The New Yorker Dealer’s HandThe New Yorker - Nick PaumgartenWhy are so many people paying so much money for art? Ask David Zwirner. Very important people line up differently from you and me. They don’t want to stand behind anyone else, or to acknowledge wanting
The New Yorker Spot OnThe New Yorker - Peter SchjeldahlThe art of Damien Hirst puts me in mind of a New Yorker cartoon by Peter Steiner, from 1997. One of two vultures on a bare branch argues, “Sure, dead is important. But it has to taste good.” That finicky
The New Yorker Eerily ComposedThe New Yorker - Rebecca MeadNico Muhly, a composer, was bounding through Chinatown, his hands thrust into the pockets of a black jacket, and a too small Icelandic knitted cap pulled halfway down over his ears, heading for the market
The New Yorker Banksy Was HereThe New Yorker - Lauren CollinsThe British graffiti artist Banksy likes pizza, though his preference in toppings cannot be definitively ascertained. He has a gold tooth. He has a silver tooth. He has a silver earring. He’s an anarchist
The New Yorker The MisfitThe New Yorker - Judith ThurmanRei Kawakubo is a Japanese avant-gardist of few words, and she changed women’s fashion. Does it really matter what one wears? I sometimes think my life might have been different if I had chosen the other
The New Yorker Forty-one False StartsThe New Yorker - Janet MalcolmHow does the painter David Salle know when to stop? How does the author know where to start? It’s all a question of process. There are places in New York where the city’s anarchic, unaccommodating spirit,
