hundred thousand lives, has, in the course of nearly a decade of bloodshed, involved the U.S., Russia, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Turkey. Future droughts in the Middle East are apt to be even more severe and prolonged, as are droughts in other volatile regions, like the Horn of Africa. It doesn’t seem that it would take too many more Syrian-scale conflicts to destabilize large swaths of the globe. At the very least, climate change “will endanger the stability of the international political order and the global trading networks upon which American prosperity rests,” Michael Klare, an expert on resource competition and a professor at Hampshire College, has written. “As conditions deteriorate, the United States could face an even more perilous outcome: conflict among the great powers themselves.”


newyorker--2020-10-05--How Are Audiences Adapting to the Age of Virtual Theatre?

One of the preoccupations of theatre-makers and critics during the past six months has been the construction and presentation of plays to be performed on laptop screens and smart TVs instead of on stages .
“ Virtual theatre ” —a sprawling category , more experiential than formal , which ranges from high-quality performance recordings , such as the recently released filmed version of “ Hamilton , ” to staticky live Zooms , and is unified as a genre only by its reliance on Wi-Fi—is still in its vulnerable infancy .
But something else , perhaps even more important for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , too : we are undergoing a worldwide reconstrual of what it means to be a member of the crowd .
It ’ s easy to forget that , in the theatre , each ticket buyer plays a role .
The quality of our attention—silent or ecstatic , galled or bored—is a kind of freestanding , always improvising character , and makes each in-person performance unrepeatable .
Call it the congregational art , and remember how you once practiced it : it has something to do with location , and feeling , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the whole panoply of action on the stage .
The particulars of the audience member ’ s role change over time , often because of extremity in the wider world .
In the nineteen-thirties , during the New Deal , when the Federal Theatre Project cropped up under the umbrella of the Works Progress Administration , Black performance groups , called Negro Units , helped build a bridge away from minstrelsy—which was still very much alive on the mainstream stage—and from other exploitative portrayals of Black characters and performers , toward new , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ expression .
In a book released earlier this year , “ Radical Black Theatre in the New Deal , ” which explores the output and the outlook of the Negro Units , the scholar Kate Dossett shows how , by using “ folk dramas , domestic tragedies , black realist dramas , ” and other forms , they “ pushed generic boundaries and explored what it meant to be a black hero in American culture.
” The new plays—like Theodore Ward ’ s Marcus Garvey-influenced family drama “ Big White Fog ” —were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for the first time , could “ imagine themselves as the audience for a drama.
” In turn , F.T.P .
playwrights always had their new public—which , in addition to individual theatregoers , included “ federal agencies , unions , professional associations , and civil rights organizations , ” along with “ poets , novelists , essayists , politicians , and activists ” —in mind as they went about their work .
If the crowd was unsatisfied , the manuscript changed ; these new spectators were also collaborators .
The result @ @ @ @ @ @ @ theatre audience could be .
And , because of the racially integrated nature of F.T.P .
audiences , communities who were usually isolated from one another were now brought uncomfortably together in the seats .
“ For many Americans , ” Dossett writes , The discovery of our own time , when it comes to audiences and the performing arts , feels like the diametric opposite of the one Dossett describes .
Our great crisis , the coronavirus , forces us to watch plays alone , in the crannies of our homes , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strangers .
Our current government , unlike that led by Franklin Roosevelt , doesn ’ t see a connection between economic privation , social estrangement , and the kind of nourishment that can come only through an encounter with art—and has no sense of responsibility to encourage the flourishing of art and public life .
And so , in a very real way , each of us is on her own .
The work of playwriting , acting , and theatrical production today might be to reintroduce us to one another , one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ startled by interaction during “ Theatre for One : Here We Are , ” a program of very short plays commissioned by Arts Brookfield .
Before the social-distancing era , “ Theatre for One ” made its name with productions of uncomfortably intimate works which paired one performer with a single audience member .
The latest iteration of the program features plays written by women of color , and brings actor and spectator together via Webcam .
I ’ d somehow forgotten about my end of the bargain while getting ready for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lit up , I jetted into my bedroom and changed from my grungy T-shirt into the blue chambray button-down number that I ’ ve come to think of as my “ Zoom shirt.
” It felt strange to dress for the theatre again .
But , before the performer for the first of my shows popped up , I was plopped into a digital “ waiting room ” —just a dark screen with a bar to type into .
Other audience members sent messages into the seeming void .
Some asked where the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ speculative .
“ When do you think we will be back in theatres together ?
” somebody asked .
“ When a vaccine comes , ” the deadpan but still somehow hopeful answer came .
“ I feel like I ’ m being punked , ” somebody else said .
Soon I was shuttled away from the chat room—out of the company of my fellow-theatregoers—and into the soft gaze of Zuleyma Guevara , performing in “ Pandemic Fight , ” written by Carmelita Tropicana and directed by Rebecca Martinez .
The play is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ex-lovers under lockdown .
When Guevara , glimpsing me across the digital expanse , asked , “ In this pandemic , are you having fights with your loved ones ?
, ” it took me a beat to realize that she actually wanted an answer .
“ No , not really , ” I said .
“ Not a lot.
” As the play went on , the effect of that quick exchange lingered .
I could feel my own presence , and imagined that my expression—which I hoped said “ Generous Listener @ @ @ @ @ @ @ performance , that I was the unspeaking scene partner in an acting exercise .
The feeling grew during “ What Are the Things I Need to Remember , ” written by Lynn Nottage , performed by Eisa Davis , and directed by Tiffany Nicole Greene .
Here was another short monologue—all the plays are less than ten minutes—this time about a sweet , slender , suddenly dangerous-feeling memory of making a new acquaintance .
“ Naima ” —the new friend— “ had the kind of allure that made people just wan na be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I knew as we danced , we were gon na be good friends .
You ever feel that way ?
” “ Just a few times , ” I said .
Davis ’ s cool , earnest delivery of Nottage ’ s narrative got me thinking about the mechanics of a monologue , and how , in the right hands , it spins intimacy out of simple materials : precise syntax , moving gesture , a look or two .
Now , face to face with Davis , moments of gently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then put me right back into , the action of the play—and made me feel its artifice while being convinced of its deeper reality , all at once .
“ Whiterly Negotiations , ” by Lydia R. Diamond , also directed by Greene , is one of the least “ interactive ” but most convincingly intimate of the plays .
Nikkole Salter plays a Black writer run ragged by the slights and indignities she suffers at the hands of editors .
She flits in and out of realistic passive-aggressive professional phone and Zoom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of rightful anger : “ I ’ ve been trying to tell y ’ all that my Black life matters , ” she says , “ but noooo .
.
.
nooo .
.
.
.
Another person had to get killed on the TV .
.
.
.
But fuck you anyway because I spent the advance !
” I laughed , and felt happy , for a moment , that someone could hear me .
♦

A lot of work goes into seeing a show at home. For one thing, it’s impossible to settle on a seat. I’ve watched plays while sitting at the desk where I write, or on the floor next to the desk, or on the couch across the room, or at the kitchen table, or, least proudly, lying in my bed, under the covers. I’m never even close to dressed up; I’m there to see but not be seen.
One of the preoccupations of theatre-makers and critics during the past six months has been the construction and presentation of plays to be performed on laptop screens and smart TVs instead of on stages. “Virtual theatre”—a sprawling category, more experiential than formal, which ranges from high-quality performance recordings, such as the recently released filmed version of “Hamilton,” to staticky live Zooms, and is unified as a genre only by its reliance on Wi-Fi—is still in its vulnerable infancy. But something else, perhaps even more important for the future of the art, is happening, too: we are undergoing a worldwide reconstrual of what it means to be a member of the crowd.
It’s easy to forget that, in the theatre, each ticket buyer plays a role. The quality of our attention—silent or ecstatic, galled or bored—is a kind of freestanding, always improvising character, and makes each in-person performance unrepeatable. Call it the congregational art, and remember how you once practiced it: it has something to do with location, and feeling, and your invisible relationship with individual performers and the whole panoply of action on the stage.
The particulars of the audience member’s role change over time, often because of extremity in the wider world. In the nineteen-thirties, during the New Deal, when the Federal Theatre Project cropped up under the umbrella of the Works Progress Administration, Black performance groups, called Negro Units, helped build a bridge away from minstrelsy—which was still very much alive on the mainstream stage—and from other exploitative portrayals of Black characters and performers, toward new, more complex forms of societal and political expression. In a book released earlier this year, “Radical Black Theatre in the New Deal,” which explores the output and the outlook of the Negro Units, the scholar Kate Dossett shows how, by using “folk dramas, domestic tragedies, black realist dramas,” and other forms, they “pushed generic boundaries and explored what it meant to be a black hero in American culture.”
The new plays—like Theodore Ward’s Marcus Garvey-influenced family drama “Big White Fog”—were received gratefully by Black Americans, who, for the first time, could “imagine themselves as the audience for a drama.” In turn, F.T.P. playwrights always had their new public—which, in addition to individual theatregoers, included “federal agencies, unions, professional associations, and civil rights organizations,” along with “poets, novelists, essayists, politicians, and activists”—in mind as they went about their work. If the crowd was unsatisfied, the manuscript changed; these new spectators were also collaborators. The result was a dramatic reimagining of what a theatre audience could be. And, because of the racially integrated nature of F.T.P. audiences, communities who were usually isolated from one another were now brought uncomfortably together in the seats. “For many Americans,” Dossett writes,
a Negro Unit drama was their first experience of theatre as a black event for black communities. In Harlem, opening night of a Negro Unit production was the place to be, and be seen, for black celebrities and political figures alike. But what was embraced by black communities could be alienating and even shocking for whites: white critics and audience members who traveled uptown were fascinated, and often troubled, by the vocal manner in which African American audiences asserted their ownership of a production.
The discovery of our own time, when it comes to audiences and the performing arts, feels like the diametric opposite of the one Dossett describes. Our great crisis, the coronavirus, forces us to watch plays alone, in the crannies of our homes, instead of drawing us into proximity with strangers. Our current government, unlike that led by Franklin Roosevelt, doesn’t see a connection between economic privation, social estrangement, and the kind of nourishment that can come only through an encounter with art—and has no sense of responsibility to encourage the flourishing of art and public life. And so, in a very real way, each of us is on her own. The work of playwriting, acting, and theatrical production today might be to reintroduce us to one another, one at a time.
I found myself startled by interaction during “Theatre for One: Here We Are,” a program of very short plays commissioned by Arts Brookfield. Before the social-distancing era, “Theatre for One” made its name with productions of uncomfortably intimate works which paired one performer with a single audience member. The latest iteration of the program features plays written by women of color, and brings actor and spectator together via Webcam. I’d somehow forgotten about my end of the bargain while getting ready for the show, and, as my Webcam lit up, I jetted into my bedroom and changed from my grungy T-shirt into the blue chambray button-down number that I’ve come to think of as my “Zoom shirt.” It felt strange to dress for the theatre again.
But, before the performer for the first of my shows popped up, I was plopped into a digital “waiting room”—just a dark screen with a bar to type into. Other audience members sent messages into the seeming void. Some asked where the others were from. Others got more speculative. “When do you think we will be back in theatres together?” somebody asked. “When a vaccine comes,” the deadpan but still somehow hopeful answer came. “I feel like I’m being punked,” somebody else said.
Soon I was shuttled away from the chat room—out of the company of my fellow-theatregoers—and into the soft gaze of Zuleyma Guevara, performing in “Pandemic Fight,” written by Carmelita Tropicana and directed by Rebecca Martinez. The play is a short recounting of an argument between ex-lovers under lockdown. When Guevara, glimpsing me across the digital expanse, asked, “In this pandemic, are you having fights with your loved ones?,” it took me a beat to realize that she actually wanted an answer. “No, not really,” I said. “Not a lot.” As the play went on, the effect of that quick exchange lingered. I could feel my own presence, and imagined that my expression—which I hoped said “Generous Listener”—was subtly influencing Guevara’s performance, that I was the unspeaking scene partner in an acting exercise.
The feeling grew during “What Are the Things I Need to Remember,” written by Lynn Nottage, performed by Eisa Davis, and directed by Tiffany Nicole Greene. Here was another short monologue—all the plays are less than ten minutes—this time about a sweet, slender, suddenly dangerous-feeling memory of making a new acquaintance. “Naima”—the new friend—“had the kind of allure that made people just wanna be next to her,” Davis said. “I knew as we danced, we were gonna be good friends. You ever feel that way?”
“Just a few times,” I said. Davis’s cool, earnest delivery of Nottage’s narrative got me thinking about the mechanics of a monologue, and how, in the right hands, it spins intimacy out of simple materials: precise syntax, moving gesture, a look or two. Now, face to face with Davis, moments of gently heightened language took me out of, then put me right back into, the action of the play—and made me feel its artifice while being convinced of its deeper reality, all at once.
“Whiterly Negotiations,” by Lydia R. Diamond, also directed by Greene, is one of the least “interactive” but most convincingly intimate of the plays. Nikkole Salter plays a Black writer run ragged by the slights and indignities she suffers at the hands of editors. She flits in and out of realistic passive-aggressive professional phone and Zoom language, sometimes floating away into arias of rightful anger: “I’ve been trying to tell y’all that my Black life matters,” she says, “but noooo . . . nooo. . . . Another person had to get killed on the TV. . . . But fuck you anyway because I spent the advance!” I laughed, and felt happy, for a moment, that someone could hear me. ♦


newyorker--2020-10-05--The Iconoclast Remaking Los Angeles’s Most Important Museum

Zumthor is seventy-seven , and oversees a thriving boutique architecture practice , with three dozen employees and projects on three continents .
Though he has never built in the United States , he is known throughout Europe as the creator of exquisitely stern structures with jewel-box proportions ; in 2009 , he won the Pritzker Prize .
LACMA belongs to a vast public—the ten million people of Los Angeles County—and sees a million visitors each year .
It shares a park with the La Brea Tar Pits archeological site , and occupies a position at the midway point between downtown @ @ @ @ @ @ @ building ’ s prominence , scale , and cost—some six hundred and fifty million dollars—Zumthor ’ s LACMA is poised to be the most significant architectural addition to Los Angeles since Frank Gehry ’ s Disney Hall opened , two decades ago .
The new building , as Zumthor conceives it , is an elevated , single-story structure loosely shaped like a Matisse cutout .
In various iterations , as he has recast its form , critics have likened it to an inkblot , a blob , a minor-city airport terminal , Bullwinkle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Autogrill .
The actor Brad Pitt has publicly defended Zumthor ’ s designs as emanating “ from the soul for the soul , ” but the building has caused an uproar that reaches beyond aesthetic concerns .
In May , Christopher Knight , the art critic for the Los Angeles Times , won a Pulitzer Prize for a series of pieces decrying it as a betrayal—a museum that would undermine the collection it was meant to house .
Govan , protective of Zumthor ’ s process , does not share bad press , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Govan likes to work with artists on long-term , moon-shot projects—James Turrell ’ s Roden Crater , Michael Heizer ’ s “ City.
” Making a major building with Zumthor was a similar proposition .
His body of work is idiosyncratic , even peculiar : a memorial on the Barents Sea to people burned at the stake during Norway ’ s seventeenth-century witch trials ; a museum , also in Norway , commemorating an obsolete zinc mine ; a thermal spa in the Alps .
He has built two small and highly specific @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Austria , often given over to the work of a single artist , and a museum for religious artifacts that emerges from the ruins of a bombed-out Catholic church in Cologne .
An emotional , intuitive designer , Zumthor draws on the sensory memories of a mid-century European boyhood—the hexagonal tiles in his aunt ’ s kitchen , the way light fell on the forest floor .
He often begins his designs with impressionistic pastel sketches , and spends years pondering models constructed with the actual materials , watching the effects of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ expensive doll houses .
He is known to handcraft his buildings , slowly , but the deliberate pace didn ’ t concern Govan .
“ I knew that the longer he had the better the building would be , ” he told me .
“ Some artists add complexity with time .
He carves away , till you ’ re left with a distilled thing.
” In any case , Govan added , “ I needed a decade to raise money.
” After fourteen years of planning and debate , construction is set @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who despises monuments , finds himself responsible for a building intended to anchor a diffuse and sporadically planned city , where the forests catch fire every fall .
A year ago , when I visited him in Haldenstein , an ancient village in the low Alps where he lives and has his atelier , it seemed to him as if the project might , at the final moment , fail , and ruin his good name .
He was despondent , familiarly so .
“ Maybe it happens , maybe it won ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I always get burned.
” Two weeks earlier , Zumthor had proposed yet another tweak to the LACMA building ’ s shape .
“ It was not so big a change , but they freaked out , ” he said , as we sat down to eat risotto , prepared by his cook , in a kitchen nook panelled with tigerwood .
The horizontal stripes in the wood , he explained , were created by stress from the wind .
This wasn ’ t a fact he had read but , rather @ @ @ @ @ @ @ something he sensed and believed firmly .
“ They all panicked , said it ’ s too late , ” he told me , ruefully .
The museum ’ s corporate officers were indignant .
The county had allotted a hundred and twenty-five million dollars of taxpayer money ; materials were being procured .
Plans needed to be submitted the following month , or the building might have to be completely overhauled , to conform with changing building codes .
Each week of delay could cost eight hundred thousand dollars .
Zumthor ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about time or expense .
They were about posterity .
“ How can I deliver this building of which I know there ’ s a better version ?
” he said .
“ But Michael , my friend , tells me , ‘ You can not implement these changes.
’ ” Govan had written to say that if Zumthor wanted the revisions he would need to find the money—three million dollars—himself .
“ In a seven-hundred-million-dollar building , I ’ m now obliged , after all of this , I am to find @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I want to say , ‘ Listen , guys , this is your God-damned museum !
’ ” He went on , “ Everyone is playing me .
I ’ m the only straight guy there—the straight guy from the Swiss Alps.
” Zumthor prefers to work like an omakase sushi chef : trust him completely or go elsewhere .
Over dinner , he told me the story of a chapel he had designed to commemorate Bruder Klaus , the farming saint of Switzerland .
It started when Hermann-Josef Scheidtweiler , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and wrote Zumthor a letter , asking him to make a chapel in his wheat field .
Zumthor told me that he replied , “ Dear Mr. Scheidtweiler , I have to tell you , I only do contemporary architecture , first , and , second , this is such a tiny commission that my salary would be way too high for you.
” In a postscript , he added that Bruder Klaus had been his mother ’ s favorite saint .
“ He responded to this P.S.
, ” Zumthor said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had an avant-garde idea for the chapel : a narrow tower , with a cavelike interior .
So that the farmer could not object , he insisted on working for free .
With the help of Scheidtweiler ’ s farmhands and children , Zumthor constructed a pine-log wigwam with a tunnel leading to an inner chamber .
They mixed concrete using sand and stones collected nearby and layered it on in hand-tamped strata , forming a five-sided tower .
Then they slowly burned the wigwam away , curing the inside .
In the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sky , allowing rain to pool on the lead floor ; the smell of smoke lingers in the close interior .
The chapel , where the Scheidtweilers light candles every morning , has become a destination for international architecture buffs .
Many of Zumthor ’ s buildings have .
Still , success on a prominent commission in the United States would break him out of his niche , establishing him among the major architects of his generation .
In spite of the pitfalls of massive , expensive public works , he was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ At dinner , he softly sang , “ Ma l ’ America è lontana .
.
.
, ” — “ but America is far away , ” a line from a pop ballad of his youth .
“ You can feel I am alone , with very few people supporting me , ” he said .
“ I don ’ t have the right education , or I refuse to have the right education.
” A few days later , on the way to Basel , where he is designing a building @ @ @ @ @ @ @ still agonizing .
“ I ’ m asking myself , Why am I so God-damned nervous ?
And I found out it ’ s that , it ’ s a trauma .
That ’ s the trauma from Berlin , ” he said .
In the early nineties , he won a government competition to design a museum for the Topography of Terror Foundation , on the site where the S.S. had its headquarters and the Gestapo tortured prisoners .
Zumthor found himself pinned between the demands of his vision and the realities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he says , wanted a neutral building , which would not disturb visitors .
In his design—three towers connected by a vast hall—he planned to feature the torture chambers at the entrance .
During the project ’ s decade-long gestation , costs escalated dramatically .
The towers were built , but then , after two contractors went bankrupt , the government withdrew support .
Zumthor , enraged and humiliated , filed a complaint against the city , claiming that his rights had been violated .
“ People started to believe I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ constructed , ” he said .
He lost in court , and the towers were destroyed .
Zumthor believes it would have been his best work .
In Basel , we ate dinner with his daughter , Anna , a psychologist , at a swanky Italian restaurant on the Rhine .
He ordered an Old-Fashioned and put it to her directly : “ Do you think the Berlin experience has traumatized me ?
” Anna studied him .
She has blond hair , cut asymmetrically , and wore a cobalt-blue shirt .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ You ’ re a good example of post-traumatic growth.
” In 2004 , she had accompanied her father to the site one last time before the towers came down .
At dinner , she said that in footage of that visit “ you can see the exact moment when you realize this is a stillbirth .
You ’ re brokenhearted .
You were misunderstood , blackmailed , your reputation was murdered.
” “ Two weeks ago , when Michael Govan wrote me that I can not implement the changes I want , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Zumthor said .
“ Will he sacrifice the building ?
” Anna reassured him that Govan was an ally .
Slowly , Zumthor said , “ He ’ s a getter .
He makes things happen , and he ’ s smiling .
This was the first time he said this is the limit .
Like when you realize your parents are not gods .
”

Many nights last fall, Peter Zumthor, the Swiss architect, lay awake wondering, Is Michael Govan my friend? Govan is the director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Soon after he was hired, in 2006, he invited Zumthor to propose a plan to transform its sprawling campus. “He called me and said, ‘Listen, I’m about to take a new position in Los Angeles. I need an architect,’ ” Zumthor told me. “He said, ‘I don’t believe in competitions. And I would like to work with you out of public view.’ ” The pitch was irresistible, Zumthor said: “A new museum, completely new. Who wouldn’t say yes?”
Zumthor is seventy-seven, and oversees a thriving boutique architecture practice, with three dozen employees and projects on three continents. Though he has never built in the United States, he is known throughout Europe as the creator of exquisitely stern structures with jewel-box proportions; in 2009, he won the Pritzker Prize. LACMA belongs to a vast public—the ten million people of Los Angeles County—and sees a million visitors each year. It shares a park with the La Brea Tar Pits paleontological site, and occupies a position at the midway point between downtown and the coast. Because of the building’s prominence, scale, and cost—some six hundred and fifty million dollars—Zumthor’s LACMA is poised to be the most significant architectural addition to Los Angeles since Frank Gehry’s Disney Hall opened, two decades ago.
The new building, as Zumthor conceives it, is an elevated, single-story structure loosely shaped like a Matisse cutout. In various iterations, as he has recast its form, critics have likened it to an inkblot, a blob, a minor-city airport terminal, Bullwinkle’s antler, and an Italian Autogrill. The actor Brad Pitt has publicly defended Zumthor’s designs as emanating “from the soul for the soul,” but the building has caused an uproar that reaches beyond aesthetic concerns. In May, Christopher Knight, the art critic for the Los Angeles Times, won a Pulitzer Prize for a series of pieces decrying it as a betrayal—a museum that would undermine the collection it was meant to house. Govan, protective of Zumthor’s process, does not share bad press, and Zumthor doesn’t ask.
Govan likes to work with artists on long-term, moon-shot projects—James Turrell’s Roden Crater, Michael Heizer’s “City.” Making a major building with Zumthor was a similar proposition. His body of work is idiosyncratic, even peculiar: a memorial on the Barents Sea to people burned at the stake during Norway’s seventeenth-century witch trials; a museum, also in Norway, commemorating an obsolete zinc mine; a thermal spa in the Alps. He has built two small and highly specific art museums: a Kunsthaus in Bregenz, Austria, often given over to the work of a single artist, and a museum for religious artifacts that emerges from the ruins of a bombed-out Catholic church in Cologne.
An emotional, intuitive designer, Zumthor draws on the sensory memories of a mid-century European boyhood—the hexagonal tiles in his aunt’s kitchen, the way light fell on the forest floor. He often begins his designs with impressionistic pastel sketches, and spends years pondering models constructed with the actual materials, watching the effects of light on the world’s most expensive doll houses. He is known to handcraft his buildings, slowly, but the deliberate pace didn’t concern Govan. “I knew that the longer he had the better the building would be,” he told me. “Some artists add complexity with time. He carves away, till you’re left with a distilled thing.” In any case, Govan added, “I needed a decade to raise money.”
“Please be mindful that we are still caught in a Biblical swarm of locusts.” Cartoon by Colin Tom Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
After fourteen years of planning and debate, construction is set to begin this fall. Zumthor, who despises monuments, finds himself responsible for a building intended to anchor a diffuse and sporadically planned city, where the forests catch fire every fall. A year ago, when I visited him in Haldenstein, an ancient village in the low Alps where he lives and has his atelier, it seemed to him as if the project might, at the final moment, fail, and ruin his good name. He was despondent, familiarly so. “Maybe it happens, maybe it won’t,” he told me. “I always get burned.”
Zumthor’s front door is made of heavy oak; its handle, which resembles an oversized metal staple, is wrapped in a cord of stained umber leather, like a riding crop. A similar one greets visitors at Kolumba, the museum in Cologne. Handles are a minor fetish for him—the point of contact, where a person holds on to a building. (Major fetishes: shadows, rubble and the presence of the past, dancing, his troublesome backhand.) I found Zumthor in his sitting room, brooding in a pool of lamplight, sipping Riesling. He is tall and white-haired, with an open face and an attitude of canny befuddlement—“a little Swiss boy from the Alps,” he says. The floor was covered by an abstract carpet in cobalt blue and oxblood red: a reference to a house that he had designed for Tobey Maguire and Jennifer Meyer but never built. “He got a divorce and the house was lost,” Zumthor told me. “I was happy. It was becoming painful. He doesn’t know, but the floor plan became my beautiful Persian carpet.”
Two weeks earlier, Zumthor had proposed yet another tweak to the LACMA building’s shape. “It was not so big a change, but they freaked out,” he said, as we sat down to eat risotto, prepared by his cook, in a kitchen nook panelled with tigerwood. The horizontal stripes in the wood, he explained, were created by stress from the wind. This wasn’t a fact he had read but, rather, like many things he knows, something he sensed and believed firmly.
“They all panicked, said it’s too late,” he told me, ruefully. The museum’s corporate officers were indignant. The county had allotted a hundred and twenty-five million dollars of taxpayer money; materials were being procured. Plans needed to be submitted the following month, or the building might have to be completely overhauled, to conform with changing building codes. Each week of delay could cost eight hundred thousand dollars.
Zumthor’s thoughts, though, were not about time or expense. They were about posterity. “How can I deliver this building of which I know there’s a better version?” he said. “But Michael, my friend, tells me, ‘You cannot implement these changes.’ ” Govan had written to say that if Zumthor wanted the revisions he would need to find the money—three million dollars—himself. “In a seven-hundred-million-dollar building, I’m now obliged, after all of this, I am to find these three million dollars, me personally. I want to say, ‘Listen, guys, this is your God-damned museum!’ ” He went on, “Everyone is playing me. I’m the only straight guy there—the straight guy from the Swiss Alps.”
Zumthor prefers to work like an omakase sushi chef: trust him completely or go elsewhere. Over dinner, he told me the story of a chapel he had designed to commemorate Bruder Klaus, the farming saint of Switzerland. It started when Hermann-Josef Scheidtweiler, a pious German farmer, read about Kolumba and wrote Zumthor a letter, asking him to make a chapel in his wheat field. Zumthor told me that he replied, “Dear Mr. Scheidtweiler, I have to tell you, I only do contemporary architecture, first, and, second, this is such a tiny commission that my salary would be way too high for you.” In a postscript, he added that Bruder Klaus had been his mother’s favorite saint. “He responded to this P.S.,” Zumthor said, smiling. He admires stubbornness.
Zumthor had an avant-garde idea for the chapel: a narrow tower, with a cavelike interior. So that the farmer could not object, he insisted on working for free. With the help of Scheidtweiler’s farmhands and children, Zumthor constructed a pine-log wigwam with a tunnel leading to an inner chamber. They mixed concrete using sand and stones collected nearby and layered it on in hand-tamped strata, forming a five-sided tower. Then they slowly burned the wigwam away, curing the inside. In the ceiling, a tear-shaped oculus opens to the sky, allowing rain to pool on the lead floor; the smell of smoke lingers in the close interior.
The chapel, where the Scheidtweilers light candles every morning, has become a destination for international architecture buffs. Many of Zumthor’s buildings have. Still, success on a prominent commission in the United States would break him out of his niche, establishing him among the major architects of his generation. In spite of the pitfalls of massive, expensive public works, he was determined to make LACMA a masterpiece. At dinner, he softly sang, “Ma l’America è lontana . . .,”—“but America is far away,” a line from a pop ballad of his youth. “You can feel I am alone, with very few people supporting me,” he said. “I don’t have the right education, or I refuse to have the right education.”
A few days later, on the way to Basel, where he is designing a building for the Beyeler Foundation, he was still agonizing. “I’m asking myself, Why am I so God-damned nervous? And I found out it’s that, it’s a trauma. That’s the trauma from Berlin,” he said. In the early nineties, he won a government competition to design a museum for the Topography of Terror Foundation, on the site where the S.S. had its headquarters and the Gestapo tortured prisoners. Zumthor found himself pinned between the demands of his vision and the realities of a public project. The client, he says, wanted a neutral building, which would not disturb visitors. In his design—three towers connected by a vast hall—he planned to feature the torture chambers at the entrance.


newyorker--2020-10-05--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Perilous Bounty , by Tom Philpott ( Bloomsbury ) .
Focussing on the agricultural crises of California ’ s Central Valley and the Midwest , this study illustrates how years of shortsighted policies and practices have brought the nation ’ s food systems to the point of collapse .
California , which yields fruits , vegetables , and nuts , relies on precarious water supplies , threatened by droughts and floods , while the dominant crops of the Midwest , corn and soybeans , are depleting the region ’ s soil .
Philpott characterizes industrial agriculture as an oligopoly , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ farmers and by financial firms that bet on land and water shortages , and he discerningly identifies past mistakes and possible solutions .
Sex and Lies , by Leïla Slimani , translated from the French by Sophie Lewis ( Penguin ) .
While on book tour in her native Morocco , Slimani , best known for her novels about female transgression , collected stories of women from many walks of life about laws that criminalize abortion , premarital sex , homosexuality , and adultery .
Although the Arab Spring increased openness about sex @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shadow society , in which people of all ages and religious backgrounds secretly engage in sexual activity , despite fear of exposure .
Slimani ’ s interviewees convey the social stresses that this strict environment gives rise to .
As Slimani writes , “ We can view this condition of sexual deprivation as an obstacle to the development of individuals and citizens.
” The Awkward Black Man , by Walter Mosley ( Grove ) .
These seventeen bold stories of brokenhearted Black men depart from Mosley ’ s usual detective genre .
His @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by lost loves and missed chances , want to “ turn off the world outside , ” often leading to self-destruction .
They recount misunderstood gestures of attention to white women , and receive incorrect medical diagnoses .
One seeks therapeutic counselling after a wife ’ s betrayal ; another imagines the afterlife .
A plastic surgeon reveals his passion for neurological science , and a man undertakes a questionable experiment involving “ transmigration of the human soul.
” The stories are tinged with sardonic humor and acerbic observations , many echoing the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and James Baldwin .
The Searcher , by Tana French ( Viking ) .
A small farming town in the West of Ireland is the setting for this novel by the veteran thriller writer , which offers a larger reflection on morality in policing .
Cal , a former Chicago officer , moves there , broken down by years of trying to be a good cop in a bad system .
Soon , he is asked to find a missing boy from a poor family .
As Cal investigates , unaided ( and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ finds himself embroiled in local politics and in the decades-old grudges of townspeople .
The novel , presumably finished before the protests of this past summer , scants issues of race and violence in policing , but French ’ s portrayal of intimate village dynamics is nuanced and compelling .

Perilous Bounty, by Tom Philpott (Bloomsbury). Focussing on the agricultural crises of California’s Central Valley and the Midwest, this study illustrates how years of shortsighted policies and practices have brought the nation’s food systems to the point of collapse. California, which yields fruits, vegetables, and nuts, relies on precarious water supplies, threatened by droughts and floods, while the dominant crops of the Midwest, corn and soybeans, are depleting the region’s soil. Philpott characterizes industrial agriculture as an oligopoly, dominated by a few companies that squeeze farmers and by financial firms that bet on land and water shortages, and he discerningly identifies past mistakes and possible solutions.
Sex and Lies, by Leïla Slimani, translated from the French by Sophie Lewis (Penguin). While on book tour in her native Morocco, Slimani, best known for her novels about female transgression, collected stories of women from many walks of life about laws that criminalize abortion, premarital sex, homosexuality, and adultery. Although the Arab Spring increased openness about sex, repressive cultural norms still foster a shadow society, in which people of all ages and religious backgrounds secretly engage in sexual activity, despite fear of exposure. Slimani’s interviewees convey the social stresses that this strict environment gives rise to. As Slimani writes, “We can view this condition of sexual deprivation as an obstacle to the development of individuals and citizens.”
The Awkward Black Man, by Walter Mosley (Grove). These seventeen bold stories of brokenhearted Black men depart from Mosley’s usual detective genre. His emotionally “stuck” characters, shattered by lost loves and missed chances, want to “turn off the world outside,” often leading to self-destruction. They recount misunderstood gestures of attention to white women, and receive incorrect medical diagnoses. One seeks therapeutic counselling after a wife’s betrayal; another imagines the afterlife. A plastic surgeon reveals his passion for neurological science, and a man undertakes a questionable experiment involving “transmigration of the human soul.” The stories are tinged with sardonic humor and acerbic observations, many echoing the pained, bristling voices of Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin.
The Searcher, by Tana French (Viking). A small farming town in the West of Ireland is the setting for this novel by the veteran thriller writer, which offers a larger reflection on morality in policing. Cal, a former Chicago officer, moves there, broken down by years of trying to be a good cop in a bad system. Soon, he is asked to find a missing boy from a poor family. As Cal investigates, unaided (and unhindered) by a badge, he finds himself embroiled in local politics and in the decades-old grudges of townspeople. The novel, presumably finished before the protests of this past summer, scants issues of race and violence in policing, but French’s portrayal of intimate village dynamics is nuanced and compelling.


newyorker--2020-10-05--Turn On, Tune In, Get Well

Turn On, Tune In, Get Well

J. R. Rahn , a techie whose company is helping fund New York ’ s first psychedelic-medicine center , spent the middle years of the past decade leading a successful startup while his life quietly came apart .
“ To the outside world , I was doing really well , but inside me I was struggling , ” Rahn , a thick-built thirty-three-year-old with a shaved head , a smile-shaped beard , and delicate rimless glasses , said on Zoom the other day .
He ’ d left New York to weather the pandemic in Miami ; some palm fronds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say , ‘ Oh , you ’ re just depressed.
’ Well , I ’ m depressed , but I also can ’ t fall asleep without drinking a bottle of wine .
I can ’ t have fun at a party without using cocaine.
” Also , there was Xanax , for anxiety .
Rahn needed help—or did he just need drugs of another kind ?
“ A friend recommended I have a psychedelic experience , to piece together a solution , ” he said .
He did LSD and mushrooms a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the other stuff .
Now Rahn is the co-founder of MindMed , a startup that develops psychedelic drugs to treat mental illness and addiction .
In theory , such drugs are promising because they could be administered on a limited course ( “ like antibiotics , ” Rahn says ) , in coördination with talk therapy—a contrast to addiction medications like methadone and Suboxone , and to many mental-health medications , which are often taken indefinitely .
In practice , obstacles include the Timothy Leary factor ( people still associate psychedelics with Ram @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the challenge of transferring lab successes to the therapeutic couch .
“ There ’ s really never been a precedent for using these substances within the psychiatric community , ” Rahn said .
“ So how are you going to train the next generation of psychiatrists to take them seriously ?
” One way is to train them at the training point .
For years , researchers at N.Y.U .
Langone Medical Center had been discussing the idea of a center for psychedelic medicine .
MindMed just pledged five million dollars to N.Y.U @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an establishment , with the money earmarked for training .
As the center-to-be settles the rest of its funding , its director , the psychiatry professor and addiction researcher Michael P. Bogenschutz , is preparing to bring aboard four junior faculty members and two postdocs : a New York team .
( The first psychedelic-medicine center in the country , at Johns Hopkins , was created last year . )
“ What distinguishes our effort is , you ’ ve got the practical focus on treatment of hard-to-treat psychiatric disorders front and center @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will have no structural relationship with MindMed , but MindMed is looking to return its testing , now run by partners in Australia ( tax incentives ) and Switzerland ( out-there medicine ) , to the U.S. for late trials .
In assessing drugs for study , Rahn was first drawn to ibogaine , a shrub-root derivative that had shown promise in addiction therapy .
Unfortunately , at certain doses , it can lead to sudden death .
Then Rahn ’ s co-founder , Stephen L. Hurst , turned him on to 18-Methoxycoronaridine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of ibogaine that , in one study , helped rats stop eating cocaine and responding to Pavlovian triggers .
The company is also running trials on LSD as a treatment for anxiety .
Rahn says that , for him , psychedelics opened his eyes to the source of his depression , anxiety , and substance abuse : his mother .
“ I discovered her dead on a vacation in the Dominican Republic as an eight-year-old child , ” he said .
It had not previously occurred to him that this might relate to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ probably got over the trauma , but what I didn ’ t get over was the guilt.
” Regarding the potential mental-health benefits of psychedelics , Bogenschutz notes , “ What ’ s interesting is , why do people end up changing in a particular way as a result of a relatively brief experience ?
” So far , it ’ s unclear .
“ Our working model is that , because of an enhanced neuroplasticity , there is a temporary weakening of the established dominant networks that may keep people within a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drinking or ruminative thoughts , ” he said .
In addiction treatment , the effects sometimes last for years , suggesting a baking-in of new patterns—hence , in Bogenschutz ’ s view , the value of accompanying therapy .
In recent years , the market for psychedelic medicines , once a punch line , has become serious business .
Compass Pathways , a psilocybin-centered company backed by Michael Novogratz and Peter Thiel , had its I.P.O .
last month , and is listed on the Nasdaq .
MindMed has filed Nasdaq papers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nation ’ s mental health .
“ I came to this realization that technology , A.I.
, this world I was in was about to displace a whole lot of people from work , ” he said .
“ And , when people are displaced from work , rates of addiction and mental-health issues skyrocket.
” The pandemic has darkened those skies further ; prescriptions for anti-anxiety drugs leaped by a third in its first month .
“ Eleven per cent of Americans seriously considered suicide in June , ” Rahn observed—a doubling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re not O.K.
” ♦

J. R. Rahn, a techie whose company is helping fund New York’s first psychedelic-medicine center, spent the middle years of the past decade leading a successful startup while his life quietly came apart. “To the outside world, I was doing really well, but inside me I was struggling,” Rahn, a thick-built thirty-three-year-old with a shaved head, a smile-shaped beard, and delicate rimless glasses, said on Zoom the other day. He’d left New York to weather the pandemic in Miami; some palm fronds fluttered behind him. “People would say, ‘Oh, you’re just depressed.’ Well, I’m depressed, but I also can’t fall asleep without drinking a bottle of wine. I can’t have fun at a party without using cocaine.” Also, there was Xanax, for anxiety. Rahn needed help—or did he just need drugs of another kind? “A friend recommended I have a psychedelic experience, to piece together a solution,” he said. He did LSD and mushrooms a few times, and gave up all the other stuff.
Now Rahn is the co-founder of MindMed, a startup that develops psychedelic drugs to treat mental illness and addiction. In theory, such drugs are promising because they could be administered on a limited course (“like antibiotics,” Rahn says), in coördination with talk therapy—a contrast to addiction medications like methadone and Suboxone, and to many mental-health medications, which are often taken indefinitely. In practice, obstacles include the Timothy Leary factor (people still associate psychedelics with Ram Dass and British Invasion sitars) and the challenge of transferring lab successes to the therapeutic couch. “There’s really never been a precedent for using these substances within the psychiatric community,” Rahn said. “So how are you going to train the next generation of psychiatrists to take them seriously?”
One way is to train them at the training point. For years, researchers at N.Y.U. Langone Medical Center had been discussing the idea of a center for psychedelic medicine. MindMed just pledged five million dollars to N.Y.U. Langone, to kick off such an establishment, with the money earmarked for training. As the center-to-be settles the rest of its funding, its director, the psychiatry professor and addiction researcher Michael P. Bogenschutz, is preparing to bring aboard four junior faculty members and two postdocs: a New York team. (The first psychedelic-medicine center in the country, at Johns Hopkins, was created last year.)
“What distinguishes our effort is, you’ve got the practical focus on treatment of hard-to-treat psychiatric disorders front and center,” Bogenschutz said. The center will have no structural relationship with MindMed, but MindMed is looking to return its testing, now run by partners in Australia (tax incentives) and Switzerland (out-there medicine), to the U.S. for late trials.
In assessing drugs for study, Rahn was first drawn to ibogaine, a shrub-root derivative that had shown promise in addiction therapy. Unfortunately, at certain doses, it can lead to sudden death. Then Rahn’s co-founder, Stephen L. Hurst, turned him on to 18-Methoxycoronaridine, or 18-MC, a non-hallucinogenic relative of ibogaine that, in one study, helped rats stop eating cocaine and responding to Pavlovian triggers. The company is also running trials on LSD as a treatment for anxiety.
Rahn says that, for him, psychedelics opened his eyes to the source of his depression, anxiety, and substance abuse: his mother. “I discovered her dead on a vacation in the Dominican Republic as an eight-year-old child,” he said. It had not previously occurred to him that this might relate to his problems. “I think I probably got over the trauma, but what I didn’t get over was the guilt.”
Regarding the potential mental-health benefits of psychedelics, Bogenschutz notes, “What’s interesting is, why do people end up changing in a particular way as a result of a relatively brief experience?” So far, it’s unclear. “Our working model is that, because of an enhanced neuroplasticity, there is a temporary weakening of the established dominant networks that may keep people within a rigid pattern of behavior, such as drinking or ruminative thoughts,” he said. In addiction treatment, the effects sometimes last for years, suggesting a baking-in of new patterns—hence, in Bogenschutz’s view, the value of accompanying therapy.
In recent years, the market for psychedelic medicines, once a punch line, has become serious business. Compass Pathways, a psilocybin-centered company backed by Michael Novogratz and Peter Thiel, had its I.P.O. last month, and is listed on the Nasdaq. MindMed has filed Nasdaq papers, too, after noting clouds over the nation’s mental health. “I came to this realization that technology, A.I., this world I was in was about to displace a whole lot of people from work,” he said. “And, when people are displaced from work, rates of addiction and mental-health issues skyrocket.” The pandemic has darkened those skies further; prescriptions for anti-anxiety drugs leaped by a third in its first month. “Eleven per cent of Americans seriously considered suicide in June,” Rahn observed—a doubling since last year. “We’re not O.K.” ♦