In the personable Bodega Bakes, pastry chef Paola Velez presents just that: sweets that can be made solely from the ingredients found at a corner store.
In the personable Bodega Bakes, pastry chef Paola Velez presents just that: sweets that can be made solely from the ingredients found at a corner store.
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"Art changes life" was a famous saying of the surrealists as they waged war on the established art conventions of their time. But what about the lives that changed art — the people behind the artistic movement? In Surreal Lives, social historian Ruth Brandon tells the fascinating stories of the men (and a few women) who shaped the movement that she claims "defined intellectual life between the wars."
 
Among the lives Brandon chronicles are Guillaume Apollinaire, the literary legend who, besides being a major figure in the French avant garde, wrote pornography rivaling the work of the Marquis de Sade; Marcel Duchamp, the French artist who achieved his greatest fame in the United States with works such as Nude Descending a Staircase; Tristan Tzara, known as the founder of the Dada movement, a Rumanian immigrant whose pursuit of notoriety foreshadowed the antics of today’s pop culture icons; Man Ray, born Emmanuel Radnitsky in Philadelphia, who "with his magic lens was to become the wizard of surrealism" and made photography an important art form in the movement; Luis Bunuel, who distinguished himself as surrealism’s filmmaker, a Spaniard whose disgust with the Catholicism of his native land led him to take perverse pleasure in roaming the streets of Paris dressed as a nun or a priest; Salvador Dali, the Spanish painter who Brandon says "spent so much of his life constructing an elaborate and repellent front for public consumption that it has become hard to imagine why so many brilliant men and women found him (as they did) so extremely attractive"; Nancy Cunard, the rich, beautiful shipping-line heiress romantically involved with many of the movement’s leading names; and Andre Breton, the cold, prudish founder of surrealism, who complicated the movement’s politics by becoming involved with Nancy Cunard, his best friend’s lover.
 
Brandon writes as a cultural rather than art historian, and the result is a book that gives a fascinating look at an art movement without becoming mired in tedious discussions of style and technique. She obviously believes that it is the ideas behind art, and the lives behind the ideas, that makes art. Although she must wrestle with complex concepts, she combines ideas and story with the same skill as the Czech novelist Kundera.
 
Art historians and students of art will find the book invaluable, but lay people will also find it fascinating. Brandon chronicles events that often seem to come from the pages of a novel. When Paul Eluard, a lesser member of the surrealist circle, grows depressed over his and his wife’s involvement in a menage-a-trois with the German painter Max Ernst, he embezzles money from his father’s company to go on a binge. The wages of sin might be death for some, but not for Eluard. He doubles his money at the Monte Carlo casino and then runs off to Tahiti, following in Gauguin’s footsteps.
 
Surrealism is probably less understood than other 20th century art movements because it is less formalistic and more cerebral. Brandon shows how Breton and other surrealists, inspired by Freud’s theories, "lay the route-map for the great artistic journey of the coming century: the journey to the interior" and broke art’s devotion to representation and beauty. Although we might not know it by name, surrealism is now the guiding force behind much of today’s art, literature, and films.
 
David B. Hinton is dean of Academic Affairs at Watkins College of Art and Design in Nashville, Tennessee.

"Art changes life" was a famous saying of the surrealists as they waged war on the established art conventions of their time. But what about the lives that changed art — the people behind the artistic movement? In Surreal Lives, social historian Ruth Brandon tells the fascinating stories of the men (and a few women) […]
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Christianity and Buddhism at first glance appear as distant and as opposite one another as east and west. Both religious paths host incredible numbers of worshipers of their respective faiths. However, both seem to know little about each other. Author and spiritual figure Thich Nhat Hanh discusses the unique relationship that Christians and Buddhists share. In fact, he refers to Jesus and Buddha as allegorical brothers walking side by side, not in front of or behind the other.

Explaining the essential concepts of Christianity to a Buddhist, or Buddhism to a Christian, is not easy. In a manner of speaking, it’s like trying to separate the wave from the water; both are important to the existence of the other. Metaphorical comparisons work well for Thich Nhat Hanh. It’s apparent from the introduction onward that his goal is not to bury his readers in theological jargon. The single most comprehensive comparison he makes between Christianity and Buddhism is an analogy about oranges and mangoes. To paraphrase, Christianity is not a kind of Buddhism or the reverse. A mango cannot be an orange. However, both mango and orange are fruits. People can perceive and celebrate the differences of each. And no two oranges or two mangoes are the same. It is such analogies that encourage the reader to think of the affinities and the differences between the two.

Going Home is Thich Nhat Hanh’s latest title of more than two dozen books covering diverse aspects of Buddhism, Christianity, meditation, and spirituality in general. Whether you are a Christian, a Buddhist, or a member of another denomination, Going Home transcends any one religion and is a tome worth reading and returning to.

Christianity and Buddhism at first glance appear as distant and as opposite one another as east and west. Both religious paths host incredible numbers of worshipers of their respective faiths. However, both seem to know little about each other. Author and spiritual figure Thich Nhat Hanh discusses the unique relationship that Christians and Buddhists share. […]
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In 1985, David Owen bought an old house in the country, fleeing the concrete cubic-foot confinement of an apartment in the Big Apple. Owen’s new home was built in 1790, a big old dilapidated house that had been a former prep-school dormitory. Casting sensibility to the winds, he and his wife purchased it on pure intuition, omitting research into its faults that surely would have persuaded them not to buy it in the first place.

Then they began renovating, slowly. He wrote a book about it, called The Walls Around Us, and if you haven’t read it yet, you’ve missed a funny and insightful book on old-house renovation, resonant with undertones of confidence fueled by the heat of burned bridges. By itself, the section on How to Find the Best Paint is worth the price of that book.

Around the House takes readers even deeper into the mystical aspects of home ownership, one salient of which is an unwritten law: those who work on their houses always wind up remodeling the space between their ears. Like an ancient house, the book has some funny rooms, with chapters like Nature’s Double Standard and Benign Neglect. Well-written humor comes as no surprise to those familiar with Owen’s previous books.

However, this one sings in the darndest places. Part of it is the astounding ease with which Owen gives you back fleeting moments of your own childhood, exploring mysterious rooms in creaky old houses. Some of it can be found in beautifully crafted epigrams, such as Owen’s Law: whatever you learn by renovating an old house is exactly what you needed to know before you started. Much of it lies in the fact that, while Owen blithely tackles gigantic projects and labors that would startle Hercules he bought his first computer in 1981, to give you an idea of his daring he relies on manly instincts of procrastination when it comes to nonessential repair. Roof leaks? Find bucket. Air infiltration? Duct tape. He is one of us.

Best of all, though, Owen leads by example, showing his readers the utter futility of working on a house with the goal of finishing it. Like most, he is neither a working fool nor a loafer, although his apathy toward yard work will endear him to every homeowner in America. His dogged quest for more storage space balances it nicely, even when he explains that the concept of enough storage space is a wholly nonexistent ideal. Pursuing lost causes is its own reward.

The essays are short but full of sweetness, philosophy, humor, hopeless optimism, cautionary tales, and practical advice on how to saw the legs of a bed when the floors slope. Around the House will make you think, especially at those critical times just before you start tinkering with your own rooftree. Read this book first, to prepare your psyche for the adventure. Like any big project, it’s a labor of love, which is always much wiser than mere logic.

Jeff Taylor is author of the book Tools of the Trade: The Art and Craft of Carpentry and the upcoming Tools of the Earth: The Practice and Pleasure of Gardening, both from Chronicle Books.

In 1985, David Owen bought an old house in the country, fleeing the concrete cubic-foot confinement of an apartment in the Big Apple. Owen’s new home was built in 1790, a big old dilapidated house that had been a former prep-school dormitory. Casting sensibility to the winds, he and his wife purchased it on pure […]
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This is Robert D. Kaplan’s vision of America’s future: a collection of city-states where political power and decision making are concentrated locally. Rather than set broad policy and enforce law, the federal government would provide a protective shield against such hazards as global terrorists and computer hackers and supply aid such as specialized military units for floods and earthquakes. This new political arrangement is what Kaplan describes as an empire wilderness, vast, remote, decentralized. And this outlook forms the cornerstone for Kaplan’s new book, An Empire Wilderness.

It is best described as a political travelogue, one pilgrim’s impressions formed while progressing down his country’s interstates and back roads. The journey is set in the West, where Kaplan shakes his East Coast shackles and witnesses America’s still-open, still-developing vistas. He travels some of the same trails as Kerouac. But where Kerouac wrote for the Beat Generation, Kaplan writes for a Baby Boom Generation which approaches the 21st century harboring worries about old age and the future of its offspring.

Kaplan, a contributing editor of The Atlantic Monthly, has established a niche for himself with this style of writing. He traveled through Bosnia and made controversial political observations in his best-selling Balkan Ghosts. And he roamed from West Africa to Central and South East Asia to pen The Ends of the Earth. In An Empire Wilderness, Kaplan visits such places as Fort Levenworth, Kansas, Orange County, California, Tucson, Arizona, Nogales, Mexico, and Vancouver, Canada, developing some intriguing insights into America’s future: Foreign policy will, over the decades, be increasingly influenced by the military, as war, peacekeeping, famine relief, and the like grow too technical and complex for civilian managers to control. Despite attempts to curb the number of immigrants from Latin America and Asia, large scale immigration may have to continue, if for no other reason than to provide an army of younger workers to support America’s retirees. Efforts to revive decaying urban downtowns are threatened by suburbanization and computerization. No one needs to go [downtown] to shop, see a movie, or go to a fancy restaurant. And the residents can be hooked up to the world from their homes. Thus, the essence of An Empire Wilderness is a glimpse at a horizon that Kaplan sees as neither too bright, nor too bleak. Recalling Rome, Athens, and other empires that have risen and fallen, Kaplan somewhat cryptically predicts that the changes being experienced in America are part of an evolution toward finality. The next passage will be our most difficult as a nation, he writes, and it will be our last. John T. Slania is a writer in Chicago, Illinois.

This is Robert D. Kaplan’s vision of America’s future: a collection of city-states where political power and decision making are concentrated locally. Rather than set broad policy and enforce law, the federal government would provide a protective shield against such hazards as global terrorists and computer hackers and supply aid such as specialized military units […]
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Get in the swing of it The Masters golf tournament just isn’t fair . . . to its viewers on television. Picture the typical rabid golfer who lives in the Northeast or Midwest. It’s April. He or she has been sitting around all winter, wearing out the living room carpet with putting practice. Then the Masters, the first major golf tournament of the season, appears on television. And everything is perfect. The azaleas are in full bloom, and the world’s best golfers are hitting magnificent drives and sinking eagle putts. No wonder the ratings are always good. Spring doesn’t seem so distant anymore, and anything is possible. This will be the year when you break 80, or 90, or 100. The Masters only lasts for four days in April, but you can take a longer time to read about that competition and the other major tournaments in a pair of new golf books that are just out.

The top release is John Feinstein’s annual literary effort, this time called The Majors (Little, Brown, $25, 0316279714; Time Warner AudioBooks, $17.98, 1570426848). It’s an up-close look at the four major golf championships: the Masters, U.

S. Open, British Open, and PGA Championship. You might remember Feinstein’s book on golf from a couple of years ago, A Good Walk Spoiled. That could have been called A Year in the Life of the PGA Tour. It caught the golf boom at just the right time and was a bestseller. A Good Walk Spoiled was good. The Majors is better. In his books, Feinstein usually introduces his cast of characters and slowly lets them play out the season. No matter how thorough and how good the writing, it’s still tough to get everything in while reviewing an entire year. But four tournaments are a different story. Each event has a small list of contenders, and there’s plenty of time to find out what went right, and wrong. Feinstein does a particularly good job of informing the reader about the pressures involved in trying to win a major. It’s the only time of the year when the golfers are playing for history more than the prizes, and it shows up in a variety of hooks and slices that can make the best professional look like a duffer.

Feinstein had a good run of tournaments in 1998: a Masters triumph on the final hole by Mark O’Meara, who went on to double at the British Open; an exciting comeback by Lee Janzen at the U.

S. Open; and a two-man duel at the PGA that was won by Vijay Singh. There are plenty of fun details along the way. When you finish this book, you’ll take greater enjoyment from watching the major championships in 1999.

For those who want to learn more about the first major championship on the calendar, The Making of the Masters: Clifford Roberts, Augusta National, and Golf’s Most Prestigious Tournament will do the trick. The Masters is a little different from the other majors. It is played on the same course every year, Augusta National Golf Club in Georgia, and is not a professional or national championship. The Masters started off as a cozy little event hosted by Bobby Jones, a legendary amateur golfer from the 1920s. Jones was helped by Clifford Roberts, who was head of the club for more than 40 years and was a perfectionist when it came to the course and the tournament.

The author, David Owen, has written the story of how the Masters grew to obtain the status it has today. The research is rather remarkable. Owen had access to Augusta National’s archives, and the detail is reflected throughout the book. If a tree was moved on one of Augusta’s holes, Owen comments on it. If a player from the 1930s complains years later that a late pairing was unfair, Owen pulls out the starting times and shows the player’s complaint is invalid. As a result, The Making of the Masters clears up some misconceptions about the tournament and its founders and offers a favorable but relatively balanced portrait of all concerned.

Budd Bailey is a frequent reviewer of sports books in Buffalo, New York.

Get in the swing of it The Masters golf tournament just isn’t fair . . . to its viewers on television. Picture the typical rabid golfer who lives in the Northeast or Midwest. It’s April. He or she has been sitting around all winter, wearing out the living room carpet with putting practice. Then the […]
Behind the Book by

Kim Korson is your new favorite curmudgeon, a true Negative Nancy, the ultimate Debbie Downer. She's perfectly happy being unhappy, and she shares her path to negativity and all the merits of discontent in her acerbic, witty memoir, I Don't Have a Happy Place. In a Behind the Book feature, Korson shares a bit on not being "wired for mirth."


I can’t recall what the fight was about. The details are fuzzy, but it was a benign argument, devoid of bruised feelings or threats of couch sleeping. I do remember there was a showdown in the living room, barbs shooting out of our mouths but none of them landing until my husband yelled, “Can’t you go lie down in a field somewhere and find your happy place?” to which I replied, without missing a beat, “I don’t have a happy place!” Here, we had one of those romantic comedy moments where a tense situation was diffused by (unintentionally) humorous dialogue, and laughter ensued. The fight was over, but my comeback pinballed around my brain for weeks after.

I am a glass half empty. I am negative, have a poor attitude and, if we’re being honest, don’t care much for fun. I come from a long line of depressants and have spent my lifetime managing my undesirability, and, not to brag, but I think I’ve figured out how to be a malcontent with grace. But just when you think you’ve learned how to function out there, the world fights back by pelting you with those dumb lemons they’re always talking about, in the hopes you will make pitchers of sweet lemonade. Happiness. Everything is about happiness. The world is obsessed with it. It’s what your loved ones wish for you, what books teach, what articles quiz you on—all anyone wants is for you to be happy. Is that wrong? It’s a delightful request, most would say. But what if you are not happy? Or worse, what if you find the pursuit of happiness exhausting, relentless, impossible? What if you are just not wired for mirth? Is that even allowed? Are you a failure as a human being if you are not happy? I needed to know.

I decided to forage through my life, picking through experiences where good humor was expected—summer camp, falling in love, following dreams—to see if happiness seeped in or if I’d kept it at bay.

I’m not big on lessons, but I have learned that humor makes unpleasant people or situations palatable. For a malcontent, I laugh quite a bit and I wanted to focus on the dark humor of unhappiness in my book I Don’t Have a Happy Place. Some of our most traumatic events contain hilarity; you just have to find it. While there is nothing amusing about losing a cherished relative, throw extended family together, and, I promise you, there will be no shortage of comedy.

People say happiness is about moments. I chose to use linked, short-but-true stories to focus on the transitory nature of both happiness and misery. I wanted each of the essays to be able to stand alone but also to weave together a lifetime of unhappy thoughts. Once I strung together all the moments, I could step back and see how I fared. Turns out, I’m kind of depressing. But I know this about myself and have since let myself off the happy hook. And I’m happy with that.


Kim Korson is a writer, originally from Montreal, Canada. She’s written for O Magazine and Moomah The Magazine. Kim now lives in Southern Vermont with her husband and two kids. She doesn’t get out much.

Kim Korson is your new favorite curmudgeon, a true Negative Nancy, the ultimate Debbie Downer. She's perfectly happy being unhappy, and she shares her path to negativity and all the merits of malcontent in her acerbic, witty memoir, I Don't Have a Happy Place. In a Behind the Book feature, Korson shares a bit on not being "wired for mirth."

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