'BLOND WOOD FLOORS AND CATHEDRAL CEILINGS'
Once George Plimpton died, the Paris Review
was forced to re-locate itself. Had been the
chief Editor, for many years, and had lent his
east side townhouse on 72nd Street, for the Paris
Review to use the ground-floor. The remainder
of the house was his. The 'noble dishevelment'
present there represented the magazine itself
very well.
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Now - and without George, it's been changed
considerably: Tribeca address, an airy, sun-flooded
suite of rooms, blond wood floors and cathedral
ceilings. White Street between Broadway and
Church. I knew that street well. Joan Arbiter was
a member-artist of some women's art-collective
there, and the gallery often had nice shows.
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All this was long ago, back a few years after the
turn of the century. This one. I wondered if and
how The Pais review would survive, or mesh with
it, and its new location.
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The 'new' magazine (2005), is larger than the
old one, slim and elegant and more magazine
like as well - printed on buttery paper! I'm
not sure what any of that means, but the buttery
paper description seems not to work - but maybe
I'll like it with toast.
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Photos, new people, new writers, and the table
of contents is now in numerical order. All this
hurts, I think to myself. Like ordering a car and
getting something new, with five wheels. In 2005,
Charles Simic, a poet teaching at the University
of New Hampshire, is now Co-editor, along with
Maghan O'Rourke.
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I don't know, but there's something about change
that just bugs me - the way t's done, what the
new ends up meaning and doing to that legacy
of the old. How charms can change channels,
and what you get is never what you had!
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