On Magazines
In New York, I bought a copy of The Paris Review from 1970. I pick up the Paris Review from my local bookshop every so often because I am one of a dying breed - so they say - who reads fiction. Contrary to public opinion, there is such a thing as good new fiction, even great new fiction, and the Paris Review presents the best of it in one place, plus poems and prose for good measure. I found the 1970 copy - issue 49, to be exact - at a boutique in NoHo that sells a curated selection of books, magazines and trinkets in addition to their well-curated selection of fashion-forward and timeless clothing. Issue 49 features work from many writers remembered, like James Salter and Rene Ricard. Many other contributors faded into obscurity. Half the fun of reading the Paris Review is in admiring its cover, done up by prominent artists of the time. Issue 49's cover was designed by Marc Devade, a French artist whose sparse color-based paintings channeled the austerity of the late 1960s and early 1970s.
On Sundays when I’m out to coffee, I like to browse the New York Times’ T magazine. “Read” is not the correct verb here, because T puts visuals first, words second. T is not the cutting edge, but introduces things - clothes, art, furniture - to mass culture. That doesn’t make me like it any less, because these colorful visuals always inspire a thought or some sort of further research on or obsession with something or someone that I hadn’t heard about before, or had wanted to know more about but hadn’t consciously made the time to. With a cappuccino and a pastry, it’s a perfect way to wind down after conquering the Times’ massive Sunday edition.
Before bed, I’ve been reading Purple Fashion. Despite the fact that Purple is both intellectual and provocative, I find it has no effect on my ability to fall asleep, even though the content stimulates my mind. Perhaps it gives me more vivid dreams, but I like reading the dense thoughts of French philosophers or the salty interviews of legendary photographers before departing for the land of nod. In our day and age of shrinking magazine sizes, it’s comforting to hold Purple, still the size of an encyclopedia or textbook, with no expense spared on printing the glossy images on fine paper. What Olivier Zahm does with the quarterly is not just covering the cutting edge of culture; each issue is an art book and an artifact of subcultures during the time of its publishing.
Reading magazines is a subversive act. Sure, you can read many of the same articles or browse the same photos online or by smartphone, but the human and tactile elements are lost when pieces and photos are digested electronically. The person who reads a magazine is an analog soul, not necessarily an old fuddy duddy, but someone who’s curious, someone who’s willing to Google things but likes to happen upon something interesting by chance. Our online searches are intentional, whereas magazines allow for happenstance discovery that leads the curious down a rabbit hole of information. Plus, it’s the perfect way to get that attractive stranger to ask you the age old question we all long to hear: “What are you reading?”
Locations: Prospect Park neighborhood, Cafe Alma