{"id":140227,"date":"2019-10-18T13:37:26","date_gmt":"2019-10-18T17:37:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=140227"},"modified":"2019-10-21T10:43:16","modified_gmt":"2019-10-21T14:43:16","slug":"staff-picks-freedom-frailty-and-four-damn-cellos","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/10\/18\/staff-picks-freedom-frailty-and-four-damn-cellos\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Freedom, Frailty, and Four Damn Cellos"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Aria Aber. Photo: Nadine Aber.<\/p><\/div>\n

Jack Gilbert\u2019s masterful poem \u201cThe Forgotten Dialect of the Heart\u201d ends with lines that remind us of the very limits of language: \u201cWhat we feel most has\u2009\/\u2009no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.\u201d Hard Damage<\/em><\/a>, Aria Aber\u2019s debut poetry collection, pushes against those same limits, asking a great deal from the reader\u2014emotionally as well as intellectually\u2014while also allowing for comprehension and, ultimately, meaning. Aber\u2019s work here is often about the very notion of what language can do when faced with a shifting geography that requires us to describe both the self and the world: Berlin, Afghanistan, Wisconsin, the gods of Olympus, the guitarist John Frusciante, the German language, the mujahideen, and, during a particularly striking section, Rainer Maria Rilke. Aber is not afraid of erudition or the hard labor of crafting poems that peel open in layers; at times, reading her work reminded me of poets who have worked across similarly broad linguistic topographies: Carolyn Forch\u00e9, Frank Bidart, Paul Celan, Sylvia Plath, Wallace Stevens, and others. But Aber\u2019s work here is hardly derivative of those masters. She is her own poet, her own voice, and her debut is my favorite volume of poetry this year. \u2014Christian Kiefer\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I always feel terrifically small in SoHo\u2014all those fashionable people and fancy stores and imperious cast-iron buildings. Last night I followed the long and lonely streets to the Drawing Center<\/a> to see \u201cThe Pencil Is a Key: Drawings by Incarcerated Artists<\/a>\u201d and to focus, I hoped, on something larger than myself. The show highlights the drawings of incarcerated artists around the world and throughout history\u2014from Gustave Courbet, imprisoned during the Paris Commune, to Valentino Dixon, who was released from Attica in 2018\u2014with a particular emphasis on how these artists \u201cused the pencil to envision their freedom<\/a>.\u201d While this freedom takes many forms, I was particularly struck by pieces that imagined it architecturally: Herman Wallace\u2019s drawings of his dream home, Henry Fukuhara\u2019s rendering of a vast and colorful hydroelectric dam, and a hand-lettered and hand-illustrated manuscript titled \u201cYemen Milk & Honey Farms Limited Feasibility Report.\u201d Drafted by Mansoor Adayfi, Abdualmalik Abud, Saeed, and Khalid Qasim\u2014then detainees at Guant\u00e1namo\u2014the manuscript envisions a sheep-farming business, including detailed diagrams for facilities that could house up to five thousand animals. Their vision is thorough and impressive. I could only hope to imagine, if subjected to such severe confinement, an environment so expansive and full of purpose. \u2014Noor Qasim<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Ron Carter performing at the 2007 European Jazz Expo. Photo: Laura Manchinu (CC BY 2.0 (https:\/\/creativecommons.org\/licenses\/by\/2.0)). Via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

This month, I did something I never do: go to Times Square twice in a week. My usual commute, social calendar, and low-grade agoraphobia have me spending more time on the edges of this island, but I braved the slow-walking crowds and the glaring billboards to make my way to Birdland<\/a>. You see, October is Ron Carter month<\/a> at the iconic jazz club, and Carter, a bassist with something like two thousand albums in his discography (which dates back to the early sixties and his time with the Miles Davis Quintet) is a living legend. My first visit, a Saturday night, was for the last of a string of performances by Carter\u2019s big band. I\u2019ll step into traffic for a good saxophone soli, and Carter\u2019s group had great ensemble work along with standout soloists. In this configuration and others, Carter has an unparalleled ability to be both the star of the show and a generous collaborator, providing the backbone\u2014and backbeat\u2014for the ensemble. I returned a second time for the Golden Striker trio, with the pianist Daniel Vega and the incomparable guitarist Russell Malone: brilliant again. For ninety minutes, I forgot drums exist (sorry, drummer friends). Carter\u2019s four-week residency continues this weekend with a quartet featuring the saxophonist Jimmy Greene; next week, he\u2019ll round out the month with his nonet, which includes, inexplicably and excitingly, four damn cellos. Run, don\u2019t walk. Or at least walk as quickly as the Times Square crowds will allow\u2014Ron Carter is worth it. \u2014Emily Nemens<\/strong><\/p>\n

Binaries snag at Saul Adler, the protagonist of Deborah Levy\u2019s latest novel, The Man Who Saw Everything<\/em><\/a>: East versus West, male versus female, bourgeois versus proletarian. Saul, a twenty-eight-year-old historian on his way to study male tyranny in 1988 East Berlin at the beginning of the novel, is a peculiar, slippery character himself, a male muse who chafes under the gaze of his photographer girlfriend; he falls in love with his translator, Walter, and inadvertently betrays him to the Stasi. These may sound like spoilers, but they\u2019re not, not really; halfway through the novel, time folds in on itself, and 1988 East Berlin suddenly becomes 2016 London, post\u2013Brexit vote. I\u2019ve very much enjoyed many of Levy\u2019s previous works, both fiction and nonfiction, but there\u2019s something about The Man Who Saw Everything<\/em> that captures the enormity of history, the frailty of time, and the question of Europe in a way that\u2019s hard to describe. The word specter<\/em> comes up frequently in the novel, as in the specter invoked by Marx and Engels and also Saul himself, but Levy shows us that for even those of us born after the Wall fell\u2014and I am a member of that generation\u2014the specter of history, of war, of borders and their ensuing binaries, still haunts us. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

This past weekend I saw the U.S. premiere of Ebs Burnough\u2019s documentary The Capote Tapes<\/em><\/a> at the Hamptons International Film Festival. The film, which explores the life and lore of the late writer, is constructed around a series of reel-to-reel recordings made by George Plimpton in the nineties\u2014interviews that were eventually compiled into the brilliantly subtitled oral history Truman Capote: In Which Various Friends, Enemies, Acquaintances and Detractors Recall His Turbulent Career<\/em><\/a>. Those interviewed include Norman Mailer, Dick Cavett, Andr\u00e9 Leon Talley, and Capote\u2019s close friend Dotson Rader, who offers a peerless impersonation of Capote\u2019s toddlerish voice and states, with complete humorlessness, that Truman never believed anyone loved him. Particularly memorable for me is the footage of Capote wandering the desolate back roads of Kansas, hands clasped politely behind his back, while reporting In Cold Blood<\/em>. There is something mesmerizing and lonely about his small frame against that vast landscape. Much of the film confirmed dimensions of Capote\u2019s identity I was already familiar with\u2014the literary legend, the eccentric, the raconteur\u2014but these clips revealed a different, more private side of his character: the journalist, the addict, the self-isolating storyteller. While the film does discuss Capote\u2019s celebrity and suicide, it\u2019s not salacious. There are no big twists. Rather, like a dinner party where a group of (very eloquent) people discuss an old friend, The Capote Tapes<\/em> offers a collaborative portrait of the famed artist\u2014one cobbled together from the voices of those who knew and loved him. \u2014Cornelia Channing<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Truman Capote. Photo: Roger Higgins for the New York World-Telegram and Sun<\/em>. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 slips down the streets of SoHo, attends a film festival, and reads Deborah Levy\u2019s latest.<\/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-140227","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Freedom, Frailty, and Four Damn Cellos by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 slips down the streets of SoHo, attends a film festival, and reads Deborah Levy\u2019s latest.\" \/>\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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