{"id":111058,"date":"2017-05-19T17:27:47","date_gmt":"2017-05-19T21:27:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=111058"},"modified":"2017-05-19T17:47:02","modified_gmt":"2017-05-19T21:47:02","slug":"staff-picks-hipster-stewardesses-swedish-paper-mills-soil","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/05\/19\/staff-picks-hipster-stewardesses-swedish-paper-mills-soil\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Hipster Stewardesses, Swedish Paper Mills, Soil"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

From the cover of Afterland<\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIn American Apparel I feel old. Especially when I ask one of the hotties for help.\u201d So begins one of the dozens of prose poems in Jeremy Sigler\u2019s new book,\u00a0My Vibe<\/a><\/em>. Another one: \u201cI want to be watched so bad. I want a voyeur to be here so bad. A secret admirer.\u201d Some of Sigler\u2019s lines read like poetry (\u201cWords like flat barges trace slowly past the jagged architecture. Buildings punch the sky like staple guns.\u201d), but by and large, the poems are nimbly unpoetic. They\u2019re conversational, and Sigler\u2019s persona is like that weird, boozy guy who corners you at parties and won\u2019t stop talking and one subject leads seamlessly into another and you keep looking over his shoulder for escape but he doesn\u2019t notice and sentences keep spilling out of his mouth. Except that in this instance, I don\u2019t want to escape. I find the poems incredibly charming because they are observant, indulgent, and funny: from flirting with a hipster stewardess to get an aisle seat on a plane by admitting bladder-control issues, to awkwardly complimenting a woman on her Yayoi Kusama hoodie and then discoursing briefly to the reader on Kusama\u2019s art. \u201cBeing a Freudian,\u201d Sigler writes in another poem, \u201cmy research is, um, dreaming. So I\u2019ll have no choice but to drop my pen and take a nap.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

I already mentioned it this week<\/a>, but I haven\u2019t been able to shake Rebecca Mead\u2019s New Yorker<\/em> profile of Gerhard Steidl<\/a>. I\u2019d heard that Steidl, who runs the world\u2019s most meticulous photography press, was an eccentric, but Mead brings the intensity of his commitment into sharp relief. He is, somehow, a technician aesthete, consumed equally by specificity and beauty. (Maybe only Germany could produce such a person.) His fastidiousness flirts with the ridiculous: even the notecards for his dinner table were custom-made at a Swedish paper mill dating to the nineteenth-century. But there\u2019s no denying the almost monastic clarity of his vision. Steidl lives onsite at his factory in G\u00f6ttingen, and he leaves as rarely as possible. His advice on this point flies in the face of contemporary wisdom about work\/life balance, but I find it difficult to ignore. \u201cIt makes a huge difference,\u201d he says, \u201cwhen you are not isolated from your work, when working and living is a symbiosis. Normally, when you have a business and you produce something industrial, you have the plant somewhere and it makes a lot of dirt, and poison, and noise, and destroys the environment. You are working there all day, and then in the evening you drive home and you have your pleasant place to stay, with clean air, while poor people have to live with the dirt you are producing. I control my noise, because I am sleeping there, with an open window, every night.\u201d \u2014Dan Piepenbring\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Everywhere in Mai Der Vang\u2019s 2016 collection Afterland<\/em><\/a>, people are on the run, on the defensive, and searching for a new home, burdened by memories of the families and countries they left behind. In her poems, specters follow refugees like heirlooms, as painful and haunting as they are cherished; mourning and memory are the watchwords for dispossession \u201cI go to funerals to meet the ancients.\u2009\/\u2009 go to funerals\u2009\/\u2009 keep.\u201d In her poem \u201cFinal Dispatch from Laos,\u201d she writes about prehistory, loss, and the importance found in remembering it:<\/p>\n

Concerning our hollow breasts,
\nLice factions multiplying in our hair.<\/p>\n

Concerning our unused stomachs
\nMolars waiting to chew, taste buds<\/p>\n

Obsolete. By then, we won\u2019t remember
\nWe\u2019re alive. We\u2019ll be the soil covered<\/p>\n

In mines<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Vang, a young poet of Hmong descent, succeeds in capsulizing her ancestors\u2019 war-torn identity and consequent diaspora. We now know that traumas are genetically heritable\u2014they\u2019re not isolated instances but cascades of generational grief. What can\u2019t be erased can be overwritten, but only if the pen is bold enough. Vang\u2019s certainly is. \u2014Jeffery Gleaves<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nathaniel Mackey\u2019s new novel,\u00a0Late Arcade<\/a><\/em>, gathers its meaning and propulsion freely, akin to the jazz it describes. The book is epistolary, a series of letters addressed to the \u201cAngel of Dust\u201d from a musician, N. In one, describing a bandmate\u2019s solo, N. writes, \u201cThere was a sense of something weary to what he played, infinity\u2019s blue redoubt, a sense of having come to be daunted by endlessness, bask and abide by and celebrate it though he did.\u201d In Mackey\u2019s writing, whether it\u2019s poetic prose or prosodic poetry, there\u2019s a sense of redoubt, endlessness, and celebration. In a letter recounting a visit to Detroit, N. notes a rumpled man on a bus loudly repeating the sentence\u00a0\u201cNone of y\u2019all don\u2019t know nothin\u2019 about this.\u201d Those words hold something of the sense of Late Arcade<\/em>. And Mackey\u2019s musical, willful sentences make the collection move a bit like a burst from Ornette Coleman\u2019s saxophone, with notes and phrases twisting ahead of the narrative until, with the next note, coherence is there, exact and bright. \u2014Noah Dow<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/a>

Bernard Purdie<\/p><\/div>\n

Anyone looking to complement John Colpitts\u2019s excellent Daily<\/em> essay about the joys of drum method books<\/a>\u2014tell me I\u2019m not alone here\u2014can get into YouTube drum tutorial videos. I may or may not have watched them for two straight hours recently. Drummers are not, as a rule, terribly articulate people, and to hear them attempt to relay their talents is weirdly enchanting; imagine a cooking show where the chef speaks entirely in onomatopoeia and you get a rough idea. Of special note is the great Bernard Purdie\u2014dressed here, as a friend noted, like an airport-shuttle-bus driver\u2014giving a stream-of-consciousness narration about the way he discovered his trademark shuffle beat<\/a>: \u201cI was always rockin\u2019, always groovin\u2019 \u2026 nothing is ever precise \u2026 all right, oh, that works \u2026 and from, there, I had this, wait a minute, well, what can I do \u2026 cymbals \u2026 oh, yes \u2026 I got some air in my hi-hat \u2026 whoa! The first time that that happened to me, it was an accident.\u201d \u2014D. P.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In this week\u2019s staff picks: Jeremy Sigler, Mai Der Vang, Nathaniel Mackey, and more.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[28901,28903,28875,28834,28899,28902,269,28900,28898,13847,747,165,2047,19232,53,11578,9619,883,28904,7214],"class_list":["post-111058","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-afterland","tag-bernard-purdie","tag-drums","tag-gerhard-steidl","tag-jeremy-sigler","tag-late-arcade","tag-magazines","tag-mai-der-vang","tag-my-vibe","tag-nathaniel-mackey","tag-novels","tag-poetry","tag-poets","tag-profiles","tag-reading","tag-rebecca-mead","tag-recommended-reading","tag-staff-picks","tag-tutorials","tag-videos"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Jeremy Sigler, Mai Der Vang, Nathaniel Mackey, and More<\/title>\n<meta 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