{"id":138055,"date":"2019-07-19T13:00:46","date_gmt":"2019-07-19T17:00:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=138055"},"modified":"2019-07-19T11:48:16","modified_gmt":"2019-07-19T15:48:16","slug":"staff-picks-mothers-moons-and-marc-maron","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/07\/19\/staff-picks-mothers-moons-and-marc-maron\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Mothers, Moons, and Marc Maron"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Oliver Beer. Photo: Adam Reich. \u00a9 the artist.<\/p><\/div>\n

Every object, the British artist Oliver Beer said as he introduced his Vessel Orchestra last Friday at the Met Breuer, makes a sound, different for each object but always the same sound, constant and unchanging: the thing sings forever at an unchanging pitch. In this installation<\/a>, thirty-two objects drawn from around the museum, including a Mir\u00f3 vase from 1942 and a five-thousand-year-old ceramic jar from Iran, have been hooked up to tiny microphones and speakers. I don\u2019t at all understand how this works, but when a certain note is played, you can hear the object whose note it is respond. The Vessel Orchestra will be on view at the Met Breuer until August 11, and every Friday, a different group of musicians and writers will, essentially, \u201cplay\u201d it. The artists at the performance I attended were the band Mashrou\u2019 Leila and the novelist Rabih Alameddine, who read a series of texts about robing and disrobing, veiling and unveiling. The experience was mysterious to me, the songs being sung mostly in a language I don\u2019t understand, the vases and jars resonating via a process as inexplicable to me as the one that creates consciousness. But there was resonance, harmony, and it made me think that perhaps those are the things we should be seeking\u2014trying not to change ourselves in whatever ways are fashionable but to tune ourselves, to find our own frequencies; trying not to make ourselves heard but just to find resonance with whatever out there is tuned the same. \u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong> <\/p>\n

A few years back, I returned from a trip home to find my mother had slipped Sharon Olds\u2019s poem \u201cFirst Thanksgiving<\/a>\u201d into a book I\u2019d loaned her. It was a wonderful gift for a mother to give a daughter, but more than that, it helped me appreciate anew what it might mean to say goodbye to a child or to someone you have loved for so long. I thought of this poem Sunday morning in my favorite coffee shop as I caught up with an old friend. A playgroup was assembling beside us, and every few minutes, our conversation was interrupted by another toddler ambling over with wide eyes or a smile. How eager and curious and tender they were! A six-week-old nestled against his mother\u2019s chest. Later that day, I sat in the fluorescent hum of the Genius Bar, anxiously awaiting a diagnosis for my computer-in-crisis. There, I read another stirring testament to friendship and the joys and sorrows of motherhood: Jill Lepore\u2019s latest piece<\/a> in The New Yorker<\/em>, which honors the shared anniversary of her first son\u2019s birth and the passing of her friend Jane. While I tended to my laptop, Lepore perused Jane\u2019s, pondering the \u201clingering of loss\u201d that accompanied her experience of motherhood. It\u2019s a stunning piece. We should all be so lucky to be remembered with such kindness, honesty, and specificity. \u2014Noor Qasim<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Nina Leger. Photo: \u00a9 Francesca Mantovani.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Not much is known about Jeanne, the central character of Nina Leger\u2019s forthcoming The Collection<\/em><\/a>, beyond her name and her sexual appetite. She could be employed in any number of creative-class professions; she could have any number of incentives to take men back to hotel rooms for sex as frequently as she does. None of this matters, though, which is what makes Leger\u2019s second novel\u2014translated from the French by Laura Francis and out next month from Granta Books\u2014so smart: by refusing to couch her heroine\u2019s sexual desires in any number of psychological motivations, Leger performs the rare trick of presenting female sexual pleasure without shame, morality, or judgment. In one particularly effective passage, Jeanne reads through a series of erotic scenes in works of fiction and finds each and every one of them lacking because of its need to create a reason behind the heroine\u2019s sexual desires. There\u2019s something refreshing, too, in reading a character about whom the reader knows so little; rather than preserving Jeanne in amber, freezing her with one too many unnecessary and stultifying details in the name of realism, Leger creates a character that is as mysterious\u2014and, in that mystery, as true to life\u2014as anyone you might pass on the street. \u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Lynn Shelton\u2019s new film Sword of Trust<\/em><\/a> stars the comedian and podcaster Marc Maron as Mel, a pawnshop owner in Birmingham, Alabama. Along with his sidekick, Nathaniel, and two customers named Cynthia and Mary, Mel devises a plan to swindle Civil War truthers into buying a sword he\u2019s passed off as proof the Confederacy won the war. Throughout the film, Shelton satirizes the ridiculousness, and darkness, of conspiracy theorists while focusing on the core characters, their dreams and disappointments. Shelton, one of the progenitors of the mumblecore film movement, often relies on her actors\u2019 improvisations to support the larger story she\u2019s devised. The mechanism is the most interesting part of the movie, cleverly used to introduce complex backstories and twists that are both comedic and moving. The climax of the film occurs in the back of a truck, the four characters on their way to make the deal with some truthers. This understated, poignant scene is entirely improvised, with guidance from Shelton, and miraculously ties the film together through the characters\u2019 shared loss, thwarted hopes, and emotional crises. Maron\u2019s monologue is one of the best performances of the year, and the film is well worth seeing. \u2014Camille Jacobson<\/strong><\/p>\n

This week, amid the surfeit of articles published to commemorate (and, in a few cases, cast doubt on<\/a>) the fiftieth anniversary of the 1969 moon landing, one stood out for striking a more somber note. Last Friday, the Washington Post<\/em> published a document<\/a> written by White House speechwriter William Safire in the days leading up to the Apollo 11 launch\u2014a draft of a speech that President Nixon was to deliver in the event that the ship never returned. The memo, titled simply \u201cIn Event of Moon Disaster,\u201d was part of a contingency plan drafted by NASA<\/small> and the White House in preparation for the possibility that something might go awry, leaving Aldrin and Armstrong stranded on the moon. The statement is short\u2014just over two hundred words\u2014and deeply poignant. It opens: \u201cFate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.\u201d In a document composed almost entirely of devastating lines, one stands out as particularly haunting. It appears not in the speech itself but as a kind of instructional postscript: \u201cThe President should then telephone each of the widows-to-be.\u201d This \u201cto-be\u201d reveals a chilling detail of the document: namely, its expectant syntax, reflecting that the astronauts would still have been alive when the speech was delivered. The whole thing is written in the future tense\u2014\u201cthey will be mourned,\u201d \u201cthey will be remembered\u201d\u2014yet the tone is reminiscent, elegiac, evoking a kind of anticipatory grief. After all, this was all part of a plan, one that was larger in scope than the life of any single individual. Once the statement had been issued, NASA<\/small> would end all communications with Aldrin and Armstrong. They were to be left for dead and honored in a fashion akin to burial at sea, with a state-appointed clergyman commending their souls to \u201cthe deepest of the deep.\u201d We know now, thankfully, that none of this came to pass. Armstrong and Aldrin went farther into space than any humans before them\u2014roughly 239,000 miles, to the deepest of the deep\u2014and returned to tell the tale. But even so, Safire\u2019s speech is a worthwhile and humbling read, a reminder of how far we were willing to go to discover the mysteries of the unknown, and how close two men came to being lost in it. \u2014Cornelia Channing<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The surface of the moon. Photo courtesy of NASA<\/small>.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads Nina Leger\u2019s second novel, reflects on the moon landing, and hears a Mir\u00f3 vase sing.<\/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":[],"class_list":["post-138055","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Mothers, Moons, and Marc Maron by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads Nina Leger\u2019s second novel, reflects on the moon landing, and hears a Mir\u00f3 vase sing.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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