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.

Showing posts with label Louise Bourgeois. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Louise Bourgeois. Show all posts

Thursday, February 5, 2026

February 2, 2026 Issue

There’s a wonderful sentence in Jillian Steinhauer’s “Goings On” note this week that I want to highlight. Reviewing a Louise Bourgeois exhibition at Hauser & Wirth, she writes, “The display, although understated, highlights the rhythms of Bourgeois’s obsessive repetitions, and pleasure comes in the form of details, such as in an untitled piece in which a pair of marble eggs hides in a stack of weathered crates.” 

Pleasure comes in the form of details – that could stand as my own critical motto. Art is in the details; so is pleasure. Steinhauer links the two beautifully.