{"id":123937,"date":"2018-04-06T13:00:08","date_gmt":"2018-04-06T17:00:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=123937"},"modified":"2018-04-06T15:31:55","modified_gmt":"2018-04-06T19:31:55","slug":"staff-picks-bardi-baseball-and-lsd","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/06\/staff-picks-bardi-baseball-and-lsd\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Bardi, Baseball, and LSD"},"content":{"rendered":"

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Though David Hockney\u2019s major retrospectives at the Tate, the Pompidou, and the Met last year cemented his status as one of the greatest artists of our time, the breathtaking innovation on display at his new exhibit, \u201cSomething New in Painting (and Photography) [and even Printing]<\/a>\u201d is evidence that at the spry age of eighty, the man is only just getting started. The show includes eighteen new paintings on hexagonal canvases as well as two new works of computer-manipulated photography that each span a full gallery wall. As Hockney describes it, he once drove through a long tunnel under the Alps. There were no other cars, and the constancy of the road narrowing into the pinprick of light ahead, the tyranny of the one-point perspective, created an unbearable atmosphere of tension. Then the car emerged, and there were the mountains, there was the sky, there was the world, wild and unbound and everywhere around them. One painting in the show describes this with stark simplicity: the narrowing road below, the vista of mountains above. The rest capture the dizzying feeling of awe by playing with \u201creverse perspective,\u201d Hockney’s technique in which the space bends, the edges fold in, and the viewer is granted the gift of peering around impossible corners and hovering over floors that reach upward. The notches on\u00a0either side of each canvas are the inverse of the nose that\u00a0generally interrupts our vision, a breaking open of the way we see. The show will be on view at the Pace Gallery until\u00a0May 12<\/span><\/span>. The colors, the sumptuous aquamarines of a Los Angeles swimming pool, the burnt sienna and\u00a0iridescent yellow of the Grand Canyon, provide the perfect escape from this unrelenting New York winter.\u00a0\u2014<\/strong>Nadja Spiegelman\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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Astrid Stawiarz\/Getty Images North America<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dorothea Lasky\u2019s latest collection,\u00a0Milk<\/em><\/a>, often feels like an optical illusion: simplicity in black-and-white, arranged so that it reveals something disorienting and complex in a way you can\u2019t quite articulate. Each line is vibrant in itself, popping short and quick in sharply skipping staccato, individually crafted and yet still somehow seamlessly woven into the full piece. Lasky demonstrates her virtuosity time and again; like any artist truly confident in their medium, she doesn\u2019t need much material to create a deeply stirring piece. If you\u2019re still not sold on Lasky\u2019s minimalist brilliance, you can take a test drive with the\u00a0Review<\/em>\u2019s Spring issue<\/a>, which features \u201cA Hospital Room<\/a>,\u201d a poem from the collection. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

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Recently, I was sent spinning by Amy Meng\u2019s debut poetry collection,\u00a0Bridled<\/em><\/a>, which follows its narrator through the end of her marriage and reentrance into single life. This is a drama that plays itself out through a series of realizations that together offer more than the sum of their parts. Meng\u2019s insights into identity, which she at one point calls \u201ca subtle knife paring bodies apart,\u201d are extraordinary\u2014one poem is titled \u201cSelf-Portrait as Gordian Knot.\u201d Her narrator changes and grows as she comes to understand the intricacies of herself and her past life. Bridled <\/em>is lovely to read and served as a reminder to question my own understanding of myself as an entity. \u2014Eleanor Pritchett<\/strong><\/p>\n

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Pete Reiser.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

After leaving school, I soon realized that I have almost no natural sense of time. Without its cyclical scaffolding\u2014midterm, final, vacation\u2014months slide by, and weeks stretch like seasons. Horizonless, time sags. Yet the MLB opening day remains a brassy clock chime. Opening day means that winter is over, no matter the weather\u2014the outfield grass is patterned and fantastically green, like a perennial artificial spring. I have always been a baseball fan, and even when I was a child, my love for the sport was nostalgic. My favorite baseball book was and remains Peter Golenbock\u2019s Bums<\/em><\/a>, a magnificently definitive oral history of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Golenbock spoke, it seems, to every living Dodger player, fan, and beer vendor. At the age of twelve, I read it incessantly and rabbinically, pained by an intense affection for a team that transformed losing into a kind of grace. The old Dodgers featured in Bums <\/em>become mythic personalities, embodying distinct qualities like characters out of the\u00a0Iliad<\/em>: Gil Hodges\u2019s gentle-giant reserve, the way he smiled benignly on his roughhousing teammates; Jackie\u2019s laconic intensity; Branch Rickey\u2019s scampish, restless intelligence, which I always associated with my grandfather\u2019s; and Pete Reiser\u2019s tragic aura. When he was twenty-three and filled with puppyish exuberance, Reiser ran face-first into the outfield wall while chasing a ball. He knocked himself out and was never the same. He would play into the next decade, reduced physically but with the same abandon, as if his mind lagged behind his body. In a subsequent encounter with the wall, he was briefly paralyzed and carried off in a stretcher. That is baseball in my mind\u2014childlike, bursting with potential, and then gone. \u2014Matt Levin<\/strong><\/p>\n

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The Adroit Journal<\/em><\/a> is where I go when I want to know what the kids are reading. An online journal founded in 2010 by Peter LaBerge (then a high-school sophomore), Adroit<\/em> is by now well aged. The poetry, though, maintains the kind of freshness and enthusiasm that keeps high-school students up all night reading. This is not to suggest that the voices in Adroit<\/em> are unformed. I didn\u2019t know about Duy Doan, who has two poems in Issue 24, but the Yale Younger Poet Prize committee certainly does. His rhythms are hypnotic, and I danced them all the way to the end. But don\u2019t linger here forever when you could read Ama Codjoe\u2019s \u201cGarden of the Gods\u201d or Derrick Austin\u2019s \u201cSon Jarocho.\u201d\u00a0 The real winner this issue is Jos\u00e9 Olivarez\u2019s \u201cA Mexican Dreams of Heaven<\/a>\u201d; each section is full and funny and a rosary of little perfect prayers. The poem finds humor in religion, race, and disparity. It\u2019s impossible to love one stanza over another, but I found myself returning to the poem\u2019s delicious opening again and again:<\/p>\n

all of the Mexicans sneak into heaven. St. Peter has
\ntheir name on the list, but none of the Mexicans have
\ntrusted a list since Ronald Reagan was President.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

 <\/p>\n

Almost ten years ago now, a four-and-a-half-minute masterpiece called \u201cDock Ellis & the LSD No-No<\/a>\u201d\u00a0was posted on YouTube. Ellis was a seventies baseball player who took acid, thinking he had a day off, then realized that he had lost track of time\u2014\u201cThe next day, which I thought was the next day \u2026 \u201d\u2014and so had to rush to the stadium and pitch while \u201chigh as a Georgia pine.\u201d He ended up pitching a no-hitter, which is when a pitcher throws so well that no batter on the opposing team scores a single run for all nine innings. Ellis has a gift for describing this experience, and the film rises to meet his narration with music from Stax Records and colorful, wiry visuals. Ellis is candid, funny, and nonchalantly soul bearing: \u201cIt was easier to pitch with the LSD because I was so used to medicating myself. That\u2019s how I was dealing with the fear of failure. The fear of losing. The fear of winning.\u201d Although nothing like\u00a0Friday<\/span><\/em>\u00a0Night Lights<\/em>\u00a0in tone or content, it\u2019s similar in that an interest in sports is not required. I know almost nothing about baseball. But I know a hero when I see one. \u2014Brent Katz<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

 <\/p>\n

Those who know me well know that at times I lull myself to sleep by watching standup comedy specials. I find the sound of laughter soothing and the art of making fun of life\u2019s shittiest moments necessary. I\u2019m a bit bashful to admit my sleeping habits to you all here, but I\u2019ve just recently tucked myself in to James Acaster<\/a>\u2019s four-part special,\u00a0Repertoire<\/em><\/a>,\u00a0and found it too good to keep to myself. Acaster\u2014a thirty-three-year-old nimble, lanky, redheaded man from Kettering who dresses in \u201cpaisley, paisley makes the girls go crazily\u201d\u2014is outrageously funny. Inventive, charming, and insanely original, he embraces his inner (and, let\u2019s face it, outer) nerd, obsessing over loopholes and mathematical theorems while pacing the stage. With an observational approach to comedy, Acaster is the Nicholson Baker of standup, chewing over minutia with profound delight and inimitable smarts. Some of his funniest bits consider things like the deplorable hardship of slicing cheese, the preposterousness of oven\u00a0mitts that are \u201cjoined together by that filthy hammock,\u201d and the pleasure of closing cardboard boxes using their own flaps (i.e., without parcel tape). But he warns early on that \u201csome of the jokes are sad.\u201d And they are: we\u2019re told of the woman he loved and lost, of his wavering faith, and more.\u00a0Acaster\u2019s range is impeccable. I\u2019ve rewatched\u00a0Repertoire<\/em>\u00a0night after night after night. \u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

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I don\u2019t care what anyone says: there\u2019s only one song that matters, and lucky for you, it\u2019s streaming everywhere. At midnight last Friday, Cardi B released \u201cBe Careful<\/a>,\u201d the fifth track off her first studio album, Invasion of Privacy<\/em>, which she subsequently released at midnight last night. An anthem for the unfortunate condition of being with a man who\u2019s trash and loving him anyway, \u201cBe Careful\u201d is the tender girl bop to deliver us from the relentless whining of the ubiquitous sad boy (Drake, The Weeknd, Bryson Tiller, Drake). Each verse bleeds into the chorus, the last line incising the soapy first: \u201cYou make me sick \/ the only man, baby, I adore.\u201d Cardi makes sure her listeners know she\u2019s being soft; the song\u2019s titular refrain\u2014\u201cbe careful with me\u201d\u2014is always accompanied by a clarification: \u201cIt\u2019s not a threat, it\u2019s a warning.\u201d The real threat is slipped into the end of the first verse: \u201cKarma for you is gon\u2019 be who you end up with.\u201d Only Cardi could turn intimidation into a plea and speculation into a hex. \u2014Maya Binyam <\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Though David Hockney\u2019s major retrospectives at the Tate, the Pompidou, and the Met last year cemented his status as one of the greatest artists of our time, the breathtaking innovation on display at his new exhibit, \u201cSomething New in Painting (and Photography) [and even Printing]\u201d is evidence that at the spry age of eighty, […]<\/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":[33630,33632,33635,33644,33636,33637,33643,33634,12816,33640,19797,810,33631,33645,33642,33633,4833,33638,33639,33641,6996],"class_list":["post-123937","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-adroit-journal","tag-ama-codjoe","tag-amy-meng","tag-be-careful","tag-bridled","tag-bums","tag-cardi-b","tag-derrick-austin","tag-dock-ellis","tag-dock-ellis-the-lsd-no-no","tag-dodgers","tag-dorothea-lasky","tag-duy-doan","tag-invasion-of-privacy","tag-james-acaster","tag-jose-olivarez","tag-milk","tag-mlb-opening-day","tag-peter-golenbock","tag-repertoire","tag-yale-younger-poets-prize"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Bardi, Baseball, and LSD<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the 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