Song of a Reformed Headhunter

On Sunday, GH and I went to the MoMA. He wanted to see the exhibition on Japanese architecture: "A Japanese Constellation: Toyo Ito, SANAA, and Beyond." I find architectural shows very unsatisfying. The models, plans, drawings, and projections cannot convey the sense of space that must be experienced on-site. I lack 3-D spatial imagination, I suppose. The only architectural show I really enjoyed was the one on Corbusier. I really enjoyed the show on Degas's monotypes. Beautiful, striking surfaces achieved: the shimmer of water, the lushness of hair, the hatchings of curtains. The bathing nudes were spectacular. When two impressions are made, one directly after another, they are called cognates. Good name, that. Degas would make two impressions, instead of the usual one, and color the second one with pastel. He also experimented with dark field and light field printing. In the first, black ink was applied to the whole metal plate, and then removed, with a roll of sponge,...

Top Ten Books of 2013 10. Magritte at the MoMA, The Mystery of the Ordinary, 1926–1938 9. From the open-air market in Nice, fresh figs, goat cheese, baguette 8. The young astrophysicist in the hotel shower 7. The Seven Samurai 6. Splash Bar closing. Any reference to dancing in my writing is in part a reference to the dance floor at Splash. 5. Your excitement inside Cité radieuse in Marseilles 4. After reading One Hundred Years of Solitude , I saw an old man walk by with his grandson 3. The Talipot Palm flowering for the first and last time before it dies 2. Massage oil  1. The garage mechanic in Tara Bergin’s This Is Yarrow  and his black hands—“everywhere they touch will be evidence of him.”

The Murderous Sky after Magritte  The sky has been raining dead birds all morning. They strike the ground so hard that they bounce up to the waist and disappear into the blue air, not without leaving a blot of blood, a bull’s eye. I try to avoid stepping on the red shots but there are so many that it’s impossible not to cross a firing line. Other people don’t seem to care, not the schoolgirl thumbing her phone, not the short pizza delivery man hurtling by on his bike. In the distance, however, a woman is steering her black stroller as if she is avoiding puddles. A young man on a bench looks up from his book.

Who Wants To Know The Answer? I’m reading John Berger on Magritte. On the radio, a young man has a question about his Toyota Corolla Hatchback. You’re from Eugene? the auto expert asks. Eugene, Oregon. There’s a liquid leaking from his dashboard. Is it greasy? the auto expert asks. Yes, it’s greasy. A phone shrills in the studio. Why isn’t anyone attending to it? That’s a problem, the auto expert says, when you’re out on a date. Yeah, it’s a real problem. It was leaking all over the floor, all over my good shoes. I tried soaking it up with newspapers, but it was hopeless, it was leaking so much. The phone shrills and shrills. Oh, it’s not in the studio but nagging behind me, in the kitchen of the house where I’m staying, a wallphone hooked up above the microwave. Should I answer it? It’s not for me. It’s an unexpected call. Nobody’s home. Would John Berger answer it? The phone shrills on. Finally, the auto ...