The first time I met Selahattin Demirtaş, the leader of Turkey’s largest Kurdish political party, known as the H.D.P., he arrived at a restaurant in Istanbul with a single assistant accompanying him. Demirtaş is warm and funny. Among other things, he is an accomplished player of the saz, a string instrument that resembles the oud. At the time—it was 2011—Demirtaş was trying to lead his party and people away from a history of confrontation with the country’s central government. It wasn’t easy. Like other Kurdish leaders in Turkey, Demirtaş had spent time in prison and seen many of his comrades killed. I remember him telling me how, in the nineteen-nineties, when civil unrest in the country’s Kurdish areas was hitting its bloody peak, a particular make of car—a white Renault—had been notorious in Kurdish towns. The cars were used by Turkish intelligence officers, who had developed a terrifying reputation for torturing and executing Kurds. “I’ve been inside the Renaults,’’ Demirtaş told me. “A lot of people I know never made it out of them.”
Last year, the twenty-year-old New Zealand singer-songwriter Lorde contacted the Brooklyn-based painter Sam McKinniss through mutual friends. She came to visit his studio in Bushwick, and then went to see his exhibition “Egyptian Violet,” which featured, among other works, a life-size oil painting, rendered with Symbolist intensity and high-classical technique, of Prince on a motorcycle. Soon after, she asked McKinniss if he would paint a portrait of her for the cover of her forthcoming album, “Melodrama.”
Watching a Fish Gasp for Air in Jonathas de Andrade’s “O Peixe”
Confronting the “Shocking” Virtual-Reality Artwork at the Whitney Biennial
Trump’s N.E.A. Budget Cut Would Put America First, Art Last
Source: Cultures & Arts
Dining at Augustine, the new Keith McNally restaurant in FiDi’s Beekman Hotel, is, unintentionally, a choose-your-own-adventure game. Follow one path, and Augustine resembles the most convivial of Parisian brasseries. Select another, and it is the pinnacle of Wall Street establishments, all slicked hair and steaks. Choose carefully.
It was noon on a freezing Saturday when most of the patrons of Woodwork, a bar in Prospect Heights, arrived for a pint. The early hour might suggest that some were seeking the hair of the dog, but none were, at least not noticeably—they were drinking for a different time zone. In London, it was five o’clock, and Arsenal was about to play Lincoln City in the FA Cup quarter-finals. A woman wearing red Arsenal gear walked in and shouted, “Come on, you Gunners!”—her team’s nickname—and was met with cheers. The day had started even earlier for one Everton enthusiast, who had performed fist pumps over a coffee and a whiskey (in separate cups) as his team beat West Bromwich Albion, 3–0, after a kickoff at ten. Woodwork opens its doors at eight on Saturday mornings, and shows football, of the English variety, on large TVs throughout the day. The bar’s specialty gives it its name: “hitting the woodwork” refers to the football bouncing off a goalpost or the crossbar. A crisp Radeberger Pilsner and a gooey croissant grilled cheese with bacon make a well-rounded breakfast, but may require playing an entire football match to burn off. The croissants are made with a luxurious butter from Vermont—perhaps that’s why an Irishman called it the “best sandwich in Brooklyn.” As a woman in a Bayern Munich shirt explained, the quarter-final game being played wasn’t an entirely even match: Arsenal is one of the best teams in England, while Lincoln City, nicknamed the Imps, is four leagues below them. They had made it to the quarter-finals against all odds—imagine the New York Yankees playing the Brooklyn Cyclones. The Imps put up a good fight, but lost, 5–0. We hope someone bought them a drink. ♦
The musical style so loosely called minimalism—or, in Philip Glass’s preferred term, “music with repetitive structures”—is not an exclusively American product. There have long been foreign fellow-travellers (Louis Andriessen, Arvo Pärt) and deep influences from abroad (the musical cultures of India and West Africa). But during the past half century minimalism has spread across the world like a sonic Pax Americana, replacing twelve-tone composition as classical music’s ruling common tongue. Glass and Steve Reich have both turned eighty in the past year, so it seems like a good time for Carnegie Hall to celebrate the phenomenon. It does so in “Three Generations,” a series of four concerts at Zankel Hall (March 30, April 6, April 19, and April 26) curated by Reich, Carnegie’s current composer chair.
At the end of his career, John Szarkowski, the legendary curator of photography at the Museum of Modern Art, quipped that Arbus, Friedlander, and Winogrand sounded more like the name of a law firm than like the names of the artists he first exhibited in 1967, in his influential show “New Documents.” The exhibition—which is the subject of a new book, “Arbus Friedlander Winogrand: New Documents, 1967,” published by MOMA, to mark the show’s fiftieth anniversary—was modest by today’s standards: small, framed black-and-white pictures by Diane Arbus, Lee Friedlander, and Garry Winogrand, arranged in two galleries on the museum’s ground floor. The works on display possessed a casual, offhand quality; the subject matter was so apparently random and ordinary—a man and a woman heading in opposite directions through a set of glass doors (Friedlander’s “Street Scene, 1963”); a nude middle-aged couple and their daughter sprawling leisurely on the grass beside a country road (Arbus’s “Family Evening, Nudist Camp, Pennsylvania, 1965”)— that the public had a difficult time comprehending what the pictures were trying to say.