Introduction

What is The New Yorker? I know it’s a great magazine and that it’s a tremendous source of pleasure in my life. But what exactly is it? This blog’s premise is that The New Yorker is a work of art, as worthy of comment and analysis as, say, Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Each week I review one or more aspects of the magazine’s latest issue. I suppose it’s possible to describe and analyze an entire issue, but I prefer to keep my reviews brief, and so I usually focus on just one or two pieces, to explore in each the signature style of its author. A piece by Nick Paumgarten is not like a piece by Jill Lepore, and neither is like a piece by Ian Frazier. One could not mistake Collins for Seabrook, or Bilger for Goldfield, or Mogelson for Kolbert. Each has found a style, and it is that style that I respond to as I read, and want to understand and describe.

Friday, January 5, 2018

January 1, 2018 Issue


Peter Schjeldahl’s “Points of View,” in this week’s issue, has a great opening line:

I both like and dislike “Thérèse Dreaming” (1938), the Balthus painting that thousands of people have petitioned the Metropolitan Museum to remove from view because it brazens the artist’s letch for pubescent girls—which he always haughtily denied, but come on!

That vehement “but come on!” made me smile. Schjeldahl has long insisted on “Thérèse” ’s erotic charge. In his “Balthus” (The Hydrogen Jukebox, 1991), he writes,

Seduced rather than seductive, few of them [Balthus’s paintings of young girls] would appeal to Lolita’s Humbert Humbert as precociously sluttish nymphets – one exception being the Thérèse of 1938, a hard case if ever there was one.

And in his “In the Head” (The New Yorker, October 2013), he says,

Then, in 1936, Balthus met Thérèse Blanchard, the eleven-year-old daughter of a restaurant worker. During the next three years, he made ten paintings of her, which are his finest work. They capture moods of adolescent girlhood—dreaming, restless, sulky—as only adolescent girls may authoritatively understand. (I’ve checked with veterans of the condition.) In two of the best, a short-skirted Thérèse raises her leg, exposing tight underpants. We needn’t reflect on the fact that an adult man directed the poses, any more than we must wonder about the empathic author of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” But there it is. Balthus claimed a quality of sacredness for his “angels,” as he termed his models. That comes through. Yet, looking at the paintings, I kept thinking of a line by Oscar Wilde: “A bad man is the sort of man who admires innocence.”

In his latest piece, Schjeldahl argues for the Mets continued display of “Thérèse” on the basis of “the work’s aesthetic excellence and historical importance.” I agree. But I find the case he makes for the painting in his first piece more compelling. In that essay (“Balthus”), he says, “It is precisely in his perversity that Balthus achieves artistic authenticity, and perhaps only there that he does.”

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