newyorker--2020-02-24--Fate and Fury in James McBride’s “Deacon King Kong”

Some novels about city life are poems of alienation , interior portraits of the existentially isolate , but James McBride ’ s vision of New York is one of overwhelming human profusion .
His new novel , “ Deacon King Kong ” ( Riverhead ) , set in what appears to be a fictionalized version of the Brooklyn housing project where McBride grew up , is crowded with characters whose backstories are crowded with more characters , all of their fates connected , in ways they know about and in ways they don ’ t .
It ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where one ’ s intimate business is usually , somehow , everyone else ’ s business , too ; where even the attempted murder that begins the novel takes place in front of sixteen witnesses , many of whom know both shooter and victim personally .
“ Deacon King Kong ” is a nickname on top of a nickname : everyone in the Cause Houses knows the title character as Sportcoat .
He is indeed a deacon , serving at the local Five Ends Baptist Church ( though one of the novel ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quite knows what a deacon ’ s duties are , or how a man gets to be one ) , and he used to be the coach of the Cause ’ s youth baseball team .
Now he spends his days doing the occasional odd job and , primarily , drinking .
King Kong is the name of the home brew he favors .
It is September , 1969 , during what will prove a miraculous season for baseball fans in the city , and Sportcoat , seventy-one years of age , is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as he reels from the death of his wife .
Then one day , almost as if possessed , Sportcoat goes to the Cause Houses plaza , walks up to a teen-ager named Deems Clemens , a onetime star of Sportcoat ’ s youth baseball team who now sells heroin , and shoots him .
Worse luck for Sportcoat , he succeeds only in taking off part of Deems ’ s ear , leaving the young man in enraging pain , and poised to exact revenge .
It makes no sense to anyone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ man would do such a thing .
Afterward , Sportcoat has no memory of the shooting and expresses a kind of condescending skepticism toward those who try to convince him that he was responsible .
The first two chapters both end by pronouncing Sportcoat “ a dead man ” ; you could say that the novel is concerned not only with solving the mystery of his violent act but with his prospects for resurrection .
Meanwhile , a few blocks away , a mobster known as the Elephant , a holdover from back @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gets a visit from a man known as the Governor , who purports to be an old friend of the Elephant ’ s late father .
He ’ s come to collect something that the Elephant ’ s father was holding for him : a tiny , priceless bit of wartime plunder from Europe known as the Venus of Willendorf .
No one has a clue where it is , apart from a cryptic old letter from Elephant père assuring the Governor that his treasure was safely “ in the palm of God @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Readers who understand that they are in a realm where everything makes sense , where nothing is mentioned at random—a plot , in other words—will figure out the Venus ’ whereabouts well ahead of the characters .
That ’ s O.K .
; the satisfaction comes from seeing those characters , armed with less evidence than the reader possesses but guided by faith , close in on their goals , and from watching Sportcoat—whom a white character dismisses as the kind of drunk “ who dies at twenty and is buried at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and over again .
The sheer volume of invention in “ Deacon King Kong ” —on the level of both character ( the first chapter alone introduces twenty individuals by name ) and language—commands awe .
Reading it is like watching a movie in which one ’ s occasional impulse to ask questions is pleasantly swamped by the need to keep up with the pace of events .
So comprehensive is the novel ’ s vision of the Cause Houses that Chapter 7 is narrated in part from the perspective of a colony @ @ @ @ @ @ @ understand these ants and how they came to the Cause , we flash back to the year 1951 ; by the time we return to 1969 , the story of the ants has somehow roped in the New York Knicks , “ that great Polish-Lithuanian General Andrew Thaddeus Bonaventure Kosciuszko , ” and a stray German shepherd named Donald whose fur turned orange after it fell into the Gowanus Canal .
And the sentences !
The prose radiates a kind of chain-reaction energy .
After some chapters , you feel empathetically exhausted , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by watching an overtime football game .
The experience of traversing a simple flashback paragraph is like trying to leap from stone to stone across a river , except occasionally one of them turns out to be not a stone after all but a lily pad , or a shadow , and into the river you go .
Here ’ s a description of Sportcoat ’ s youth : A cynical reader might question the sunniness of McBride ’ s characterizations .
The cops are bighearted , the mobsters are loyal .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ the only honest numbers runner in Cause Houses history.
” Everyone ’ s better angels are generously foregrounded .
And this angelic impulse extends to the action .
Professional hit men are foiled in their attempts to kill the oblivious Sportcoat not once but three times , via accidental interventions that would have made Rube Goldberg blush .
There are fortunate instances of mistaken identity , and other moments of plot-sustaining coincidence that may call to mind that classical contraption the deus ex machina .
But McBride has his eye less on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He begins the novel with a dedication to God , and he ends it with a second one .
All his previous novels ( most recently “ The Good Lord Bird , ” a recipient of the National Book Award , in 2013 ) have been works of historical fiction—about the Second World War , about the era of American slavery .
A work of fiction set in 1969 might count as historical , too , and this one is related to a history he has written about before : his 1995 memoir @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” was set in the Red Hook housing project , where he was raised .
And yet McBride has described “ Deacon King Kong ” as a novel about a church , rather than about a housing project , and perhaps that spirit lends an element of parable to the plot ’ s occasional unlikelihoods , making them seem not sentimental or convenient but challenging .
They dare you to accept things you can ’ t explain .

Some novels about city life are poems of alienation, interior portraits of the existentially isolate, but James McBride’s vision of New York is one of overwhelming human profusion. His new novel, “Deacon King Kong” (Riverhead), set in what appears to be a fictionalized version of the Brooklyn housing project where McBride grew up, is crowded with characters whose backstories are crowded with more characters, all of their fates connected, in ways they know about and in ways they don’t. It’s a world where isolation seems like vanity; where one’s intimate business is usually, somehow, everyone else’s business, too; where even the attempted murder that begins the novel takes place in front of sixteen witnesses, many of whom know both shooter and victim personally.
“Deacon King Kong” is a nickname on top of a nickname: everyone in the Cause Houses knows the title character as Sportcoat. He is indeed a deacon, serving at the local Five Ends Baptist Church (though one of the novel’s running jokes is that no one quite knows what a deacon’s duties are, or how a man gets to be one), and he used to be the coach of the Cause’s youth baseball team. Now he spends his days doing the occasional odd job and, primarily, drinking. King Kong is the name of the home brew he favors. It is September, 1969, during what will prove a miraculous season for baseball fans in the city, and Sportcoat, seventy-one years of age, is equally in need of divine intervention, as he reels from the death of his wife.
Then one day, almost as if possessed, Sportcoat goes to the Cause Houses plaza, walks up to a teen-ager named Deems Clemens, a onetime star of Sportcoat’s youth baseball team who now sells heroin, and shoots him. Worse luck for Sportcoat, he succeeds only in taking off part of Deems’s ear, leaving the young man in enraging pain, and poised to exact revenge. It makes no sense to anyone who knows Sportcoat that the harmless old man would do such a thing. Afterward, Sportcoat has no memory of the shooting and expresses a kind of condescending skepticism toward those who try to convince him that he was responsible. The first two chapters both end by pronouncing Sportcoat “a dead man”; you could say that the novel is concerned not only with solving the mystery of his violent act but with his prospects for resurrection.
Meanwhile, a few blocks away, a mobster known as the Elephant, a holdover from back when the neighborhood was mostly Italian, gets a visit from a man known as the Governor, who purports to be an old friend of the Elephant’s late father. He’s come to collect something that the Elephant’s father was holding for him: a tiny, priceless bit of wartime plunder from Europe known as the Venus of Willendorf. No one has a clue where it is, apart from a cryptic old letter from Elephant père assuring the Governor that his treasure was safely “in the palm of God’s hand.”
These threads converge. Readers who understand that they are in a realm where everything makes sense, where nothing is mentioned at random—a plot, in other words—will figure out the Venus’ whereabouts well ahead of the characters. That’s O.K.; the satisfaction comes from seeing those characters, armed with less evidence than the reader possesses but guided by faith, close in on their goals, and from watching Sportcoat—whom a white character dismisses as the kind of drunk “who dies at twenty and is buried at eighty”—somehow get saved, over and over again.
The sheer volume of invention in “Deacon King Kong”—on the level of both character (the first chapter alone introduces twenty individuals by name) and language—commands awe. Reading it is like watching a movie in which one’s occasional impulse to ask questions is pleasantly swamped by the need to keep up with the pace of events. So comprehensive is the novel’s vision of the Cause Houses that Chapter 7 is narrated in part from the perspective of a colony of ants. In order to better understand these ants and how they came to the Cause, we flash back to the year 1951; by the time we return to 1969, the story of the ants has somehow roped in the New York Knicks, “that great Polish-Lithuanian General Andrew Thaddeus Bonaventure Kosciuszko,” and a stray German shepherd named Donald whose fur turned orange after it fell into the Gowanus Canal.
And the sentences! The prose radiates a kind of chain-reaction energy. After some chapters, you feel empathetically exhausted, in the way you might feel drained by watching an overtime football game. The experience of traversing a simple flashback paragraph is like trying to leap from stone to stone across a river, except occasionally one of them turns out to be not a stone after all but a lily pad, or a shadow, and into the river you go. Here’s a description of Sportcoat’s youth:
Bad luck seemed to follow the baby wherever he went. . . . At age three, when a young local pastor came by to bless the baby, the child barfed green matter all over the pastor’s clean white shirt. The pastor announced, “He’s got the devil’s understanding,” and departed for Chicago, where he quit the gospel and became a blues singer named Tampa Red and recorded the monster hit song “Devil’s Understanding,” before dying in anonymity flat broke and crawling into history, immortalized in music studies and rock-and-roll college courses the world over, idolized by white writers and music intellectuals for his classic blues hit that was the bedrock of the forty-million-dollar Gospel Stam Music Publishing empire, from which neither he nor Sportcoat ever received a dime.
A cynical reader might question the sunniness of McBride’s characterizations. The cops are bighearted, the mobsters are loyal. A character named Joaquin Cordero is introduced as “the only honest numbers runner in Cause Houses history.” Everyone’s better angels are generously foregrounded. And this angelic impulse extends to the action. Professional hit men are foiled in their attempts to kill the oblivious Sportcoat not once but three times, via accidental interventions that would have made Rube Goldberg blush. There are fortunate instances of mistaken identity, and other moments of plot-sustaining coincidence that may call to mind that classical contraption the deus ex machina.
But McBride has his eye less on the machina than on the deus. He begins the novel with a dedication to God, and he ends it with a second one. All his previous novels (most recently “The Good Lord Bird,” a recipient of the National Book Award, in 2013) have been works of historical fiction—about the Second World War, about the era of American slavery. A work of fiction set in 1969 might count as historical, too, and this one is related to a history he has written about before: his 1995 memoir, “The Color of Water,” was set in the Red Hook housing project, where he was raised. And yet McBride has described “Deacon King Kong” as a novel about a church, rather than about a housing project, and perhaps that spirit lends an element of parable to the plot’s occasional unlikelihoods, making them seem not sentimental or convenient but challenging. They dare you to accept things you can’t explain.
There is, though, another sound in “Deacon King Kong,” an undertone to all the humor and serendipity. A consciously suppressed anger emerges only rarely, but often enough to make you read the comedy differently. It’s as if any sentence in the book would, if allowed to flow all the way to its digressive end, empty into the pool of injustices that put these characters in the Cause Houses to begin with. When Sportcoat finally does remember the shooting, the revelation undams the kindly old deacon’s “absolute, indestructible rage,” in a way that casts the whole novel preceding it in a more complicated light. The fact that that light can be turned on and off is part of the complication.
And then there are those ants. Near the end of the exuberantly overdetailed ant flashback, you hit another one of those trick stones—a simple sentence that just keeps going, deeper and deeper, turning into an indictment that’s both tangential and not:
And there [the ants] stayed, a sole phenomenon in the Republic of Brooklyn, where cats hollered like people, dogs ate their own feces, aunties chain-smoked and died at age 102, a kid named Spike Lee saw God, the ghosts of the departed Dodgers soaked up all possibility of new hope, and penniless desperation ruled the life of the suckers too black or too poor to leave, while in Manhattan the buses ran on time, the lights never went out, the death of a single white child in a traffic accident was a page one story, while phony versions of black and Latino life ruled the Broadway roost, making white writers rich—West Side Story, Porgy & Bess, Purlie Victorious—and on it went, the whole business of the white man’s reality lumping together like a giant, lopsided snowball, the Great American Myth, the Big Apple, the Big Kahuna, the City That Never Sleeps, while the blacks and Latinos who cleaned the apartments and dragged out the trash and made the music and filled the jails with sorrow slept the sleep of the invisible and functioned as local color.
In 2016, President Obama awarded McBride the National Humanities Medal, for “humanizing the complexities of discussing race in America.” McBride’s belief that those maddening “complexities” make a kind of sense that we can’t always see appears to be unbroken in these less hopeful times. In “Deacon King Kong,” narrative omniscience leaves room for despair, as it must, but its over-all energy never flags. Sometimes the most affirmative thing you can do, as a storyteller, is to service that story’s momentum, in the hope that there’s some just reward for everyone in the end.
We associate tragedies with the operation of divine justice or divine will: hubristic human characters suffering the punishment of an angry god. But maybe it’s the comic plot—where all the clues are there if you read them right, where murderers’ hands are improbably stayed, where a “dead man” is given a new life—that more closely expresses belief. A comedy, no matter how frenetic on the surface, is an engine of patience, of faith in the idea that lost things will eventually be found. ♦


“Zucchini,” by Peter Balakian

with her hands that had come through the slaughter— So many hours I stared at the blotch marks on her @ @ @ @ @ bowl the stuffing was setting— chopped lamb , tomato pulp , raw rice , lemon @ @ @ @ @ of spices— from the riverbank of her birth— Can holding on to this image help @ @ @ @ @ ?
the happy and sad steps we walked along the plaster walls and steel bridges @ @ @ @ @ highways of glistening money the objects we caress in dreams from which we wake to @ @ @ @ @ the small light at the bottom of the stairs , the kitchen waiting with a @ @ @ @ @ olive oil onions and oregano , a waft of last night ’ s red wine—a @ @ @ @ @ bring on the day .

Audio: Read by the author.
My grandmother cored them
with a serrated knife
with her hands that had come
through the slaughter—
So many hours I stared at the blotch
marks on her knuckles,
her strong fingers around the
long green gourd—
In a glass bowl the stuffing was setting—
chopped lamb, tomato pulp, raw rice, lemon juice,
a sand brew of spices—
from the riverbank of her birth—
Can holding on to this image
help me make sense of time?
the temporal waves,
waves smashing and lipping
the pulverized stone; a bird dissolving
into a cloud bank in late day;
the happy and sad steps we walked
along the plaster walls and steel bridges,
the glass façades, highways of glistening money
the objects we caress in dreams
from which we wake to find the hallway dark,
the small light at the bottom of the stairs,
the kitchen waiting with a scent
of zucchini sautéed in olive oil
onions and oregano,
a waft of last night’s red wine—a gulp
of cold water to bring on the day.


newyorker--2020-02-24--“Bunches of a Nest,” by Diane Mehta

“Bunches of a Nest,” by Diane Mehta

What I started opposes what I shattered .
Marigolds I planted grow underground in silence .
Your arms hold me @ @ @ @ @ back with echoes of alternative languages .
Flutter-bees of temporary insanity , cousin of generalities @ @ @ @ @ , looking for the gravity dark matter imposes .
A place of conversations , so @ @ @ @ @ Up the street , a blue jay and a robin in a tree quiet me @ @ @ @ @ vitality .
Inside the fabric of my feelings I am reeling .
Disarranged , I @ @ @ @ @ million-year starlight beyond soil , latitude , season .
To what end are endings , @ @ @ @ @ ?
Below the dogwood ’ s pinwheel white blossoms , face up with oxygen petals @ @ @ @ @ yarn lie disassembled .
Bunches of a nest .
A tiny bird , face down @ @ @

Audio: Read by the author.
What I started opposes what I shattered.
Marigolds I planted grow underground in silence.
Your arms hold me tighter.
I love you back with echoes of alternative languages.
Flutter-bees of temporary insanity, cousin of generalities.
My soul in clementine, looking for the gravity
dark matter imposes.
A place of conversations, so spirit-drunk it feels ecclesiastical.
Up the street, a blue jay and a robin in a tree
quiet me with their full-throated tightrope-walking
argumentative vitality.
I walk like a beautiful petrified shell of a woman.
Inside the fabric of my feelings
I am reeling. Disarranged, I long to fix myself
in million-year starlight beyond soil, latitude, season.
To what end are endings, to what end do we?
Below the dogwood’s pinwheel
white blossoms, face up with oxygen petals,
twigs, grass, yarn lie disassembled.
Bunches of a nest. A tiny bird, face down, beyond.


newyorker--2020-02-24--Survivor’s Guilt in the Mountains

Survivor’s Guilt in the Mountains

In mountain towns , an early-autumn snowstorm is a nuisance and a lure .
It runs some people out of the high country but draws others in .
During the first week of October , 2017 , a foot or more of snow fell in the peaks south of Bozeman , Montana .
Before dawn on the fifth , a group set off from a parking lot in Hyalite Canyon , a popular outdoor playground , just outside town .
The man at the head of the group was spooked by the new snow .
To minimize exposure to avalanches @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with caution , keeping to the ridgelines and bare patches , away from the loaded gullies .
This was Conrad Anker , the famous American alpinist .
It is often said that there are old climbers and there are bold climbers , but there are no old bold climbers .
So far , Anker , at fifty-four , was an exception .
There was nothing intrepid , really , about this particular outing .
It was basically a hike up a minor mountain formerly known as Peak 10031 ( for its unremarkable altitude @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been rechristened in 2005 in honor of the late climber and Bozeman idol Alex Lowe .
The group was headed to Alex Lowe Peak to spread Alex Lowe ’ s ashes .
Anker recognized that it would be cosmically stupid to kick off an avalanche on the way .
Lowe died in 1999 , at the age of forty , during an ascent of Shishapangma , in the Himalayas .
At the time , he was considered by many to be the world ’ s preëminent alpinist , and , even in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , his came as a shock .
He was game for anything yet prudent , in his way—more dervish than daredevil .
Still , snow is water , and it aims downhill .
On Shishapangma , a massive avalanche entombed two climbers , Lowe and the cameraman David Bridges , under tons of frozen debris .
A third , Anker , who ’ d fled in another direction , got flattened and engulfed by the blast , but after the air cleared he found himself stumbling through an altered landscape , alive and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jennifer , back in Bozeman , got the call from base camp twelve hours later .
Through the static of the satellite connection , Anker confirmed that her husband was gone .
She ’ d had premonitions and dreams about this trip and—uncharacteristically , because she ’ d been a climber , too , and a supporter of her husband ’ s exploits—had begged Lowe not to go .
But he ’ d felt obliged , both to his climbing partners and to the North Face and NBC Sports , which were underwriting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my job , ” he ’ d told her .
“ It ’ s a work trip.
” She and Lowe had three sons , aged ten , seven , and three .
Lowe ’ s peers had admired him not only for his exploits on rock and ice but for his attentiveness as a husband and father , though it says something about the mountaineer mind-set that a man who spent several months of the year away from home was considered a dutiful dad .
“ We were all in awe of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and be a father , ” Anker told me .
Anker and Lowe were best friends , kindred spirits , and regular partners .
Anker took it on himself to look after Jenni and the boys , spending more and more time in Bozeman with them , doing what he could to help them muddle through , and also to find a purpose for himself—a reason to live .
Less than two years after Alex ’ s death , Anker and Jenni were married .
Anker adopted the boys , and Lowe-Anker , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ another world-class climber for a mate , with all the glory , anxiety , and exasperation that entails .
In 2016 , while in Nepal , Anker got one of those calls where , as he puts it , you know what the news will be before you even put the phone to your ear .
It was from his friend and colleague David Göttler , who was climbing on Shishapangma .
He ’ d come across some old North Face gear , and after some digging had uncovered what appeared to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lowe .
Their corpses had melted out of the glacier sooner than anyone had expected—climate change .
A couple of months later , Anker , Lowe-Anker , and the three boys travelled to the Himalayas to recover the bodies .
For the boys , the trip was proof that their father was indeed dead , that there was no chance of a miraculous return , something that Max , the eldest , had fantasized about as a child .
Anker , for his part , had had a recurring dream in which Lowe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ It was all super heavy-duty for me , ” Anker told me .
“ Here ’ s his wedding band , here ’ s his camera , here ’ s my water bottle in his daypack.
” Lowe was found on his back , arms crossed over his chest .
“ He had his hand with his wedding ring curled against his heart , ” Lowe-Anker said .
It was hard work to dig out the bodies , wrap them up , and haul them down to base camp , including a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d lugged in a cord of wood and some accelerant .
There is no real template for an encounter , in the high alpine , with the frozen corpses of a father , husband , and friend .
“ We looked at them for a day , ” Anker said .
“ And then we wrapped them and cremated them.
” These were the ashes that the family brought up to Alex Lowe Peak , a year later .
At the top , they scattered the remains and said their farewells—closure , of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day after Lowe disappeared under the snow .
It was dark when they got back to the car .
Earlier that week , Anker had run into a young climber named Hayden Kennedy at a Bozeman climbing gym .
Kennedy , twenty-seven , had a few years earlier won a Piolet d ’ Or , the yearly mountaineering awards , for a first ascent of the south face of an infamous tower in Pakistan known as the Ogre .
Kennedy , from Colorado , and his girlfriend , Inge Perkins , from Bozeman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an apartment in town .
Since graduating from high school , Kennedy had lived out of his van , as he built his climbing résumé ; Perkins , twenty-three and a strong skier and climber , too , was a senior at Montana State University , majoring in math .
Anker lived down the street from the Perkins family and had helped introduce Inge to climbing .
He had climbed decades ago with Kennedy ’ s father , Michael , an accomplished mountaineer , and had known Hayden since he was a boy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Alex Lowe Peak , Kennedy and Perkins , while ascending Imp Peak , a remote backcountry-skiing spot in a range southwest of Hyalite Canyon , were caught in an avalanche .
That early-season snow .
Kennedy , partly buried , dug himself out , but there was no sign of Perkins .
He searched the debris field for hours , probing and digging , although he must have known that a buried victim almost never survives for longer than twenty minutes .
Eventually , he gave up , skied out , and drove @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guess at the panic , anguish , and self-recrimination that coursed through him in the hours that followed—he called no one .
In the apartment that night , he wrote a fifteen-page letter and then took a fatal dose of painkillers and alcohol .

In mountain towns, an early-autumn snowstorm is a nuisance and a lure. It runs some people out of the high country but draws others in. During the first week of October, 2017, a foot or more of snow fell in the peaks south of Bozeman, Montana. Before dawn on the fifth, a group set off from a parking lot in Hyalite Canyon, a popular outdoor playground, just outside town. The man at the head of the group was spooked by the new snow. To minimize exposure to avalanches, he made sure that everyone ascended with caution, keeping to the ridgelines and bare patches, away from the loaded gullies. This was Conrad Anker, the famous American alpinist. It is often said that there are old climbers and there are bold climbers, but there are no old bold climbers. So far, Anker, at fifty-four, was an exception.
There was nothing intrepid, really, about this particular outing. It was basically a hike up a minor mountain formerly known as Peak 10031 (for its unremarkable altitude of 10,031 feet), which had been rechristened in 2005 in honor of the late climber and Bozeman idol Alex Lowe. The group was headed to Alex Lowe Peak to spread Alex Lowe’s ashes. Anker recognized that it would be cosmically stupid to kick off an avalanche on the way.
Lowe died in 1999, at the age of forty, during an ascent of Shishapangma, in the Himalayas. At the time, he was considered by many to be the world’s preëminent alpinist, and, even in a pursuit where untimely death is almost routine, his came as a shock. He was game for anything yet prudent, in his way—more dervish than daredevil. Still, snow is water, and it aims downhill. On Shishapangma, a massive avalanche entombed two climbers, Lowe and the cameraman David Bridges, under tons of frozen debris. A third, Anker, who’d fled in another direction, got flattened and engulfed by the blast, but after the air cleared he found himself stumbling through an altered landscape, alive and alone.
Lowe’s wife, Jennifer, back in Bozeman, got the call from base camp twelve hours later. Through the static of the satellite connection, Anker confirmed that her husband was gone. She’d had premonitions and dreams about this trip and—uncharacteristically, because she’d been a climber, too, and a supporter of her husband’s exploits—had begged Lowe not to go. But he’d felt obliged, both to his climbing partners and to the North Face and NBC Sports, which were underwriting the expedition. “It’s my job,” he’d told her. “It’s a work trip.” She and Lowe had three sons, aged ten, seven, and three.
Lowe’s peers had admired him not only for his exploits on rock and ice but for his attentiveness as a husband and father, though it says something about the mountaineer mind-set that a man who spent several months of the year away from home was considered a dutiful dad. “We were all in awe of him because he was able to climb and be a father,” Anker told me. Anker and Lowe were best friends, kindred spirits, and regular partners. Anker took it on himself to look after Jenni and the boys, spending more and more time in Bozeman with them, doing what he could to help them muddle through, and also to find a purpose for himself—a reason to live. Less than two years after Alex’s death, Anker and Jenni were married. Anker adopted the boys, and Lowe-Anker, as Jenni now called herself, had another world-class climber for a mate, with all the glory, anxiety, and exasperation that entails.
In 2016, while in Nepal, Anker got one of those calls where, as he puts it, you know what the news will be before you even put the phone to your ear. It was from his friend and colleague David Göttler, who was climbing on Shishapangma. He’d come across some old North Face gear, and after some digging had uncovered what appeared to be the bodies of David Bridges and Alex Lowe. Their corpses had melted out of the glacier sooner than anyone had expected—climate change. A couple of months later, Anker, Lowe-Anker, and the three boys travelled to the Himalayas to recover the bodies.
For the boys, the trip was proof that their father was indeed dead, that there was no chance of a miraculous return, something that Max, the eldest, had fantasized about as a child. Anker, for his part, had had a recurring dream in which Lowe showed up to reclaim his brood. “It was all super heavy-duty for me,” Anker told me. “Here’s his wedding band, here’s his camera, here’s my water bottle in his daypack.” Lowe was found on his back, arms crossed over his chest. “He had his hand with his wedding ring curled against his heart,” Lowe-Anker said. It was hard work to dig out the bodies, wrap them up, and haul them down to base camp, including a rappel off a cliff. They’d lugged in a cord of wood and some accelerant. There is no real template for an encounter, in the high alpine, with the frozen corpses of a father, husband, and friend. “We looked at them for a day,” Anker said. “And then we wrapped them and cremated them.”
These were the ashes that the family brought up to Alex Lowe Peak, a year later. At the top, they scattered the remains and said their farewells—closure, of a kind, eighteen years to the day after Lowe disappeared under the snow. It was dark when they got back to the car.
Earlier that week, Anker had run into a young climber named Hayden Kennedy at a Bozeman climbing gym. Kennedy, twenty-seven, had a few years earlier won a Piolet d’Or, the yearly mountaineering awards, for a first ascent of the south face of an infamous tower in Pakistan known as the Ogre. Kennedy, from Colorado, and his girlfriend, Inge Perkins, from Bozeman, had recently moved in together in an apartment in town. Since graduating from high school, Kennedy had lived out of his van, as he built his climbing résumé; Perkins, twenty-three and a strong skier and climber, too, was a senior at Montana State University, majoring in math. Anker lived down the street from the Perkins family and had helped introduce Inge to climbing. He had climbed decades ago with Kennedy’s father, Michael, an accomplished mountaineer, and had known Hayden since he was a boy.
Two days after the ceremony on Alex Lowe Peak, Kennedy and Perkins, while ascending Imp Peak, a remote backcountry-skiing spot in a range southwest of Hyalite Canyon, were caught in an avalanche. That early-season snow. Kennedy, partly buried, dug himself out, but there was no sign of Perkins. He searched the debris field for hours, probing and digging, although he must have known that a buried victim almost never survives for longer than twenty minutes. Eventually, he gave up, skied out, and drove back to Bozeman. One can only guess at the panic, anguish, and self-recrimination that coursed through him in the hours that followed—he called no one. In the apartment that night, he wrote a fifteen-page letter and then took a fatal dose of painkillers and alcohol.
Kennedy had never seemed depressed or violent or rash. “He had as untraumatic a childhood as a kid could have,” Michael Kennedy told me recently. “What did we not see? We are baffled.” Compared with the Ogre, Imp Peak was supposed to be a routine jaunt, a bit of fun. “In his note, he said, ‘It’s my fault we were there,’ ” his father went on. “I think what was troubling him in those final hours, though there was nothing explicit about this in his letter, was that he felt he hadn’t lived up to his own ideals.”
A week before Hayden Kennedy died, he had published a sorrowful essay, on a climbing Web site called Evening Sends, about the recent deaths in the mountains of some of his climbing partners, among them Kyle Dempster, who had accompanied him on the Ogre. Dempster and two others had disappeared the year before in a storm during an attempt on Ogre II. In recent years, the community of the world’s top climbers and skiers has seemed to suffer the death rate of a combat platoon. In the essay, Kennedy posed the question that has often dogged people who live through experiences that kill others: “Why do some of us survive and others don’t?”
One afternoon last fall, Anker showed me a page in a journal with about three dozen names handwritten on it—friends and partners who’d died, all but a couple of them in mountain accidents, many summoning up tragedies I knew as well as some do Bible stories or baseball lore. The list began with Anker’s mentor, Mugs Stump, who fell into a crevasse while descending Denali, in 1992. Scott Adamson, Justin Griffin, Hans Saari, Doug Coombs, Ned Gillette, Mira Šmíd, Hari Berger, Todd Skinner, Walt Shipley, Ang Kaji Sherpa, Ueli Steck, Dean Potter. Martyrs without a cause, except perhaps that of their own fulfillment.
“I had reached out to Hayden before and had talked to him about what loss was,” Anker said. “You fall into this pit, right after. It’s totally dark. You think about taking your own life. I hadn’t really talked much about it before, because there was shame or weakness associated with it.”
Late one evening, a week after Kennedy’s suicide, Anker called Tim Tate, a psychotherapist in Bozeman. Anker and Tate often went for hikes, and talked about their lives. Tate had helped him and the Lowes work through some dark periods, often marked by the reverberations of what Anker had come to identify as his survivor’s guilt—the nagging feeling that he was living someone else’s life.
The conversation with Tate was brief, as Anker’s conversations often are. Anker wondered if Tate would be open to consulting with the North Face, the outdoor-gear company founded in the Bay Area in 1966, about the problems of loss, grief, and harm. Anker was the captain of the North Face athletes’ team, an assemblage of more than a hundred outdoor adventurers—rock climbers, mountaineers, extreme skiers, snowboarders, ultra-runners—who are sponsored by the brand.
“They can’t help but do what they do,” Tim Tate said of the adventure athletes. Photograph by Benjamin Rasmussen for The New Yorker
The deaths of Kennedy and Perkins had a profound effect on many of the younger North Face athletes, even though the two of them hadn’t been affiliated with the company. In the spring of 2018, Anker brought Tate to Alameda, California, to meet with some North Face executives. “I’d like to introduce my mentor, Gandalf,” Anker said. This was a reference to Tate’s bearing, and his shamanistic attributes, which are deeply rooted, perhaps even innate, and yet not uncultivated. A Jungian by training, and a friend and acolyte of Jung’s purported successor, James Hillman, Tate has woven into his practice and self-presentation a variety of rituals and beliefs borrowed from Zen Buddhism and from the indigenous tribes of the northern plains. Tate laid out his approach to mental health and his version of what wellness might mean. “Rather than manage symptoms or problems, I prefer to give people a context for their experiences,” he told me recently. “Athletes have a particular calling we need to address. It isn’t a mythology of proving themselves. It’s a calling they cannot refuse. They have it on a loudspeaker in their brains. They can’t help but do what they do.”


newyorker--2020-02-24--The M.T.A. vs. a D.I.Y. Cartographer

The M.T.A. vs. a D.I.Y. Cartographer

Jake Berman , a midtown lawyer , was recently examining the M.T.A .
subway map on a wall of the West Fourth Street station , when an elderly tourist asked him how to get to Chelsea .
Berman began to relay precise directions ; then he stopped .
“ Funny story , ” he said .
“ I designed a subway map—a competitor that the M.T.A .
wants to get rid of .
So you ’ re asking the right dude.
” The funny story begins twelve years ago .
Berman , a transplant from San Francisco , was at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he had a date in Brooklyn .
After consulting the subway map , he decided to take the B train from West Fourth .
“ Here I am , waiting like an idiot for half an hour , and there ’ s no B , ” he recalled .
“ They didn ’ t have countdown clocks .
They didn ’ t have cell-phone service .
The whole thing ends up being a slightly dramatic fiasco.
” Berman gave up on the date ; he later learned that the B doesn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that he couldn ’ t find on the map .
He got so angry that he designed his own map , spending hundreds of hours on it and joining the ranks of New York ’ s amateur transit cartographers .
He has since revised his map and designed some for other cities , and even for science-fiction epics .
( He rendered all of “ Star Wars ” into a diagram . )
“ Frustration is a great way to become creative , ” he said .
Two years ago , he discovered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his New York subway map on Wikipedia , in 2009 , someone had begun selling it on Etsy .
He wrote in to complain .
Then he stole the idea .
He listed the map himself , at a starting price of fifty dollars .
Trying to explain the workings of a megacity ’ s transit system with elegance and accuracy is about as easy as describing the city itself .
Some poetry is required .
To create the first color-coded subway map for New York , in 1967 , transit officials brought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ devised four prototypes ; instead of choosing one of them , the officials mashed two together , resulting in a much hated composite .
Then came Massimo Vignelli , an Italian designer who drafted a map that was crisp , beautiful , and easy to read , but defiantly indifferent to geography .
The map is in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art , but the M.T.A .
ditched it after seven years , considering it too abstract .
Today ’ s official map emerged from the work of a committee @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writer in the transportation authority ’ s marketing department who hated the Vignelli design and pursued one that correlated more closely with the actual city .
That map , presented in 1979 , was celebrated , but over the years it has been repeatedly tinkered with , and has evolved into a visual mess .
Last summer , Tauranac petitioned the M.T.A .
to hire him to revamp the design .
When the agency ignored him , he went to the press , telling the Post , “ It ’ s incumbent on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ‘ Look , schmuck , you could do a better map , and I could do it for you.
’ ” He added , “ I wouldn ’ t say ‘ schmuck.
’ ” Berman ’ s map is suavely graphic , like Vignelli ’ s , but it also adheres to the city ’ s geography .
He has earned a few thousand dollars selling it online .
Last month , though , he got a notice from Etsy , saying that the M.T.A .
had ordered the site to stop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ phone with an M.T.A .
lawyer .
“ He alleged that I had ripped off the Weekender , ” Berman said , referring to an obscure online map that the M.T.A .
issued in 2011 .
He told the M.T.A .
that he had created his map years earlier , and that he would not comply with the agency ’ s order .
Other amateur cartographers sympathized .
Eddie Jabbour , the creator of the KickMap , a subway app , told Berman that the M.T.A .
had hassled him , too .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ been drafting unofficial subway maps , said he was once ordered to desist .
“ It ’ s like déjà vu all over again , ” he said .
“ It ’ s a very trivial thing to start trouble over , ” Berman said .
The M.T.A .
apparently reached the same conclusion .
The agency declined to comment on the Etsy situation , but shortly afterward it withdrew its legal demand .
Berman celebrated with a bottle of brandy .
“ There ’ s nothing more New York-y than this , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lots of threats , stomps their feet , but in the end we come to an agreement.
” ♦

Jake Berman, a midtown lawyer, was recently examining the M.T.A. subway map on a wall of the West Fourth Street station, when an elderly tourist asked him how to get to Chelsea. Berman began to relay precise directions; then he stopped. “Funny story,” he said. “I designed a subway map—a competitor that the M.T.A. wants to get rid of. So you’re asking the right dude.”
The funny story begins twelve years ago. Berman, a transplant from San Francisco, was at N.Y.U. Law School. One weekend, he had a date in Brooklyn. After consulting the subway map, he decided to take the B train from West Fourth. “Here I am, waiting like an idiot for half an hour, and there’s no B,” he recalled. “They didn’t have countdown clocks. They didn’t have cell-phone service. The whole thing ends up being a slightly dramatic fiasco.”
Berman gave up on the date; he later learned that the B doesn’t run on weekends, a detail that he couldn’t find on the map. He got so angry that he designed his own map, spending hundreds of hours on it and joining the ranks of New York’s amateur transit cartographers. He has since revised his map and designed some for other cities, and even for science-fiction epics. (He rendered all of “Star Wars” into a diagram.) “Frustration is a great way to become creative,” he said. Two years ago, he discovered that, after he’d posted his New York subway map on Wikipedia, in 2009, someone had begun selling it on Etsy. He wrote in to complain. Then he stole the idea. He listed the map himself, at a starting price of fifty dollars.
Trying to explain the workings of a megacity’s transit system with elegance and accuracy is about as easy as describing the city itself. Some poetry is required. To create the first color-coded subway map for New York, in 1967, transit officials brought in a former rocket scientist, who devised four prototypes; instead of choosing one of them, the officials mashed two together, resulting in a much hated composite. Then came Massimo Vignelli, an Italian designer who drafted a map that was crisp, beautiful, and easy to read, but defiantly indifferent to geography. The map is in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art, but the M.T.A. ditched it after seven years, considering it too abstract.
Today’s official map emerged from the work of a committee, headed by John Tauranac, a writer in the transportation authority’s marketing department who hated the Vignelli design and pursued one that correlated more closely with the actual city. That map, presented in 1979, was celebrated, but over the years it has been repeatedly tinkered with, and has evolved into a visual mess. Last summer, Tauranac petitioned the M.T.A. to hire him to revamp the design. When the agency ignored him, he went to the press, telling the Post, “It’s incumbent on me as a map designer to say, ‘Look, schmuck, you could do a better map, and I could do it for you.’ ” He added, “I wouldn’t say ‘schmuck.’ ”
Berman’s map is suavely graphic, like Vignelli’s, but it also adheres to the city’s geography. He has earned a few thousand dollars selling it online. Last month, though, he got a notice from Etsy, saying that the M.T.A. had ordered the site to stop selling it. Berman got on the phone with an M.T.A. lawyer. “He alleged that I had ripped off the Weekender,” Berman said, referring to an obscure online map that the M.T.A. issued in 2011. He told the M.T.A. that he had created his map years earlier, and that he would not comply with the agency’s order.
Other amateur cartographers sympathized. Eddie Jabbour, the creator of the KickMap, a subway app, told Berman that the M.T.A. had hassled him, too. Even Tauranac, who for decades has been drafting unofficial subway maps, said he was once ordered to desist. “It’s like déjà vu all over again,” he said.
“It’s a very trivial thing to start trouble over,” Berman said. The M.T.A. apparently reached the same conclusion. The agency declined to comment on the Etsy situation, but shortly afterward it withdrew its legal demand. Berman celebrated with a bottle of brandy. “There’s nothing more New York-y than this,” he said. “Everyone sends lots of threats, stomps their feet, but in the end we come to an agreement.” ♦


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Each week , we provide a cartoon in need of a caption .
You , the reader , submit your @ @ @ @ @ three finalists , and you vote for your favorite .
Anyone age thirteen or older @ @ @ @ @ To read the complete rules , click here .

Each week, we provide a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, submit your caption here, we choose three finalists, and you vote for your favorite. Anyone age thirteen or older can enter or vote. To read the complete rules, click here.
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newyorker--2020-02-24--Ahead of the South Carolina Primary, Donald Trump’s Debate Tips for Democrats

“ Mini Mike—how ’ d he do in the debate the other day ?
” President Donald Trump asked , at a rally in Las Vegas on Friday .
He was talking about Michael Bloomberg , the billionaire former mayor of New York , for whom he had some advice .
But first he wanted to remind the crowd of Bloomberg ’ s height .
“ Here ’ s a box , Mike !
” Trump said .
( Bloomberg did not , in fact , stand on a box for the Democratic debate in Nevada . )
The crowd @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was a beauty—what happened ?
” Trump clutched his throat and lolled his tongue in a somewhat graphic mime of choking .
Then he arrived at what he saw as Bloomberg ’ s central problem : “ Pocahontas screaming at him.
” He meant Senator Elizabeth Warren , and he knew just how Bloomberg should respond to her .
Warren , Trump told the crowd , “ lied about her own heritage .
She said she was an Indian !
” He was referring to the fraught issue of Warren ’ s previous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she said were based on her family ’ s oral tradition .
She discomfited some Democrats by taking up a challenge from Trump to undergo DNA testing , both because the results showed that any such ancestry she had was distant and , as she has since acknowledged , DNA testing is not how tribal affiliation is determined , anyway .
Trump mentioned the testing and , regarding “ Indian blood , ” told the crowd , “ I have none , to the best of my knowledge .
Wouldn ’ t mind @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have none.
” But back to Bloomberg : “ Why didn ’ t he bring that up when she was screaming at him ?
” Bloomberg didn ’ t call Warren “ Pocahontas ” ; that was why “ she won that debate.
” The lapse was incomprehensible to Trump , who segued into a stream of reminiscences about how he had won his primary debates during the 2016 campaign .
“ That ’ s what they all said !
I won , ” he boasted .
This point has been something of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he had been astonished to hear a guest commentator on Fox News suggest that he had not won the 2016 Republican primary debates .
At a rally in Colorado , a day before his event in Nevada , he brandished printouts of old press reports touting his debating prowess .
“ I became President because of the debates , because unlike Mini Mike I could answer questions , ” Trump said—a line that might seem delusional if one thinks that , in order to “ answer questions , ” a person actually needs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attack the questioner .
And yet Trump has something of a point ; even if he didn ’ t “ win ” all the Republican debates , he did , on the whole , dominate them , at least in terms of shaping the tone .
And that domination prefigured his takeover of the G.O.P .
and the Party ’ s abasement of itself before him .
Little Marco , Lyin ’ Ted , Low-Energy Jeb .
The President seems amazed that the Democrats aren ’ t all calling one another names .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
How much the debates matter for the Democrats may be another question .
One can only hope that the country is looking for an alternative to Trump , and that Trumpian insults are not the way to speed any of the candidates to victory .
In 2016 , Trump was running for office for the first time ; before his first debate , the expectation was that he might flounder in the way that Bloomberg did .
Instead , he was crude , unserious in his proposals , and aggressive—in a word @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there is a kernel of decent advice in Trump ’ s indecent counsel , it has to do with directness and perceived consistency .
Trump , though , sees only the insults .
“ Remember my first question ?
” Trump reminisced to the crowd in Las Vegas .
This had been a query in his first debate , from Megyn Kelly , who was then still with Fox News , about the many derogatory terms— “ fat pigs , ” “ dogs , ” “ slobs , ” and “ disgusting animals @ @ @ @ @ @ @ women .
“ I said Rosie O ’ Donnell !
It was one of my best answers.
” ( He had said , inaccurately , that he only used such terms about O ’ Donnell , with whom he had a long-running feud . )
After that debate , in August of 2015 , Trump said that Kelly had been angry , with “ blood coming out of her wherever.
” Last week , in Nevada , he said of Warren , who had similarly confronted Bloomberg with some of his past quotes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the anger on her face , that nervous energy ?
She ’ s jumping up and down ?
She ’ s a mess !
” Referring to Warren ’ s challenge to Bloomberg about the nondisclosure agreements that kept some women from speaking about their experiences at his company , Trump continued , “ She said , I got him , I want to see those agreements—you open up those agreements !
And this poor guy , he probably signed a hundred of them , and each one ’ s a disaster.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poor guy ” here is telling .
( Bloomberg has since said that he would release three women from their agreements . )
“ He said , I don ’ t want to open those agreements .
Nobody told me this was gon na happen !
” Trump then squatted down , so that only his head and shoulders appeared above the rostrum , and , continuing the Mini Mike act , squealed , “ Nobody told me !
” Throughout the Nevada rally , which included an interlude in which he called @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a brick-wall-patterned suit ) to the stage , Trump repeatedly returned to the Democratic field .
He wondered if younger people understood the reference when he called Pete Buttigieg “ Alfred E. Neuman ” ; perhaps “ only the real aficionados ” were conversant with Mad magazine .
( Still , he identified Buttigieg as “ not a bad debater.
” ) Bernie Sanders was “ too emotional.
” And , Trump said , “ Biden is angry—Eyahhuh , eye-heaah—that ’ s what happens if you can ’ t get the words out.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a stutter . )
“ Mini Mike so far has spent almost five huuundred million dollars in order to get embarrassed by Pocohantas !
” But , Trump added , “ It ’ s not going to be her.
” The day before , in Colorado , he had told the crowd that Amy Klobuchar had choked , which he also communicated with a strangulation mime .
Who , then ?
“ It looks like Bernie , ” Trump said .
“ Crazy Bernie !
” Maybe—we ’ ll know more after the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s not Trump ’ s decision .

“Mini Mike—how’d he do in the debate the other day?” President Donald Trump asked, at a rally in Las Vegas on Friday. He was talking about Michael Bloomberg, the billionaire former mayor of New York, for whom he had some advice. But first he wanted to remind the crowd of Bloomberg’s height. “Here’s a box, Mike!” Trump said. (Bloomberg did not, in fact, stand on a box for the Democratic debate in Nevada.) The crowd cheered on his derision. “He was a beauty—what happened?” Trump clutched his throat and lolled his tongue in a somewhat graphic mime of choking. Then he arrived at what he saw as Bloomberg’s central problem: “Pocahontas screaming at him.” He meant Senator Elizabeth Warren, and he knew just how Bloomberg should respond to her.
Warren, Trump told the crowd, “lied about her own heritage. She said she was an Indian!” He was referring to the fraught issue of Warren’s previous claims to Native American ancestry, which she said were based on her family’s oral tradition. She discomfited some Democrats by taking up a challenge from Trump to undergo DNA testing, both because the results showed that any such ancestry she had was distant and, as she has since acknowledged, DNA testing is not how tribal affiliation is determined, anyway. Trump mentioned the testing and, regarding “Indian blood,” told the crowd, “I have none, to the best of my knowledge. Wouldn’t mind having some, but I happen to have none.” But back to Bloomberg: “Why didn’t he bring that up when she was screaming at him?” Bloomberg didn’t call Warren “Pocahontas”; that was why “she won that debate.” The lapse was incomprehensible to Trump, who segued into a stream of reminiscences about how he had won his primary debates during the 2016 campaign. “That’s what they all said! I won,” he boasted.
This point has been something of an obsession for Trump, who said he had been astonished to hear a guest commentator on Fox News suggest that he had not won the 2016 Republican primary debates. At a rally in Colorado, a day before his event in Nevada, he brandished printouts of old press reports touting his debating prowess. “I became President because of the debates, because unlike Mini Mike I could answer questions,” Trump said—a line that might seem delusional if one thinks that, in order to “answer questions,” a person actually needs to give answers, rather than just attack the questioner. And yet Trump has something of a point; even if he didn’t “win” all the Republican debates, he did, on the whole, dominate them, at least in terms of shaping the tone. And that domination prefigured his takeover of the G.O.P. and the Party’s abasement of itself before him. Little Marco, Lyin’ Ted, Low-Energy Jeb. The President seems amazed that the Democrats aren’t all calling one another names. That’s what he would do.
How much the debates matter for the Democrats may be another question. One can only hope that the country is looking for an alternative to Trump, and that Trumpian insults are not the way to speed any of the candidates to victory. In 2016, Trump was running for office for the first time; before his first debate, the expectation was that he might flounder in the way that Bloomberg did. Instead, he was crude, unserious in his proposals, and aggressive—in a word, he stayed in character. If there is a kernel of decent advice in Trump’s indecent counsel, it has to do with directness and perceived consistency. Trump, though, sees only the insults. “Remember my first question?” Trump reminisced to the crowd in Las Vegas. This had been a query in his first debate, from Megyn Kelly, who was then still with Fox News, about the many derogatory terms—“fat pigs,” “dogs,” “slobs,” and “disgusting animals”—he had used when speaking about women. “I said Rosie O’Donnell! It was one of my best answers.” (He had said, inaccurately, that he only used such terms about O’Donnell, with whom he had a long-running feud.)
After that debate, in August of 2015, Trump said that Kelly had been angry, with “blood coming out of her wherever.” Last week, in Nevada, he said of Warren, who had similarly confronted Bloomberg with some of his past quotes about women, “Did you see the anger on her face, that nervous energy? She’s jumping up and down? She’s a mess!” Referring to Warren’s challenge to Bloomberg about the nondisclosure agreements that kept some women from speaking about their experiences at his company, Trump continued, “She said, I got him, I want to see those agreements—you open up those agreements! And this poor guy, he probably signed a hundred of them, and each one’s a disaster.” Trump’s definition of a “poor guy” here is telling. (Bloomberg has since said that he would release three women from their agreements.) “He said, I don’t want to open those agreements. Nobody told me this was gonna happen!” Trump then squatted down, so that only his head and shoulders appeared above the rostrum, and, continuing the Mini Mike act, squealed, “Nobody told me!”
Throughout the Nevada rally, which included an interlude in which he called supporters bedecked in Trump gear (including a brick-wall-patterned suit) to the stage, Trump repeatedly returned to the Democratic field. He wondered if younger people understood the reference when he called Pete Buttigieg “Alfred E. Neuman”; perhaps “only the real aficionados” were conversant with Mad magazine. (Still, he identified Buttigieg as “not a bad debater.”) Bernie Sanders was “too emotional.” And, Trump said, “Biden is angry—Eyahhuh, eye-heaah—that’s what happens if you can’t get the words out.” (Joe Biden has reckoned with a stutter.) “Mini Mike so far has spent almost five huuundred million dollars in order to get embarrassed by Pocohantas!” But, Trump added, “It’s not going to be her.” The day before, in Colorado, he had told the crowd that Amy Klobuchar had choked, which he also communicated with a strangulation mime. Who, then? “It looks like Bernie,” Trump said. “Crazy Bernie!” Maybe—we’ll know more after the South Carolina primary and Super Tuesday—but it’s not Trump’s decision.


newyorker--2020-02-24--The Reporting That Led to Harvey Weinstein’s Trial and Conviction

In 2017 , Ronan Farrow published a groundbreaking report in The New Yorker with firsthand accounts from women who alleged that they were the victims of harrowing sexual harassment and assault by the powerful Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein .
Farrow ’ s piece , along with reporting by the Times , helped launch the # MeToo movement and ushered in a new way of thinking about sexual harassment in the workplace .
Today , after a months-long trial , Weinstein was found guilty of two charges : felony sex crime and third-degree rape .
He was acquitted of three other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Below you ’ ll find a selection of pieces that The New Yorker has published in the past two years on Weinstein and on the brave women who have come forward with their stories .
Multiple women share harrowing accounts of sexual assault and harassment by the film executive .
We often discuss professional life as if it were distinct from sexual life , but , in fact , women are often forced to negotiate the blurry space between the two .
The film executive hired private investigators , including ex-Mossad agents , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the wake of scandal , the movie industry reckons with its past and its future .
How two operatives tasked with surveilling reporters became embroiled in an international plot to suppress allegations against Harvey Weinstein .
The novel does not portray the serial predator that Weinstein is alleged to be , yet it suggests that power exerted without consideration of humanity carries fearsome and retributive costs .
Annabella Sciorra , Daryl Hannah , and other women explain their struggles with going public .

In 2017, Ronan Farrow published a groundbreaking report in The New Yorker with firsthand accounts from women who alleged that they were the victims of harrowing sexual harassment and assault by the powerful Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein. Farrow’s piece, along with reporting by the Times, helped launch the #MeToo movement and ushered in a new way of thinking about sexual harassment in the workplace. Today, after a months-long trial, Weinstein was found guilty of two charges: felony sex crime and third-degree rape. He was acquitted of three other charges, including predatory sexual assault. Below you’ll find a selection of pieces that The New Yorker has published in the past two years on Weinstein and on the brave women who have come forward with their stories.
Illustration by Oliver Munday; source photograph by Raymond Hall / GC Images via Getty
Multiple women share harrowing accounts of sexual assault and harassment by the film executive.
Illustration by Cristiana Cristiana Couceiro; Source Photographs by Tim Mosenfelder / Getty; David Dee Delgado / Getty
We often discuss professional life as if it were distinct from sexual life, but, in fact, women are often forced to negotiate the blurry space between the two.
The film executive hired private investigators, including ex-Mossad agents, to track actresses and journalists.
In the wake of scandal, the movie industry reckons with its past and its future.
Illustration by Karolis Strautniekas
How two operatives tasked with surveilling reporters became embroiled in an international plot to suppress allegations against Harvey Weinstein.
Photograph by Jeenah Moon / NYT / Redux
The novel does not portray the serial predator that Weinstein is alleged to be, yet it suggests that power exerted without consideration of humanity carries fearsome and retributive costs.
Annabella Sciorra, Daryl Hannah, and other women explain their struggles with going public.


newyorker--2020-02-24--Stephen Miller, the Architect of Trump’s Immigration Plan

Donald Trump began his Presidential bid , in 2015 , with an infamous speech at Trump Tower , in which he said , of Mexican immigrants , “ They ’ re bringing drugs .
They ’ re bringing crime .
They ’ re rapists.
” But it was not until a former aide to Jeff Sessions joined Trump ’ s campaign that the nativist rhetoric coalesced into a policy platform—including the separation of children from their families at the border .
Jonathan Blitzer , who writes about immigration for The New Yorker , has been reporting on Stephen Miller ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his remarkable success in advancing an extremist agenda .
“ There has never been an American President who built his campaign around the issue of immigration and later won on that campaign on immigration .
Trump was the first and only President really ever to do it , ” Blitzer tells David Remnick .
Despite this influence , Miller remains largely behind the scenes .
Blitzer explains why : “ He knows that the kiss of death in this Administration is to be identified as the brains behind the man .
He can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s the one who effectively is manipulating Trump on these issues .
”

Photograph by Oliver Contreras / Sipa USA / Bloomberg / Getty
Donald Trump began his Presidential bid, in 2015, with an infamous speech at Trump Tower, in which he said, of Mexican immigrants, “They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.” But it was not until a former aide to Jeff Sessions joined Trump’s campaign that the nativist rhetoric coalesced into a policy platform—including the separation of children from their families at the border. Jonathan Blitzer, who writes about immigration for The New Yorker, has been reporting on Stephen Miller’s sway in the Trump Administration and his remarkable success in advancing an extremist agenda. “There has never been an American President who built his campaign around the issue of immigration and later won on that campaign on immigration. Trump was the first and only President really ever to do it,” Blitzer tells David Remnick. Despite this influence, Miller remains largely behind the scenes. Blitzer explains why: “He knows that the kiss of death in this Administration is to be identified as the brains behind the man. He can’t let on that he’s the one who effectively is manipulating Trump on these issues.”


newyorker--2020-02-24--How Santu Mofokeng Shaped South African Photography

Mofokeng once protested that “ books domesticate meaning , ” but he was deeply invested in the literary form .
( His mother , he said , “ instilled in me a religious thing about always searching for meaning and purpose in everything we do .
This informs my enterprise and the work that I do—I ’ d like to be the interpreter of my work.
” ) For a decade , beginning in 1988 , he worked as a photographer and researcher at the institute for Advanced Social Research at the University of Witwatersrand , where he developed a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would pen essays often , which he interspersed with the photographic works he published .
For instance , for his project “ Black Photo Album/Look at Me , ” which débuted at the seminal 1997 Johannesburg Biennale , he compiled and retouched studio portraits of middle-class black sitters from 1890 to 1950 .
A South African historian wrote that Mofokeng ’ s inventory resisted “ the pervasive and ongoing circulation of images of blacks as exotic and wonderful species , arrested in an earlier time frame.
” Throughout Mofokeng ’ s body of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with spirituality .
Between 1996 and 2014 , he made a series of journeys to photograph the sacred Motouleng and Mautse caves near Clarens , in Free State .
When processing those images , which became a series entitled “ Chasing Shadows , ” Mofokeng would often use exhausted chemicals to give his photographs an ethereal edge .
For him , the darkroom became a space where he could attempt to create a photographic version of a medium , an encounter with the transcendental re-inscribed through the visual .
These images , like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , remain both wise and indeterminate , stirring in their mutability and grace .

Mofokeng once protested that “books domesticate meaning,” but he was deeply invested in the literary form. (His mother, he said, “instilled in me a religious thing about always searching for meaning and purpose in everything we do. This informs my enterprise and the work that I do—I’d like to be the interpreter of my work.”) For a decade, beginning in 1988, he worked as a photographer and researcher at the institute for Advanced Social Research at the University of Witwatersrand, where he developed a sober, precise narrative voice. He would pen essays often, which he interspersed with the photographic works he published. For instance, for his project “Black Photo Album/Look at Me,” which débuted at the seminal 1997 Johannesburg Biennale, he compiled and retouched studio portraits of middle-class black sitters from 1890 to 1950. A South African historian wrote that Mofokeng’s inventory resisted “the pervasive and ongoing circulation of images of blacks as exotic and wonderful species, arrested in an earlier time frame.”
Throughout Mofokeng’s body of work is a sustained and ambivalent engagement with spirituality. Between 1996 and 2014, he made a series of journeys to photograph the sacred Motouleng and Mautse caves near Clarens, in Free State. When processing those images, which became a series entitled “Chasing Shadows,” Mofokeng would often use exhausted chemicals to give his photographs an ethereal edge. For him, the darkroom became a space where he could attempt to create a photographic version of a medium, an encounter with the transcendental re-inscribed through the visual. These images, like so much of Mofokeng’s work, remain both wise and indeterminate, stirring in their mutability and grace.


Learning the Ropes

I am me own master and commander .
I serve no King and fear no God .
I would sooner cut a hundred throats than heed one order from a living man .
When I strike , I take no quarter , for there be no mercy in me heart , just cold , black ice .
Me cutlass is me only friend .
The devil is me brother .
I don ’ t recycle .
When I ’ m done with a bottle , I just be throwing it out .
Even if recycling be made easy for me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there , and it be labelled “ recycling , ” I be throwing me bottle in the regular garbage .
I am Black Bones the Wicked , the most evil , fearsome pirate ever known .
The only man I trust is me First Mate , Rotten Pete the Scoundrel , and I only trust him as far as I can keep me eye peeled on his hook hand .
Rotten Pete is so rotten , he ’ d sell his mother for a piece-of-eight .
I ’ ve seen him stab his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ screaming face , just to have himself a laugh .
He ’ s got a black beard right up to his eyes and he loves to keep it slick with dead men ’ s blood .
One thing about him is that he be lactose intolerant , and so there be certain things he can ’ t be eating .
But other than that , he has no weaknesses , and like me , in his heart there be no mercy , just the black ice , like how I be having .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ have been charting a bloody course across the briny blue , looting every schooner fool enough to drift into our ken .
When we capture a prize , we spend all the plunder on grog and sing shanties ’ til dawn .
Then we go somewhere that be open early serving breakfast .
And everyone gives us dirty looks , because our table be loud , but we do not care , because we be pirates , and what makes pirates pirates is we only ever think about ourselves .
Our tale begins @ @ @ @ @ @ @ built for shipping sugar biscuits .
We ’ d hornswoggled the Captain into crewing us by claiming we was common merchant seamen .
But as soon as we sailed past the breakers , we whipped out our pistols and announced our true intentions .
“ Ahoy !
” we said .
“ We be pirates !
” At this point , the crew got angry at the Captain for crewing us , and he got defensive-like , and said , “ how was I supposed to know these gentlemen were pirates ?
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ red flags ” me and Rotten Pete be having , like our peg legs , and our eye patches , and the parrot I be keeping on me shoulder , which always be saying , “ shiver me timbers , ” which be a pretty pirate thing to say .
And the Captain ’ s face turned red-like and he admitted that he probably should have been getting him some references .
In any case , we made him walk the plank , along with all his hoity-toity educated officers .
And that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ treasure map .
I ’ d won it in a dice game against Blackjack the Crazy , and it gave us directions to all the buried gold in the known world .
I nailed it to the mainmast , where every man could see it , and we all stood around it for a while , staring at it in the boiling midday sun .
And after some time , I cleared me throat and said , “ So , does anyone here be knowing how to read ?
” And there were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ realized maybe it had been a mistake to be killing all the educated officers .
In any case , with our treasure quest at a momentary standstill , there was nothing to do but get three sheets to the wind .
So Rotten Pete broke into the captain ’ s berth by smashing the door down with his face , and we drank up all the grog and sang ourselves some shanties , with me singing the main parts , and Rotten Pete doing all the harmonies , and we were trying to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we heard a strange howling noise coming from the deck .
It could only mean one thing : we had ourselves a stowaway .
Now , me and Rotten Pete don ’ t take too kindly to freeloaders .
So as soon as we heard his yapping , we loaded up our pistols with the hardest bullets we could find and went up to blow the man down .
The wailing was coming from a broken crate of sugar biscuits , and we were gearing up to blast the thing to bits , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the white bright moonlight , we could see two little eyes peering up at us , and that ’ s when we noticed the stowaway be a little girl .
She was smaller than a seaman ’ s duffle , with a tiny , freckled face , and a scraggly mess of hair , as wild as a clump of kelp .
She wore the rags of a street urchin and her body was smeared with crumbs and bits of sugar .
She ’ d wandered on board from the docks , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the biscuits , and now here she was , stuck with us pirates at sea .
Now I expected her to cower at the sight of us , because she be so small , and we be so big , and also , we be pirates .
But instead , when she saw us , her lips stopped their quivering , and she sniffed a few times , and blinked away her tears , and then , very slow-like , she held up her arms , squeezed her chubby fists , looked me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Up ?
” And Rotten Pete turned to me slowly and said , “ Arr , I think she be asking you to pick her up.
” And I snorted at Rotten Pete , and said that be ridiculous .
And he said , “ Arr , why does it be ridiculous ?
” And I reminded him that I don ’ t heed orders from any living man .
I would sooner cut a hundred throats .
That be like one of me main things .
And Rotten Pete said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not a man , it just be a little girl.
” And I said if he wanted to pick her up , that was his business .
And he said , “ Arr , then I guess I will be the one of us picking her up , even though I be having a hook hand , and it be harder for me to be lifting things.
” And I knew he be trying to be passive-aggressive , but I did not say anything , because when he be doing that , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rotten Pete picked up the small girl and we took her to our berth , and we wrapped her in a blanket and dried off her face and we stared at her for a while , not really sure of what to do .
Because we ’ d been through squalls and mutinies together , been shipwrecked , shot , marooned , and left for dead .
But having a kid be different .
It ’ s like , “ there be no manual for this.
” And then the small girl started @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be two years old , and that she be hungry for more biscuits .
And Rotten Pete pulled me aside and said , “ Arr , what do you think , should we be giving her more biscuits ?
She has already been eating a lot of biscuits today .
Maybe we only give her half a biscuit and also be making her say please first ?
” And I said , “ What the hell is going on ?
We are pirates .
We should just throw her overboard and feed her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ winced and said , “ Arr , come on , we can ’ t be doing that.
” And I asked him if he was getting soft .
And he said , “ Arr , no , I just be thinking , you know , if we toss her overboard at night , the sharks will come , and they might crack the hull open with their fins.
” So I groaned and said , “ Fine , she can stay aboard tonight , but there is no way she be sleeping in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Arr , then where will we be putting her ?
” And I said , “ Arr , we can just stick her down in the hold.
” And he said , “ Arr , it be dark down there , she will be scared and scream.
” And I said , “ If she be screaming , we ’ ll hear her and go down.
” And he said , “ Arr , so will you go down if that happens ?
Or are you expecting me to go down ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ we would take turns going down .

So I bent down, so I could look her in the eyes, and I said, “Arr, I am only going to be asking you this once. Were you making holes in the caulk?” And the small girl started crying, and she shook her head, and I said, “Arr, now you be lying about it, too? That be even worse!” And that’s when I felt a hook on me shoulder, and I turn around, and there be Rotten Pete. And he says to me, “Arr, just calm down, this not be her fault.” And I said, “Arr, what are you talking about? She just lost all our treasure!” And Rotten Pete said, “Arr, I have heard about this, it be called ‘limit testing.’ She be acting out because she craves discipline and this be what happens when the environment be permissive-like.” And I said, “Arr, so you are blaming me?!” And Rotten Pete whispered, “Arr, maybe we should discuss this somewhere else, and not in front of the small girl,” and he smiled at the girl and said, “Arr, me and Black Bones just be having a discussion, and this be a healthy thing grown-ups be doing, and everything be O.K.,” and the little girl sniffled and nodded. And I clapped, real sarcastic-like, and said, “Arr, I guess you be perfect, and I be horrible, congratulations.” And Rotten Pete said, “Arr, I am not saying you be horrible, I am just saying that this proves she be wanting rules.” And I said, “That be ridiculous, she hates rules!” And Rotten Pete said, “Arr, or maybe you just hate giving them to her?” And the whole crew went “ooh,” which kind of spurred Rotten Pete on, and he pointed his hook at me and said, “The reason you never be disciplining her, is that you be afraid that she won’t love you. You are worried that she will be rejecting you, like how you felt rejected as a child, and this is why you need to be in therapy, because this all be going back to your parents’ divorce, which you never be dealing with.” And I said, “Arr, I don’t need to be dealing with anything! I’m a pirate!” And he said, “Arr, or maybe you’re a pirate so that you don’t need to be dealing with anything.” And the crew said “ooh” again, even louder this time, and I said, “Arr, I be done with this bullshit.”
And I told Rotten Pete that if he think I be such a bad captain, maybe I should just be abandoning ship. And I grabbed me duffel and threw it in the longboat. And Rotten Pete said, “Arr, don’t do this, you will be regretting it.” And I told him I would be fine, because I was taking the only thing on the ship that meant anything to me, on any emotional level. And the girl smiled at me, and I said, “Arr, not you, the treasure map.” And I ripped it off the mainmast. And I reminded Rotten Pete that there still be one “X” left, and it be the biggest “X” of all—the site of the legendary Dead Man’s Chest. There be more gold in that chest than in all the other chests we’d found combined, and this time, I wouldn’t have to be sharing it with the likes of him! And I laughed in his face as I lowered me longboat down into the sea, because I knew his waterlogged ship could never keep pace with me. The rest of the treasure would be mine, and there’d be enough to keep me in grog for a lifetime.
And Rotten Pete said, “Arr, don’t you see how you just be repeating the cycle? You be leaving us, just like how your father be leaving you.” And I said, “Arr, thanks for the psychobabble,” real sarcastic-like, and I picked up me parrot and was headed for the longboat when the small girl held her hands out and said, “Up?” And I told her I wouldn’t be picking her up anymore, because I was leaving forever and she was staying put. And when I turned me back on her, she started to whistle like I’d taught her, but I did not whistle back, I just lowered me longboat down into sea, and as I cut the rope, I heard her shouting down letters to impress me, saying, “I know ‘A!’ I know ‘B!’ I know ‘C!’ ” hoping she could make me stay, but instead I started rowing, because I be a pirate, with nothing in me heart but cold, black ice.
The Dead Man’s Chest was just as I’d imagined in me dreams: large and cube-shaped. By the time I finished loading all the loot onto me longboat, me hull nearly cracked under its weight. There were dubloons and piece-of-eights and even some grog, which I drank straight away. And then I figured it be time for celebrating, so I sang me favorite shanty. But for some reason it be sounding weird to me. So I sang it higher, and then lower, and then faster, and then slower, and finally I realized the thing it be missing was the harmonies, especially during the “yo ho ho”s. And I got this pain in me chest, like how it feels when you get capsized in a squall, and you’re trying to swim to the surface, but you don’t know which way’s up. But then I drank the rest of the grog and the shanty started sounding better. And so I grabbed me oars and set me course west, for Madagascar, which be having a good gold-to-grog exchange rate. And it was around this time that I heard a small voice say, “Up.” And me heart swelled like when you catch a trade wind in full sail, and I rummaged around the boat, looking for where the little girl had hid herself, but eventually I realized it just be me parrot talking. And it stared at me with its dull black eyes, saying, “Up! Up! Up! Up!” And so I said, “Shiver me timbers,” you know, trying to get it to talk more pirate-like. But the bird kept saying, “Up!” and “I know ‘A’!” and “I know ‘B’!” And maybe it was the grog, or the heat, or me scurvy, or me late-stage syphilis, but I started to talk back to the parrot, just like it were a person, begging it to stop, pleading with the bird to leave me be. But it only just got louder, asking for biscuits, and blankets for Peggy, and by the time it started whistling, I’d turned me boat around and started rowing east back to the ship. But I was moving too slow to catch up with them, on account of all me treasure, so I hurled the heavy pieces overboard, and then the medium pieces, and then some of the little pieces, too, and by the time I had the mainmast in me sights, I only had a couple pieces left. So I tossed those, as well, along with me peg leg, and me cutlass, and me earrings, scarf, and pistols, and me hairpiece, which not a lot of people be knowing that I have, but I figured, at this point, who cares, and by the time I got within earshot of the ship, I was naked except for me long johns. And I stuck me two fingers in me mouth and whistled for all that I was worth, until me tongue was stinging and me lungs were burning. And when I saw the small girl step out from the darkness, holding Rotten Pete’s hook for support, I shouted at them about how sorry I was, and I started to cry, even though the entire crew be watching, and it be a whole scene. And I could tell Rotten Pete was still cross at me, because he be scowling and also he be aiming a pretty big cannon at me face. But then the small girl whistled at me, and I whistled back, the best I could, with me swollen tongue. And the sound of it made the small girl laugh, and she did an imitation of me whistle, and so did me parrot, and that’s what finally got Rotten Pete to break, and I could see him smirking even through his beard. And then the little girl tugged on his shirt, and whispered something at him. And he closed his eyes, deliberating-like. And I knelt down on me knees, and held up me hands to him, and when the line crashed down beside me, I grabbed onto it just like a drowning man.
And since then, the girl has been on a pretty good sleep schedule. Sometimes, she be backsliding, but in general, she be down by seven bells, or at least in her berth reading. And other things have also gotten different-like. For example, instead of scouring the high seas for treasure, we mainly just stay in the Bermuda Triangle, because even though you sometimes feel trapped there, it be having the best schools.
We also decided to give the girl a name. At first we thought about going with something unique, like “Kill Girl” or “Murder Head.” But then Rotten Pete said, “Arr, but what if she gets made fun of, kids can be so mean, like how they be picking on me for me lactose intolerance.” And I knew he was probably right, because his instincts usually be sound. So we ended up going with “Kirsten,” because me late aunt’s name be Kate, and also Pete’s grandfather be Kevin, so with the “K” we sort of be like honoring them both. And we made her middle name “Treasure,” because she be our Treasure, more valuable than any piece of gold. And also, “Treasure” be sounding nice with her full name, Kirsten Treasure Screamface.
And everything be calm and peaceful now, except last night, after tuck-in time, I saw me reflection in me cutlass and I barely recognized me self. Me hands be soft, from lack of killing, and me stomach be all paunchy-like. And I said to Rotten Pete, “Arr, I used to be the most evil, wicked pirate ever known, and now I be barely a pirate at all.” And I confessed I no longer felt like the man that he first set out to sea with. I heed orders. I take quarter. I even recycle, because Kirsten did a thing on it for school, and now she be getting on me when I don’t.
And Rotten Pete took me hand in his hook, and he looked into me one eye, and he said, "Arr, you listen to me. You are the strongest that you’ve ever been.” And we got out a bottle of grog, and sang our favorite shanties, not too loud, of course, but loud enough so that we could be doing all the harmonies, and the “yo ho ho”s sounded smoother than any that I could remember.
We are not yet sure if Kirsten will want to be a pirate, but just in case, we are teaching her the ropes. And some nights, if the moon be out, and she be all done with her Spanish, we let her take the helm and steer the ship. And we hold onto the rigging, while she tacks in and out of the wind, charting her own course, and we feel just like stowaways on a great adventure, like the journey is just starting, like we’re only just now sailing out to sea.


newyorker--2020-02-28--Armie Hammer and Tracy Letts Return to Broadway

Armie Hammer , last seen on Broadway in “ Straight White Men , ” returns to the stage in Tracy @ @ @ @ @ Minutes , ” now in previews at the Cort .
Letts , who is also @ @ @ @ @ to play stuffed shirts in movies such as “ Little Women ” and “ Ford @ @ @ @ @ his plays , which include “ August : Osage County ” and “ Bug , @ @ @ @ @ In “ The Minutes , ” which ran at Chicago ’ s Steppenwolf , he @ @ @ @ @ to suss out themes of power and its perversions—Trumpism writ small .

Armie Hammer, last seen on Broadway in “Straight White Men,” returns to the stage in Tracy Letts’s “The Minutes,” now in previews at the Cort. Letts, who is also in the cast, tends to play stuffed shirts in movies such as “Little Women” and “Ford v Ferrari,” but his plays, which include “August: Osage County” and “Bug,” are darkly subversive. In “The Minutes,” which ran at Chicago’s Steppenwolf, he uses a small-town city-council meeting to suss out themes of power and its perversions—Trumpism writ small.


Spring Art Preview

Shortly after the Metropolitan Museum of Art was founded , in 1870 , Henry James wrote a prescient review of its first show , describing the selection of Old Master paintings as “ an enviably solid foundation for future acquisition and development.
” A hundred and fifty years later , those acquisitions span more than five thousand years .
The building-wide exhibition “ Making the Met : 1870-2020 ” highlights a cross-section of that encyclopedic collection , from a life-size limestone statue of the Egyptian Queen Hatshepsut , made circa 1479-58 B.C.
, to a bronze dancer by Edgar Degas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ March 30 . )
Climate-crisis awareness and boho chic both fuel renewed interest in the tradition of boro , a ragtag quilting process born of necessity , in the nineteenth century , in the wintry Japanese region of Tohoku .
Fifty vintage examples are on view in “ Boro Textiles : Sustainable Aesthetics , ” at the Japan Society , alongside avant-garde piecework from such designers as Rei Kawakubo , Issey Miyake , and Yohji Yamamoto .
( Opens March 6 . )
Few velvet ropes ( or disco balls ) are more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Open for less than three years ( it closed in 1980 ) , it remains an icon of glamour , glitter , and freedom , especially for the L.G.B.T.Q .
community .
The house of “ Le Freak ” lives on in the exhibition “ Studio 54 : Night Magic , ” at the Brooklyn Museum , featuring six hundred and fifty photographs , fashions , film clips , soundtracks , and more .
( Opens March 13 . )
The times have caught up to the color-drenched mysticism of the American painter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chose to work outside the mainstream throughout her career—first near the ocean in Water Mill , New York , and then in the arid climate of Cathedral City , California , near Palm Springs .
The Whitney reintroduces her lucent œuvre in “ Agnes Pelton : Desert Transcendentalist.
” ( Opens March 13 . )
Roughly a quarter of the world ’ s prisoners reside in the U.S. , a population that has soared seven hundred per cent since 1970 .
At moma PS1 , the guest curator Nicole R. Fleetwood , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ urgent subject in the exhibition “ Marking Time : Art in the Age of Mass Incarceration , ” which includes an extensive series of related public programs .
( Opens April 5 . )
Gentrification is synonymous with New York City—the irony being that the very artists who make a neighborhood magnetic are often later forced to relocate .
A dozen contemporary artists contemplate this dilemma in “ After the Plaster Foundation , ” at the Queens Museum .
The show ’ s title riffs on the nickname that the underground legend Jack @ @ @ @ @ @ @ filmed and staged performances in the nineteen-sixties—until he was evicted .
( Opens April 5 . )
The young Bay Area sculptor Davina Semo gives visitors to Brooklyn Bridge Park the gift of sound and vision in her project for the Public Art Fund : a series of cast-bronze bells installed along the waterfront , which people are invited to ring .
( Opens May 5 . )
♦

Shortly after the Metropolitan Museum of Art was founded, in 1870, Henry James wrote a prescient review of its first show, describing the selection of Old Master paintings as “an enviably solid foundation for future acquisition and development.” A hundred and fifty years later, those acquisitions span more than five thousand years. The building-wide exhibition “Making the Met: 1870-2020” highlights a cross-section of that encyclopedic collection, from a life-size limestone statue of the Egyptian Queen Hatshepsut, made circa 1479-58 B.C., to a bronze dancer by Edgar Degas, cast in 1922. (Opens March 30.)
Climate-crisis awareness and boho chic both fuel renewed interest in the tradition of boro, a ragtag quilting process born of necessity, in the nineteenth century, in the wintry Japanese region of Tohoku. Fifty vintage examples are on view in “Boro Textiles: Sustainable Aesthetics,” at the Japan Society, alongside avant-garde piecework from such designers as Rei Kawakubo, Issey Miyake, and Yohji Yamamoto. (Opens March 6.)
Few velvet ropes (or disco balls) are more legendary than those at Studio 54. Open for less than three years (it closed in 1980), it remains an icon of glamour, glitter, and freedom, especially for the L.G.B.T.Q. community. The house of “Le Freak” lives on in the exhibition “Studio 54: Night Magic,” at the Brooklyn Museum, featuring six hundred and fifty photographs, fashions, film clips, soundtracks, and more. (Opens March 13.)
The times have caught up to the color-drenched mysticism of the American painter Agnes Pelton (1881-1961), who chose to work outside the mainstream throughout her career—first near the ocean in Water Mill, New York, and then in the arid climate of Cathedral City, California, near Palm Springs. The Whitney reintroduces her lucent œuvre in “Agnes Pelton: Desert Transcendentalist.” (Opens March 13.)
Roughly a quarter of the world’s prisoners reside in the U.S., a population that has soared seven hundred per cent since 1970. At moma PS1, the guest curator Nicole R. Fleetwood, a professor at Rutgers University, tackles this urgent subject in the exhibition “Marking Time: Art in the Age of Mass Incarceration,” which includes an extensive series of related public programs. (Opens April 5.)
Gentrification is synonymous with New York City—the irony being that the very artists who make a neighborhood magnetic are often later forced to relocate. A dozen contemporary artists contemplate this dilemma in “After the Plaster Foundation,” at the Queens Museum. The show’s title riffs on the nickname that the underground legend Jack Smith gave the SoHo loft where he filmed and staged performances in the nineteen-sixties—until he was evicted. (Opens April 5.)
The young Bay Area sculptor Davina Semo gives visitors to Brooklyn Bridge Park the gift of sound and vision in her project for the Public Art Fund: a series of cast-bronze bells installed along the waterfront, which people are invited to ring. (Opens May 5.) ♦


Spring Movies Preview

Family life is at the center of Eliza Hittman ’ s third feature , “ Never Rarely Sometimes Always ” ( March 13 ) , about Autumn ( Sidney Flanigan ) , a seventeen-year-old high-school student from a small Pennsylvania town who discovers that she ’ s pregnant and , unable to get an abortion in the state without parental consent , travels to New York with a cousin ( Talia Ryder ) for the procedure .
The French drama “ The Truth ” ( March 20 ) , the director Hirokazu Kore-eda ’ s first feature outside Japan , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writes a memoir and Juliette Binoche as her daughter , who returns to Paris for the book ’ s publication and disputes its claims .
Ethan Hawke co-stars .
Among the season ’ s most prominent releases are adaptations from earlier works , both literary and cinematic , including “ Charm City Kings ” ( April 10 ) , a drama about Baltimore ’ s dirt-bike culture , starring Teyonah Parris , Jahi Di ’ Allo Winston , and the musician Meek Mill .
Ángel Manuel Soto directed ; Barry Jenkins co-wrote the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Nathan ’ s 2013 documentary “ 12 O ’ Clock Boys.
” Luca Marinelli stars in “ Martin Eden ” ( April 17 ) , the Italian director Pietro Marcello ’ s adaptation of Jack London ’ s 1909 novel , about a poor sailor and aspiring writer who falls in love with a bourgeois woman and , after becoming a socialist , comes into conflict with her .
Dev Patel stars in “ The Personal History of David Copperfield ” ( May 8 ) , an adaptation of Charles Dickens ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who wrote the script with Simon Blackwell .
Peter Capaldi co-stars as Mr. Micawber .
A wide range of historical subjects will be spotlighted this spring in a variety of genres .
The journalist Andrea Chalupa wrote “ Mr .
Jones ” ( April 3 ) , directed by Agnieszka Holland , based on the true story of a Welsh journalist ( played by James Norton ) who , in the early nineteen-thirties , discovers the Soviet Union ’ s extermination by famine of Ukrainians—and finds his reports denied by the regime ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mawle co-stars as George Orwell .
Marjane Satrapi directed “ Radioactive ” ( April 24 ) , a bio-pic about Marie Curie , starring Rosamund Pike , based on a graphic novel by Lauren Redniss ; Sam Riley plays Pierre Curie .
In “ Antebellum ” ( April 24 ) , the first feature directed by Gerard Bush and Christopher Renz ( who also co-wrote the script ) , Janelle Monáe plays a writer who gets trapped in an imaginary world of horror .
Eric Lange , Jena Malone , Kiersey Clemons , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will be getting new workouts , as in “ No Time to Die ” ( April 8 ) , the twenty-fifth film in the James Bond franchise , starring Daniel Craig in his final performance as 007 .
It ’ s directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga , who co-wrote the script with Phoebe Waller-Bridge , Neal Purvis , and Robert Wade ; the cast includes Rami Malek , Léa Seydoux , Lashana Lynch , Naomie Harris , Christoph Waltz , Jeffrey Wright , and Ralph Fiennes .
Reese Witherspoon returns as Elle Woods @ @ @ @ @ @ @ May 8 ) , directed by Jamie Suk and co-starring Alanna Ubach and Jessica Cauffiel .
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Family life is at the center of Eliza Hittman’s third feature, “Never Rarely Sometimes Always” (March 13), about Autumn (Sidney Flanigan), a seventeen-year-old high-school student from a small Pennsylvania town who discovers that she’s pregnant and, unable to get an abortion in the state without parental consent, travels to New York with a cousin (Talia Ryder) for the procedure. The French drama “The Truth” (March 20), the director Hirokazu Kore-eda’s first feature outside Japan, stars Catherine Deneuve as an actress who writes a memoir and Juliette Binoche as her daughter, who returns to Paris for the book’s publication and disputes its claims. Ethan Hawke co-stars.
Among the season’s most prominent releases are adaptations from earlier works, both literary and cinematic, including “Charm City Kings” (April 10), a drama about Baltimore’s dirt-bike culture, starring Teyonah Parris, Jahi Di’Allo Winston, and the musician Meek Mill. Ángel Manuel Soto directed; Barry Jenkins co-wrote the story, which is based on Lotfy Nathan’s 2013 documentary “12 O’Clock Boys.” Luca Marinelli stars in “Martin Eden” (April 17), the Italian director Pietro Marcello’s adaptation of Jack London’s 1909 novel, about a poor sailor and aspiring writer who falls in love with a bourgeois woman and, after becoming a socialist, comes into conflict with her. Dev Patel stars in “The Personal History of David Copperfield” (May 8), an adaptation of Charles Dickens’s novel, directed by Armando Iannucci, who wrote the script with Simon Blackwell. Peter Capaldi co-stars as Mr. Micawber.
A wide range of historical subjects will be spotlighted this spring in a variety of genres. The journalist Andrea Chalupa wrote “Mr. Jones” (April 3), directed by Agnieszka Holland, based on the true story of a Welsh journalist (played by James Norton) who, in the early nineteen-thirties, discovers the Soviet Union’s extermination by famine of Ukrainians—and finds his reports denied by the regime’s American and European sympathizers. Joseph Mawle co-stars as George Orwell. Marjane Satrapi directed “Radioactive” (April 24), a bio-pic about Marie Curie, starring Rosamund Pike, based on a graphic novel by Lauren Redniss; Sam Riley plays Pierre Curie. In “Antebellum” (April 24), the first feature directed by Gerard Bush and Christopher Renz (who also co-wrote the script), Janelle Monáe plays a writer who gets trapped in an imaginary world of horror. Eric Lange, Jena Malone, Kiersey Clemons, and Gabourey Sidibe co-star.
Classic franchises will be getting new workouts, as in “No Time to Die” (April 8), the twenty-fifth film in the James Bond franchise, starring Daniel Craig in his final performance as 007. It’s directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga, who co-wrote the script with Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Neal Purvis, and Robert Wade; the cast includes Rami Malek, Léa Seydoux, Lashana Lynch, Naomie Harris, Christoph Waltz, Jeffrey Wright, and Ralph Fiennes. Reese Witherspoon returns as Elle Woods in “Legally Blonde 3” (May 8), directed by Jamie Suk and co-starring Alanna Ubach and Jessica Cauffiel. ♦