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Posts tagged The New Yorker:
In the spirit of openheartedness and what life is really all about, I’ll go so far as to say that the fear of others may mask some deep-seated desire to understand, and maybe even to love. Because really, what is there to be afraid of? Few people today don’t know—or have in their families—at least one loving couple who are raising children, same-sex or not. And it’s really just the loving part that matters. That same-sex marriage could go from its preliminary draft of “diagnosable” to the final edit of “so what?” must indicate some positive evolution on the part of the larger human consciousness. My wife, being a biology teacher, puts it even more succinctly: “Why are all these people so worried about who everybody else is sleeping with, anyway?” (Score two for Moms.)
—Chris Ware on his cover of the May 13, 2013 issue, “Mother’s Day.” Get the story behind the cover: http://nyr.kr/10d7TyC
(via newyorker)
“Undeterred,” the Nov. 12, 2012 cover of the magazine. Here, the artist Adrian Tomine talks about the inspiration for his cover.
We asked Chris Ware, who drew this week’s cover, “Mother’s Day,” to discuss the New Yorker covers that inspired him.
Since I draw more or less like a robot, it’s good to have something human to inspire me every once in a while. While I dutifully admire the manly, punchy gags of Peter Arno and Charles Addams, the “old school” New Yorker cover artists I think most about are actually all women. Ilonka Karasz’s bucolic diorama-like vistas and the unapologetic warm sentiment of Edna Eicke stir up fond memories of childhood with a tactile power truly unusual for drawings intended only for print.
See the past covers that have inspired Ware and his commentary here.
So, is there a real case for disqualifying “Drive”? For that to be true, the fifty per cent that Martinez wrote by himself would have to be dramatically negligible and the songs that appear in the film would have to be anchoring key dramatic moments. Watching the film three times, I simply didn’t find that to be true. The movie’s opening scene—which you can watch here, narrated by Refn, though without the music or dialogue, sadly—is a masterful layering of sounds that court total discord but somehow remain separate and intelligible, thereby making them all the more nerve-scraping: the pulse of a drum machine, a police radio, a basketball game broadcast, the beeping of an open car door. This music is Johnny Jewel’s song for the Chromatics, “Tick of the Clock,” which he rebuilt from scratch for the movie.
Other than that, the key moments of the movie, several of them wildly violent, are paired with Martinez’s music, a subtly unnerving blend of sentimental and brutal sounds. The pop songs happen during some of the movie’s most slack and generic scenes, like a montage of a jolly trip to a river, complete with innocent child. Those are not the moments that typify “Drive.” Meanwhile, Martinez chose to give his programmers songwriting credit because they deserved it, and so they could be paid as the movie made its way, commercially, through the world. An honest labor practice ends up hurting Martinez, despite having fifty per cent of the movie’s music credited to him alone.
- Sasha Frere-Jones on Drive and the Best Original Score Oscar: http://nyr.kr/AwEQEU
Tim Barber’s Elusive Young People
Tim Barber, former photo editor at Vice and the man behind the online gallery tinyvices.com, has a new book out called “Untitled Photographs.” This compilation of snapshots, which Barber took over the course of fifteen years, is perhaps best summed up by Miranda July, who writes the intro:
What you have here are a few categories of pictures. One category I would maybe call Young People who, from the look of things, just had intercourse, right before or after the picture was taken. Next there is the category, I don’t know what to call it, but Tim seems to have not been able to catch the person in the viewfinder, which is bound to happen, and will probably happen less and less often as he gets more experienced. I will say that he gets an A for effort on these because looking at them, you can almost tell that a person just left or was just about to get there.- For more of Barber’s photographs, visit our Photo Booth blog: http://nyr.kr/A5zq1U
![newyorker:
In this week’s issue, George Packer tells the stories of some of the Occupy protesters; Adam Gopnik explores “The Lord of the Rings,” “Twilight,” and young-adult fantasy books; James Surowiecki on Europe’s catastrophic stubbornness; Paul Slansky administers a debates quiz in Shouts & Murmurs; Lauren Collins on wireless network names [subscription required]; and more.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvdpq3LS0O1qav5oho1_1280.jpg)
Kelefa Sanneh’s Perfect Cup of Coffee
In this week’s Food Issue, Kelefa Sanneh writes about Aida Batlle, “a fifth-generation coffee farmer and a first-generation coffee celebrity.” Sanneh maintains that “brewing a proper cup of coffee is a lot harder than uncorking a bottle of wine and a lot easier than cooking dinner.” Which leads to a natural question: how does he brew his own cup?
Michael Agger: Give me your coffee method when travelling.
Kelefa Sanneh: When I travel, I pack my hand grinder and some beans and the AeroPress. I have that in my bag right now. You can use a hotel coffee maker as your boiler, even though it doesn’t heat the water quite hot enough. With those tools, you can make a reasonable facsimile of a decent cup of coffee. If you are staying in a B.&B., you can barge into their kitchen and insist on making coffee with your own gear. In my experience, they don’t forbid that, though they don’t necessarily appreciate it.
- Click through to read the full interview, which includes Sanneh’s tips on storing beans, and brewing at work: http://nyr.kr/rW4Hco
Clean-shaven, with short hair, slicked back, and wearing white sneakers and a light-colored suit, with his shirt buttoned right up to his Adam’s apple, the gaunt David Byrne, who founded the group, comes on alone (with his acoustic guitar and a tape player) for the first number “Psycho Killer.” He’s so white he’s almost mock-white, and so are his jerky, long-necked, mechanical-man movements. He seems fleshless, bloodless; he might almost be a black man’s parody of how a clean-cut white man moves. But Byrne himself is the parodist, and he commands the stage by his hollow-eyed, frosty verve. Byrne’s voice isn’t a singer’s voice—it doesn’t have the resonance. It’s more like a shouter’s or chanter’s voice, with an emotional carryover—a faintly metallic wail—and you might expect it to get strained or tired. But his voice never seems to crack or weaken, and he’s always in motion—jiggling, aerobic walking, jumping, dancing. (They shade into each other.) Byrne has a withdrawn, disembodied, sci-fi quality, and though there’s something unknowable and almost autistic about him, he makes autism fun. He gives the group its modernism—the undertone of repressed hysteria, which he somehow blends with freshness and adventurousness and a driving beat. When he comes on wearing a boxlike “big suit”—his body lost inside this form that sticks out around him like the costumes in Noh plays, or like Beuys’ large suit of felt that hangs of a wall—it’s a perfect psychological fit. He’s a handsome, freaky golem. When he dances, It isn’t as if he were moving the suit—the suit seems to move him. And this big box that encloses him is only an exaggeration of his regular nerd-dandy clothes. Byrne may not be human (he rejects ordinary, show-biz forms of ingratiation, such as smiling), but he’s a stupefying performer—he even bobs his head like a chicken, in time to the music.
—Pauline Kael from her review of Stop Making Sense
(The New Yorker, November 26, 1984)
(Source: rossbirks)
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