In 1975, Nicholas Nixon lined up the Brown sisters—Mimi (age fifteen), Laurie (twenty-one), Heather (twenty-three), and Bebe (twenty-five), who is Nixon’s wife—and photographed them with an 8x10 view camera. He repeated the process every year for four decades, with the sisters always posed in the
FOR AUTHORS—indeed, for all of us—the family is an institution that both nurtures and, in the words of Philip Larkin, fucks you up. Given the reach and influence of family life, it’s tempting to conclude that our families will always determine who we are, no matter how we try to imagine things
FORTY YEARS AGO, when the second wave of the American feminist movement was young, and its signature phrase, “the personal is political,” was electrifying, many of the movement’s radicals (this reviewer among them) went to war with the age-old conviction that marriage and motherhood were the deepest
IT SEEMS, these days, that every professional thinker tackles the fraught subject of gentrification by claiming that the whole phenomenon may not actually exist. A January Slate headline declared that gentrification was a “myth.” The story, by John Buntin, walked this claim back rather quickly,
IN HER ESSAY for Segregation Story, the companion publication to the current exhibition of the same name at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, the journalist Charlayne Hunter-Gault described a recent encounter with some Brooklyn middle school students. When she mentioned the segregated water fountains
Last December, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence (SSCI) released its long-delayed report on CIA torture, to much media attention; that coverage segued back into long-running debates on torture’s utilitarian justification. Still, many heavy silences from all sides weigh on The Senate Intelligence Committee Report on Torture.
The Professor in the Cage is a straightforward work of popular science bookended by what Jonathan Gottschall himself calls a “memoir stunt”: One day in his late thirties, Gottschall, a “cultured English professor,” decided to join the mixed-martial-arts gym that had opened across the street from his campus office, with the ultimate goal of engaging in at least one professional fight.
HAS THERE EVER BEEN A FIGURE whose name so signals in equal parts cottage industry and relative neglect, at least in the English-speaking world, as Bertolt Brecht? Nearly six decades after his death, he continues to cast a long shadow across the history of the theater, but many audiences (and readers)
SHANE HARRIS, CALL YOUR PUBLICIST. Harris is a persistent and incisive chronicler of the American security state, but there’s a revealing tension between the story he tells and the story his publisher has chosen to market. On its back cover, a review copy of Harris’s new book about the “Military-Internet
Anonymous’s ethos of “motherfuckery” (a commitment to mayhem) coexists alongside what some less politically engaged Anons derisively call “moral faggotry” (a devotion to social and political causes). As a result, Anonymous is a remarkable, if confounding, witches’ brew, into which a wide variety of human characteristics have been poured.