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 Galchen, 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, May 22, 2026

May 25, 2026 Issue

The piece in this week’s issue that caught my attention is Alex Ross’s “Crisis Mode.” It’s a review of the contemporary-music festival Witten Days for New Chamber Music that takes place each spring in Germany’s Ruhr Valley. Ross says he attended Witten primarily to hear new and recent works by Chaya Czernowin, “a composer I would follow anywhere.” I’d never heard of her. I’d never heard of Witten, either. And I’m not a fan of chamber music. But I am a fan of Ross’s writing. “Crisis Mode” contains some brilliant passages, especially the final two paragraphs in which Ross considers Czernowin’s “No! A Lament for the Innocent.” He writes,

For the most part, “No!” inhabits an abstract soundscape, though an intensely fraught one. Instruments and voices accumulate into immense, sustained, saturating dissonances, with a snare drum cutting through the tear-gas haze. Characteristically, Czernowin’s control of timbre, texture, and structure yields a kind of cataclysmic grandeur. Then, at the very end, she kicks away the frame of art and makes things blunt. Singer and her doppelgänger plead together: “Don’t take my child away / Don’t take my child / Don’t / No.” The final syllables accelerate into a blur, whereupon a ritual of wailing erupts. A composer writes to the limits of her art, and steps into the real. 

I vote that one of the best music descriptions of the year. The last line is inspired – as fine an accolade as any artist could hope to receive. 

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