{"id":125603,"date":"2018-05-18T13:00:29","date_gmt":"2018-05-18T17:00:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=125603"},"modified":"2018-05-18T16:33:31","modified_gmt":"2018-05-18T20:33:31","slug":"staff-picks-garbage-gods-bachelors-and-doinks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/05\/18\/staff-picks-garbage-gods-bachelors-and-doinks\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Garbage Gods, Bachelors, and Doinks"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

\u201cRammellzee: Racing for Thunder,\u201d 2018. Installation view. Photo: Lance Brewer, courtesy of Red Bull Arts New York. \u00a9 The Rammellzee Estate 2018.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I first learned about the artist Rammellzee from Dave Tompkins\u2019s book,\u00a0How to Wreck a Nice Beach<\/em><\/a>, and I saw his\u00a0Letter Racer<\/em>\u00a0sculptures in an exhibition a few years ago (which Tompkins wrote about<\/a> for the\u00a0Daily<\/em>). Rammellzee is easily one of the most unique and most overlooked artists of the past fifty years, but until seeing the survey \u201cRacing for Thunder<\/a>\u201d this week at Red Bull Arts New York, I hadn\u2019t realized the extent of his genius. It\u2019s impossible to sum up the breadth and depth of his Ikonoklast Panzerism (in which language is armored for protection) and the prophetic Gothic Futurist project in a few sentences\u2014overlapping modes of music, graffiti, collage, performance, sculpture, writing. He worked according to faith and intellect and intense creativity. Included in this show are his Garbage Gods, intricate costumes constructed from material found on the streets of New York. (His loft-studio, the Battle Station, was on Laight Street in Tribeca.) Each figure is composed of and encrusted with myriad small objects\u2014belt buckles, calculators, radio antennae, jewelry, lots of random plastic stuff\u2014but the individual items disappear into the form of the structure; the whole is the sum of its parts. In these costumes, the fluidity of Rammellzee\u2019s vision is most apparent: in a bit of discarded nothingness, he saw not just a larger creation but a world, a system, and a future. \u2014Nicole Rudick\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

It is difficult to pinpoint exactly what Sayaka Murata is doing in her award-winning novel\u00a0Convenience Store Woman<\/em><\/a>, which will be published in English next month. The plot (which really reads more like a long short story or a novella) follows a convenience-store employee nearing middle age, a woman who, since childhood, has been unable to perceive or adhere to social cues or norms. In her job as a clerk, however, she happily and successfully follows the unspoken guidelines and regulations of social transactions. The novel feels, at turns, like a commentary on consumer culture and the strange comfort it provides, a feminist critique of the societal expectations placed on single women as they age, and an odd experiment with personality, forcing us to ask ourselves how much we draw on the outside world to shape what we believe to be our own unique identity. Amid these shifting perspectives, what remains constant is the witty, dark humor and charm of the well-intentioned narrator, who wants nothing more than the autonomy to simply do her job.\u00a0\u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

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Photo: Nicole Nodland<\/p><\/div>\n

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On a slow Saturday last week, I tore through Yrsa Daley-Ward\u2019s poetic memoir,\u00a0The Terrible<\/em><\/a>, in a matter of hours. I opened the book, read the words \u201cMy little brother and I saw a unicorn in the garden in the late nineties.\u00a0I\u2019m telling you,\u201d and then four hours had passed, the sun had descended, and I had lived through a childhood in Northern England, a precarious adolescence, and a dangerous young adulthood. This is a complicated story, comprising dozens of characters and taking place over decades, and I wasn\u2019t familiar with any of it, except to the extent that being black in America translates to being black in England. Somehow, though, I was able to glean the complexities of Daley-Ward\u2019s life as lucidly as if it were my own. Untethered, the memoir slips in and out of tenses, perspectives, and styles, as the narrator sees fit. The Terrible<\/em>, which comes out in less than a month, is an impressive take on the memoir that prioritizes emotion over event. \u2014Eleanor Pritchett<\/strong><\/p>\n

My girlfriend is writing about\u00a0The Fourth Estate<\/a><\/em>,\u00a0<\/em>a new documentary series about the New York Times<\/em>\u2019s\u00a0coverage of the Trump administration, and so in a plus-one capacity, I recently got to watch the first three episodes. (It premieres on Showtime on May 27.)\u00a0<\/em>If you compulsively check\u00a0the Times<\/em>\u2019s\u00a0<\/em>website, and did so throughout 2017, it\u2019s fascinating to see,\u00a0Rashomon<\/em>-style, what was happening on their side of the screen: the staff meetings, the moments where they huddle around a single computer monitor, the dopamine fireworks whenever the Washington bureau chief, Elisabeth Bumiller, clicks the \u201cpublish\u201d button. In one scene, Maggie Haberman takes a call from Trump, and you hear his voice from her earpiece. You hear how she laughs at his lame jokes and lets him feel that he is charming, and gets him to talk. (He goes off the record at one point. Those lines are tantalizingly bleeped.) When, in a different mode, Trump attacks the media to their faces at a rally in Phoenix, and his followers hurl threats, the camera is right there on the profoundly outnumbered\u00a0Times<\/em>\u00a0reporter Mark Landler. You also glimpse these journalists\u2019 personal lives, or lack thereof: Matthew Rosenberg makes a quick breakfast for his kids and spills his raspberries on the kitchen floor; Michael S. Schmidt talks about how he doesn\u2019t even keep food in his apartment\u2014he\u2019s a bachelor, and all he does is work. Like any docuseries with reoccurring characters, the staff starts to feel like \u201cthe gang,\u201d like a reality-show cast, and this is part of what makes\u00a0The Fourth Estate\u00a0<\/em>fun and not just a stressful reliving of Trump\u2019s America in 2017, set\u00a0<\/strong>to the music of Trent Reznor. In the words of Haberman, who answers her cell phone right after posting the story about Priebus\u2019s firing, \u201cAre you just calling to say, Holy shit, can you believe this isn\u2019t just an episode of\u00a0House of Cards<\/em>?\u201d \u2014Brent Katz<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo: Hickey-Robertson<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The late-afternoon light is thick on the ground in Houston. The long shadows of oak-tree branches feel unconnected to the light, more like paintings on the grass. Amid this gold-and-green landscape sits the Rothko Chapel<\/a>, a squat octagonal building. Inside is one room of eight white walls hung with fourteen monumental monochrome Mark Rothko canvases, each seeming at first a solid pane of black. The only light is that which filters through a skylight fitted with a dark parasol. The outside light is abundant, but here, light is parceled out reluctantly, like a precious and guarded commodity. The Rothko Chapel is a space demanding time, for as your eyes adjust and you become attuned to the slightest shift in the light outside, the featureless black dissolves to reveal other colors glowing beneath\u2014a purple spackle, a blue streak, a flash of red, a yellow haze between purple. It is like being inside a great closed eye. One does not see the paintings so much as one engages with the phenomenon of seeing. It reminded me of a tour I once took in a submarine. Before we left, the guide gave us a palette of color swatches and instructed us to watch them while we descended. As we did, and the light filtering down grew weaker, the colors drained and began to converge into a single grayish shade. Yet I could still see, or think I saw, a small suggestion of blue in the blue, red in the red, and I found them more beautiful in their spaciousness, blocks of color far from any light, shining. \u2014Matt Levin<\/strong><\/p>\n

The camera is too close. Standing on a porch somewhere\u2014it could be anywhere\u2014the man sucks a long drag off a cigarette, dips the lens so we can see the smoke, and spits. \u201cIt\u2019s fuckin\u2019 nice out,\u201d he says, and though you can\u2019t see what he sees, you believe him. This is\u00a0Young King Dave<\/a>, a neck-bearded proponent of weed, a wannabe rapper, and the creator of some of the funniest things I saw on the Internet last year. With the oddball charisma of so many dead-end characters I met in high school, he coined his own vernacular (the comically large blunts he smokes are \u201cdoinks<\/a>\u201d; a stand of corn on the side of a rural highway is \u201cin Amish<\/a>\u201d) and stole my heart. And like these same dead-end characters getting picked off one by one back in my hometown\u2014by suicide, opioids, car crashes, other circumstances\u2014Young King Dave is dead. He was nineteen. And though I saw him only in these twenty-second slices, blasted out across social media, I feel like I knew him. How do I mourn this loss? How often do we consider the human on the other side of a meme? Where is\u00a0Lil Meatball<\/a>? The screaming chasm of the Internet offers few pleasures. Young King Dave was one of them. Rest in peace.\u00a0\u2014Brian Ransom<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  I first learned about the artist Rammellzee from Dave Tompkins\u2019s book,\u00a0How to Wreck a Nice Beach, and I saw his\u00a0Letter Racer\u00a0sculptures in an exhibition a few years ago (which Tompkins wrote about for the\u00a0Daily). Rammellzee is easily one of the most unique and most overlooked artists of the past fifty years, but until seeing […]<\/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":[34176,9089,34173,1494,34174,7164,34175,29548,34177,34179,34178,34180,31178],"class_list":["post-125603","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-convenience-store-woman","tag-dave-tompkins","tag-how-to-wreck-a-nice-beach","tag-new-york-times","tag-racing-for-thunger","tag-rammellzee","tag-red-bull-arts","tag-rothko-chapel","tag-sayaka-murata","tag-the-fourth-estate","tag-the-terrible","tag-young-king-dave","tag-yrsa-daley-ward"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Garbage Gods, Bachelors, and Doinks by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of 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