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Government officials come to the narrator’s workplace to warn his students of various sects operating contrary to Marxist-Leninist doctrine, the most dangerous of which is the mysterious Picketists, whose secret sign is an extended hand with an insect in its palm. Through Caty, one of his fellow teachers and a Picketist convert, he learns of their nighttime meetings, where they dress in black and march on local hospitals, cemeteries, and morgues, carrying signs reading Down with Aging!, Down with Cancer, No to Eternal Disappearance! It is an ongoing, recurrent, futile protest against the realization that:
you are living in a slaughterhouse, that generations are butchered and swallowed by the earth, that billions are pushed down the throat of hell, that no one, absolutely no one escapes. That not one person you see coming out of the factory gates in a Méliès film is still alive. That absolutely everyone in an eighty-year-old sepia photograph is dead.
jesus
If D loves H, then where does this prickliness — this obstinacy verging on imperviousness — come from? Watching her swing between secluding herself from H — physically, verbally — and clinging to him, I think of the painter Celia Paul, who became Lucien Freud’s lover in 1978 after meeting him at the Slade School of Art, when he was 55 and her teacher and she an 18-year-old student, and who has described young women in such circumstances as facing a “dilemma.” These women have “their own ambition for their art, and their need to be loved and desired. The two ambitions are usually incompatible.” This incompatibility has many causes, among them the duty that arises out of love, which, Paul testifies, makes it difficult to remain “dedicated to my art in an undivided way. I think that generally men find it much easier to be selfish. And you do need to be selfish.” I think of Alice Munro, who admitted to interviewers dispatched by the Paris Review that, while all young artists needed to be somewhat “hard hearted,” “it’s worse if you’re a woman. . . . When my oldest daughter was about two, she’d come to where I was sitting at the typewriter, and I would bat her away with one hand and type with the other.”
[...] Watching her alternate between naked woundedness and vehemence, I was reminded of Louise Glück’s description of the aspiring poet’s debased yearning — her “adamant need which makes it possible to endure every form of failure.” The harshness of that failure is as little veiled by Julie’s face as a flush.
<3
In the Julie Harte movies, the methods Hogg uses to make sense of her mother’s life are first exercised in the film-within-a-film in Part II, where Julie materializes in a hall of mirrors, by a misty river, and has to walk, like Carroll’s Alice, through an undersized door. The film is dreamily disjointed and obvious, filled with symbols of romantic intimidation, of the end of adolescence, of ambition. It has a kinship with the terrible brightness and emphatic, externalized rendering of the ballerina’s inner journey in The Red Shoes. The allusion reaches back both to Anthony telling Julie, in the first film, that he likes Powell and Pressburger (“I think they’re very truthful,” he says, “without necessarily being real”), and to the urgent journey of that film’s protagonist, an aspiring ballerina who is told by her impressive but dour mentor, “You cannot have it both ways. The dancer who relies on the doubtful comforts of human love will never be a great dancer.”
shook
But while Tillman admires aspects of her mother’s personality, she mostly feels the ambivalence of her book’s subtitle. Tillman does not love her mother — she writes candidly that she hasn’t since the age of 6 — but she doesn’t want her to die. She is therefore bound to help her live. “I performed the good daughter,” she writes. “My heart wasn’t in it, my conscience was.” The sangfroid is striking and refreshing, even uncanny at times. (It is also the predominant tone found in Tillman’s fiction, cut with mordant humor.) There is no breathless rendition of the cruelty of disease, or the pain of a loss that drags on over a decade. Sophie’s illness presents as a medical mystery at first, but the chronicle of her health has no narrative momentum. Instead, Tillman seems more curious about the strange condition her mother suffers from, offering diagrams of the working of brain shunts and the contraption’s medical history, signaling an intellectual remove from the circumstances in which she finds herself.
My own experience in that regard is somewhat typical of my generation and class. When I lived in Washington DC, circa 2017, I remember paying an exorbitant sum to live in a pretty nice apartment. I loved that apartment. I also furnished it pretty much exclusively with the most economical IKEA crap I could find. What was I supposed to do? After paying for the apartment itself, I didn’t exactly have a robust couch budget.
Make no mistake, I was in no sense deprived; I was a senior editor making a solid white-collar salary and living (as I said) in an apartment I really liked. But that’s exactly my point: when some of the basic elements of a professional-managerial-class lifestyle start to cost a lot more, members of the PMC are going to adjust by spending less on other elements. Some of them may develop the expertise and commitment to hunt out bargains on quality goods, but many more will default to what the market is most intent on serving them. Thus my IKEA and Amazon Prime furniture, my Uniqlo wardrobe and Warby Parker glasses.
Of course, it’s even more perverse than that. Because if the people with even a little bit of disposable income are spending it on fast fashion and fiberboard furniture, that’s going to further erode the economic basis for doing anything higher quality or more ambitious. The cheapo stuff wins.
This is all precisely ass-backward. Everyone should have housing and health care; these things should be cheap and abundant. If anything should cost more, it should be the optional purchases — the stuff that comes appended with a value-added tax in other countries. When you pay more for a pair of shoes, there’s at least the possibility that those extra dollars reflect the quality of the materials and the wages of the people who stitched them together. The price of my DC apartment mostly reflected the fact that there weren’t enough of them to go around.
it's annoying that the author (Ned Resnikoff) is the director of California YIMBY but this isn't wrong
Ganz’s explanation for “Why Culture Sucks” (as the post is titled) draws on Arendt and the destabilizing, ephemeralizing character of the internet. I think he’s more or less right, but his explanation is incomplete. Our broken phenomenology is inextricably bound up with the broken material basis for cultural production. Yes, the internet as it is shares some of the blame — but that’s the internet as it is, not as it had to be. Background economic conditions helped build that internet.
I don’t want to suggest that materialist explanations are the only explanations that matter. But I do want to argue that a nation’s material and economic circumstances have profound implications for its spiritual, moral, and artistic health. Sickness along one dimension leads to sickness in the other. And reinvigorating the cultural realm is going to require close attentiveness to the economic conditions that make certain types of culture possible.
I was surprised that “Why Is Everything So Ugly?” didn’t actually argue or demonstrate how the visual culture of New York City is symbiotic with “neoliberalism.” The only contention was that the apparent popularity of five-over-one mixed-use apartments coincides with a period of low interest rates (compared to what?). Some attention was given to the environmental and labor problems with fast furniture, fast fashion, and the circular economy, but these were given far fewer words than the piece’s aesthetic commentary.
It would have been helpful to consult a construction expert to understand whether the “Josh” apartment building is actually decaying and whether the old “perfectly serviceable” building it replaced was actually such. I know from other news stories that rainproof paneling is a new technique to protect buildings, and that new apartments of any price point usually have more efficient and healthy HVAC, better insulation, double-pane windows, and none of the asbestos/mold/lead residue that plague so much of our country’s substandard urban housing.
Without any strong attempts to actually prove new visual cultures and built environments are inferior beyond the eyes of the beholder, your criticism is indistinguishable from archconservative attacks on brutalism and modernism. What unites both types of criticism is knee-jerk cynicism.
Time marches on. I’m afraid that derogatory insinuations (“behemoths” and “monoliths” governed by insidious “logics”) and winking callbacks (“all that is solid . . .”) will grow ever poorer as a substitute for deep, patient inquiry.
by Cameron Wilson. good letter
I knew about the union effort before I started (ten of my MFA classmates also worked as Brendas), and although I had no organizing experience, I started attending union Zoom meetings in my first month. My coworkers pushed me to think about the job beyond collecting party anecdotes (my favorite was about a prospective renter who encountered a boa constrictor at a self-guided tour) and consider its context at the intersection of tech and real estate.
The union platform was focused on better pay, benefits, and a path to career advancement, but the organizers also wanted Brenda to be better, for example by requiring the properties Brenda worked with to be transparent about whether they offered wheelchair-accessible units or accepted Section 8 vouchers.
Like ChatGPT and DALL-E, Brenda the chatbot depended on the work of writers and artists. The company hired opera singers and creative-writing adjuncts because these professions tend to draw perfectionists accustomed to precarious work. Then, the software engineers designed and adjusted conversation flows in response to operator feedback. I’ve come to resent phrases like “human fallback” and “chatbot operator” that obscure that we were underpaid bot trainers and technical writers.
Maybe it was naive to think a union could address that. The company announced its intent to outsource Brenda operators to an international staffing company at the very first bargaining session. Still, the union secured a tech stipend for all remote workers at the company, pushed the company to comply with state paid-sick-leave laws, and became a resource for career advice. An increasing number of former BOT union members now hold full-time jobs in the tech industry. A union can’t make the uncanny valley beautiful, but it meant something that we tried.
by Irina Teveleva. sweet! (Brenda, the real estate chatbot described in issue 44 by Laura Preston)
Bourdieu’s Secret Admirer features many great anecdotes, like Derluguian’s discovery that “the headquarters of the Islamic battalion are now located at Rosa Luxemburg Street, 12,” in Grozny. But no one — except grad students — reads a two-decade-old work of historical sociology for the details. What is most impressive and resonant about Derluguian is his methodological approach to the real political, economic, and military complexities and contingencies that “civilizations” are composed of. “Let us be more precise,” he writes,
when trying to identify the historical moments and institutional locations in which human agency might liberate itself from structural constraints to shape the course of history. Evidently, this becomes more likely in moments of historical transition, when structural constraints are overloaded, eroded, battered, and imploding. But it is always a relative situation. Structures rarely fall apart completely, and besides, complete chaos would deny human agency the structural basis for exercising its plans or might undo that agency itself. The two sides of the equation are surely relational. Furthermore, let me add that the impression we gain may depend on our instruments. The greater the magnification, the more important do acts of human will appear.