{"id":137380,"date":"2019-06-21T14:11:52","date_gmt":"2019-06-21T18:11:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=137380"},"modified":"2019-08-08T11:07:03","modified_gmt":"2019-08-08T15:07:03","slug":"staff-picks-ballet-bob-dylan-and-black-smudges","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/06\/21\/staff-picks-ballet-bob-dylan-and-black-smudges\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Ballet, Bob Dylan, and Black Smudges"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Taffy Brodesser-Akner. Photo: Erik Tanner.<\/p><\/div>\n

The legendary profiler Taffy Brodesser-Akner\u2019s debut novel, Fleishman Is in Trouble<\/em><\/a>, lives up to the hype. In it, the hardworking hepatologist Toby Fleishman explores the world of dating apps after his estranged wife, Rachel, disappears, leaving their two children in his care. But Brodesser-Akner\u2019s story is more complex than it at first seems. Told through the voice of Toby\u2019s longtime friend Libby, a former men\u2019s-magazine writer who\u2019s become a full-time mother, Fleishman Is in Trouble<\/em> is a book that unspools. Within the contours of Toby\u2019s story live those of the women he knows and misunderstands, whose emotional, physical, and mental labor shape and trim the New York that Brodesser-Akner evokes. In a nearly Dickensian style, Brodesser-Akner creates a city epic that delves into the gender divisions of housework, marriage, divorce, and the anxiety of middle age with wit and brutal honesty. At one point, Libby laments her inability to end with anger in her writing, to access fire without internalized shame. But in telling Toby\u2019s tale, Libby, and therefore Taffy, tells \u201call the sides of the story, even the ones that hurt to look at directly.\u201d \u2014Nikki Shaner-Bradford<\/strong> <\/p>\n

\u201cLandmarks<\/a>,\u201d Bahnhof Gallery\u2019s inaugural show, is open through this Sunday in a pop-up space at 55-59 Kent Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The raw, hangar-like room is as much a part of the exhibition as the works by the three highlighted artists. In fact, one of the artists, Alexander Muret, actually appropriated a free-standing piece of scaffolding in the gallery, titling it And Other Tensioned Structures<\/em> (2019), as a statement on the omnipresence of temporary building materials in the city. The show\u2019s curator, Ekaterina Soriano, says Muret sees the scaffold as a predecessor to any future \u201clandmark.\u201d Another of Muret\u2019s works makes use of wide strips of monochromatic vinyl, the sort conventionally reserved for commercial signage. Here he\u2019s wrapped this slick, high-gloss material around a series of seven tall free-standing panels. The artist Bat-Ami Rivlin, a recent graduate of Columbia University\u2019s M.F.A. program, prefers much rougher surfaces. She\u2019s created her own \u201clandmarks\u201d from discarded materials, the most poetic being an untitled 2019 piece that was once presumably an artist\u2019s folding desk, now recast as a work of art unto itself. Splatters of paint and black smudges erupt over its flat surface, and chunks knocked out of it reveal unexpected pockmarks applied in foam and cement. The seven wall sculptures by Greg Allen-M\u00fcller, the most seasoned of the three artists, refract, reflect, and reexamine the cement space around them. In particular, the three perfectly glossy works hanging at the center of the gallery, from his Hyper-Realistic Straight Lines series (2017\u20132018), dazzle with their luminescent candy-wrapped surfaces of metallics and neons. These pieces are all inhuman in their flawlessness. In fact, it seems hard to believe Allen-M\u00fcller\u2019s works were actually constructed by hand. Individually, they call out to us, and like flies to a burning bulb, we cannot help but be seduced, delighting in seeing ourselves reflected. \u2014Charlotte Strick<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

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Whenever I travel, I check out the local independent bookstores and small presses. This has produced fruitful results in the past\u2014I still leaf through the magazines I bought at the Kinokuniya in Tokyo, the zines from do you read me?! in Berlin\u2014and so when I was in Montreal last month, I hightailed it to Drawn and Quarterly<\/a> in Mile End. They have a fantastic selection from Canadian small presses, and, among other titles, I picked up the Halifax poet Sue Goyette\u2019s book Penelope<\/em><\/a>, published by Gaspereau Press. It\u2019s a series of unrhymed couplets told from the perspective of Penelope as she waits for Odysseus and deals with endless suitors and her son. I\u2019ve long been fascinated by the archetypal woman who waits for her lover to return, and with lines like \u201cI wake to a longing more private\u2009\/\u2009than husband. Is this the original vow?\u201d Goyette effectively explores the woman who might be literature\u2019s most famous example of this. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

In her new ballet Jane Eyre<\/em><\/a>, Cathy Marston manages to bring both an admirable feminist stance and an interior literary consciousness to the stage. I saw the show opening night at American Ballet Theatre, with Devon Teuscher as the older Jane and James Whiteside as Edward. The story is told in a deftly rendered flashback, ending with the romantic meeting of Rochester and Jane. But Marston\u2019s choreography feels so contemporary and unconventional for a love story set in the past. She builds her scenes through gestural movements and a simple vocabulary that makes the show feel anything but balletic. Teuscher and Whiteside are mesmerizing together; their startling intimacy and fluidity make the show worth seeing. Marston builds their evolving relationship using choreography at turns grand (a series of counterbalances, acrobatic lifts, and extensive floor work) and understated (mimed gestures and facial expressions). With this modern tone and Bront\u00eb\u2019s innovative narrative, Marston shifts classical ballet\u2019s suggested gender roles, allowing a full range of movement and emotion to her female characters. The ballet is refreshing in its strength and unpredictability. \u2014Camille Jacobson<\/strong><\/p>\n

What did I do last weekend? Oh, thanks for asking. Well, I cleaned the hamster cage, took my daughter to the pool, and listened many times to many hours of Bob Dylan concerts from 1975. I feel like I should apologize, especially to my wife, for glutting the family speakers with wall-to-wall selections from the new Dylan boxed set, The Rolling Thunder Revue: The 1975 Live Recordings<\/em><\/a>\u2014she likes Dylan fine, admires his genius, has her favorite songs (such as \u201cPositively 4th Street\u201d), but prefers Dylan in smaller-than-fourteen-hour chunks. Me, when I get on a jag, I want nothing but Dylan, want to give over my whole imagination to the products of his, and to the amazing musicians\u2014including Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, and a drummer whose name I can\u2019t recall who has just the right little punchy attack on his snare\u2014he took on the road for the Rolling Thunder Revue. There\u2019s enough music here to preoccupy an entire waking day of life, hours you could spend doing all sorts of other things, though I suggest you don\u2019t. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

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