With 3.4 million inhabitants, Madrid is the second-largest city in the European Union, and with about 45 museums, it is one of Europe’s most robust cultural centers. Landmarks in Spain’s capital city include Plaza Mayor, the Royal Plalace, the National Library, the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, the Reina Sofía Museum, and the Prado Museum, one of the most-visited museums in the world. If you want to see the best that Madrid has to offer, consult our list of 20 must-see landmarks and cultural destinations below.

Like her imposing sculptures, Leilah Babirye is still standing. And even better, she is thriving.

In 2015, Babirye fled Uganda after she was outed by a local publication as an activist and a member of the queer community. In her home country, being queer is considered a crime and can even be punished with a life sentence in prison. (Since Babirye left, the consequences have only gotten worse. Last year, Ugandan president Yoweri Museveni signed the Anti-Homosexuality Act of 2023, which includes punishment of death sentence for those convicted of “aggravated homosexuality.”)

Babirye ended up in New York, and has been based there for the nine years since, working as an artist as well as an activist. During a recent interview with ARTnews, it was clear that she had no regrets about her identity—and that she wanted her artworks to similarly exhibit a sense of pride.

“I want my sculptures to command attention,” she said. “I give them hairstyles and adornments, inspired by the queer community, so yes, it gives the feeling of: We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

In the Luganda language, one of the most widely spoken tongues of Babirye’s homeland, the Ugandan queer community is referred to as “abasiyazi,” which translates to “sugarcane husk,” a reference to the fact that the community’s members are thought of as discarded parts or rubbish. In Babirye’s hands, however, trash from the streets, junkyards, bike shops and other places takes on a new meaning, becoming material used in artworks that explore sexuality, identity and human rights. The negative connotations that follow the word “rubbish” are turned positive.

After premiering at the Brooklyn Museum earlier this year, the art collection of Grammy-winning singer Alicia Keys and Kasseem Dean, the Grammy-winning rapper and producer known as Swizz Beatz, will continue to travel as part of the exhibition “Giants: Art from the Dean Collection of Swizz Beatz and Alicia Keys” at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta from September 13, 2024 through January 19, 2025.

The married duo’s collection champions the work of Black artists.

The show highlights approximately 115 objects, with 98 major artworks by artists from the Dean Collection, which includes pieces by Jean-Michel Basquiat, Arthur Jafa, Esther Mahlangu, Amy Sherald, Lorna Simpson, and Kehinde Wiley. The collection also boasts the most works by Gordon Parks held in private hands.

“Our mission has always been about making art accessible to everyone and showcasing these GIANT  artists. We realized quickly that meant this collection had to travel to communities across the country and the world. We are so pleased that Atlanta and the High Museum of Art is the first stop on the GIANT tour,” the Deans said in a statement.

“ATL is an important part of my story since I went to Stone Mountain High, Redan High and Open Campus. I started DJing parties as a kid at Atrium and Club Flavors too! So, bringing Giants to the High is an Art homecoming  for me!” Kasseem Dean continued.

Once upon a time there was a person with the unnoticeable name of Mary Harris, born in County Cork, Ireland, in 1837, who lived a private life of suffering and failure. Her parents, fleeing Ireland’s Great Hunger, brought her as a teenager to Canada, where she briefly attended a Toronto teachers’ school, before she went to Monroe, Michigan, where she briefly taught school in a convent. A skilled seamstress from a girl, she left Monroe for Chicago, where she opened a dress shop. But she moved on yet again, to Memphis, where in 1861 she married George Jones, an organizer of his fellow iron foundry workers, to whom she quickly bore four children. Then her worst tragedy hit, the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1867, which wiped out all five members of her family. Back in Chicago, she reopened her dress shop, to have it destroyed by the Chicago Fire of 1871. Disaster had crowded on disaster throughout her entire blighted life, leaving no record of having done a single thing memorable.

Then, mysteriously, in the last decade of the nineteenth century, an entirely new person appeared. The previous one had been private and passive. The new one would be public and expansive. This woman would have a remarkable (but made-up) age and name and garb and task. She would be exactly (and by plan) the opposite of what went before—the most amazing work of self-reinvention on record. Mary Harris was erased, replaced by Mother Jones. Just consider the thoroughness of the changes this involved: 

Made-Up Age

Women, according to a stereotype, especially actresses or public figures, try to pretend they are younger than their real age. The made-up Mother Jones claimed to be older. Safely in her middle-aged (for that time) 40s, she claimed to be in her 50s. And she kept on adding 10 or more years to her age all the way up to her 80s, which she made out to be her 90s. Despite what should have been a cumulating decrepitude, she displayed a prodigious energy in the union organizing of her late husband. This allowed her to have beers with “my boys“ (as she called the workers), and curse the “goddamned” strike breakers, without being confused with the prostitutes around the coal mines and oil fields where she labored. Other women lied about their age to stay young enough to remain sexually interesting. She lied to escape that. It freed her to mix with all kinds of people without sexual tension or questioning.

Made-Up Name

The new person adopted a name that is not personal. It is a title. And a female title at that. If it had been male, the community in and around the mines would have had a touch of the military. Since it is a maternal title, the community was a family, made up of her children and grandchildren. Her appeal was to the women as well as the male workers.

On Monday, the US Department of Justice sent a letter to Alaska’s director of elections, outlining the state’s litany of violations of the Americans With Disabilities Act that impacted disabled voters. Under the ADA, disabled voters should have the same opportunity and access to vote as non-disabled people. The DOJ says in Alaska that was not happening.

Here are just some of the issues found by the DOJ:

Not all early voting and Election Day sites had accessible voting machines, and some machines did not work. At one site, the DOJ found, the machine was still in its shipping box.The state of Alaska does not provide accessible voting machines at absentee in-person voting sites. There are audio issues with some accessible voting machines. One Blind user could not understand the audio and had to get a poll worker to assist them in voting on a paper ballot, stripping them of the right to vote independently. There were accessibility problems to get into some voting locations. Issues include the lack of ADA-accessible parking and issues with ramps, including one where there was a step before the ramp started. Some voting machines were also placed at too high of a level, making it difficult for wheelchair users to reach.Alaska’s election website is inaccessible for some disabled users, with some videos not containing captions.

The DOJ warned that if Alaska does not address these findings, the US attorney general may file a lawsuit against the state.

“The Justice Department is fully committed to enforcing the ADA to make sure that individuals with disabilities have an equal opportunity to vote, including by voting privately and independently like everyone else,” DOJ Assistant Attorney General Kristen Clarke said in a statement.

Last week, Senate Republicans introduced a bill that would designate federal funds for “Restorative Reproductive Medicine,” a loose group of therapies meant to help treat infertility without the use of in vitro fertilization or artificial insemination. The seven lawmakers who introduced the Reproductive Empowerment and Support through Optimal Restoration (RESTORE) Act, say it isn’t meant as an attack on IVF, which recently has come under fire by conservatives. “I strongly support treatments such as IVF, which have helped so many families experience the miracle of life,” Sen. Cindy Hyde-Smith (R-MS), one of the bill’s sponsors, said in a statement last week. “Healing the actual causes of infertility will only help increase the success rate for couples trying to conceive.”

Yet Restorative Reproductive Medicine isn’t the politically neutral medical field that the measure’s champions claim. Rather, it’s the latest rebranding of an IVF “alternative” by religious groups who consider the process of IVF, which can include the destruction of unused embryos, to be a form of abortion.  

“Healing the actual causes of infertility will only help increase the success rate for couples trying to conceive.”

The authors assert that Restorative Reproductive Medicine “means any scientific approach to reproductive medicine that seeks to cooperate with, or restore the normal physiology and anatomy of, the human reproductive system, without the use of methods that are inherently suppressive, circumventive, or destructive to natural human functions.” If that sounds vague, it’s because it is: Restorative reproductive medicine, according to these lawmakers, basically can include anything that’s not IVF, artificial insemination, and certain kinds of birth control. The bill says that “most male and female infertility” can be treated with medication, surgery, or simply by figuring out the optimal time for intercourse in a woman’s cycle.

Billymark’s West was a normal bar. That was its greatest virtue, probably. It had a pool table, a jukebox, booths, a beer-and-shot special. It was a little dingy and dark. There was a TV and, somewhat oddly, a lot of Beatles-themed memorabilia. The prices were not so bad, by New York standards, though drinks weren’t as cheap as they could have been, either. There was graffiti in the bathroom. It was in some ways the Platonic ideal of a bar, such that it might seem familiar to you even if you’d never been. It had its own story, of course: it opened in 1956 and was taken over in 1999 by two brothers, Billy and Mark, one of whom was usually at the bar. They were the kind of guys you would describe as “characters” in part because they were playing a well-worn role. Billy—whom I saw more often—would call me “honey” and then charge me a price for my Miller High Life that seemed, each time, to be made up on the spot. Sometimes he was gruff, but mostly he was jovial, and it appeared as though he knew everyone in the bar, in a vague sort of way. The patrons of Billymark’s filtered in from the odd mix of places nearby: Rangers games at Madison Square Garden, galleries in West Chelsea, trains at Penn Station, and the offices of The Paris Review a few blocks away. I liked going to Billymark’s for a drink after work, though I didn’t go all that often. Still, it was always a place to go, a place in the neighborhood that stood out mostly for how normal it was. When I found out the bar had closed a few weeks ago, I was bereft.

I understand that there are many people who are not always asking themselves, How can I get it back? But I am. Sometimes in fact this question feels like the animating force behind my emotional life—where did it go and how can I retrieve it? No one knows what it is, least of all me. Not long ago I was taking a train north toward Poughkeepsie and I was overcome with the memory of a previous train ride, on a Friday in July several years ago, toward a house in the woods where we stood one night on the porch and watched heat lightning and fireflies rise off the grass in the steam of a recent rain. Other more and less important things happened that weekend, but that is the image that came to me as I stared out the train window, along with the feeling that I could never get it back, any of it. I am speaking of what is generally called nostalgia, though I think the word is overused such that it conjures the gentle, moony feeling you might get listening to a second-rate James Taylor song. No, the feeling I am trying to describe is totalizing, characterized by sharp, surprising loss wrapped up with something like pleasure. That day on the train, I was so overwhelmed that I had to lie down.

Bars are good places to go if you want to chase feelings like this. Or bad places, depending on your perspective. But it’s true that people who frequent bars—who really frequent them—are often the kinds of people who are looking for something lost, and perhaps getting lost in that looking. This is related to the consumption of alcohol, which can feel at times like a shortcut to bygone days. It also has to do with the spaces themselves, which are designed to be familiar and to mimic, perhaps, other bars where we’ve been before while retaining their own particular magic. That’s what a good bar is like, anyway. There are fewer and fewer good bars, for all the obvious reasons, and Billymark’s was one of the last in the stretch of blocks around our office. I can’t really explain why, but it was an especially good one.

Billymark’s was the kind of bar that allowed you to feel like maybe you could get it back. It made me think I could get Beacon Hill Pub back—the first bar where I ever drank as a teenager, a place where in the eighties my father used to eat the hot dogs they would boil at closing time, or so he said, and where I once whiled away a Saint Patrick’s Day staring into the shockingly blue eyes of a stranger, wondering what would become of my life. That bar is closed. Billymark’s made me feel like I could get back the Chieftain, an old newspaper bar downtown in San Francisco which isn’t even gone but is gone from my life, or really I am gone from its. Other bars like these, where I have wasted my wastrel youth, all seemed contained, somehow, in Billymark’s. They seem contained, too, in the loss of it. Probably I should have expected this, from all those stories I used to hear about bygone days, but it’s been a surprise all the same: as I get older, there are more and more places I’ll never go again. 

Scotland are still in it! Despite the Power Cube scoring AGAIN in a major tournament, the Scots rallied and the Ramblers still believe they can do it. But not on two points, Jim. Stop that.

Marcus, Jim and Pete react to another afternoon barn burner, agree that England are definitely certainly absolutely better without Jamal Musiala, and figure out how to get rid of a bee hive from a stadium. Plus, who would Jim rather fight: Niclas Füllkrug or Martin Adam?

 

And the lads reveal how their nerves are before England’s clash with Denmark, where Marcus still has some lingering concerns…

We're back on stage and tickets are out NOW! Join us at London Palladium on Friday September 20th 2024 for 'Football Ramble: Time Tunnel', a journey through football history like no other. Expect loads of laughs, all your Ramble favourites, and absolutely everything on Pete's USB stick. Get your tickets at footballramblelive.com!

As we were putting together this Summer issue of the Review, an editor in London sent me Saskia Vogel’s new translation of a 1989 book by Peter Cornell, a Swedish historian and art critic. The Ways of Paradise is presented as notes to a scholarly manuscript; the author, Cornell tells us in an introduction, was “a familiar figure at the National Library of Sweden,” where for more than three decades he was “occupied with an uncommonly comprehensive project, a work that—as he once disclosed in confidence—would reveal a chain of connections until then overlooked.” After his death, the manuscript was never found. “Which is to say,” Cornell writes, “all that remains of his great work is its critical apparatus.”

The footnotes that comprise The Ways of Paradise orbit certain preoccupations: the center of the world, labyrinths, flânerie, rock formations, Freudian repression, passwords, folds of fabric, aimlessness. As I followed the trails left behind by the mysterious man Cornell calls the author, I felt an emerging sense of relation between only tangentially related things. (I also felt a relief that the categories of “Fiction” and “Nonfiction” had already been banished from the Review’s table of contents in favor of the more-encompassing “Prose.”)

Taking note of connections, intended or not, is one of the pleasures of deep, patient reading—which is to say, one of the pleasures of reading for pleasure. And so I am always delighted when, despite our best efforts to avoid organizing an issue of the Review around a given idea or theme, a reader will point out that the most recent one was clearly all about this subject or was wrestling with that idea.

Which makes the kind of letter I am now writing—to announce our new Summer issue, out this week—a conundrum. I could flag its seasonal topicality (“That summer we had decided we were past caring,” Anne Serre writes in the issue’s first story. “It was just too tiring, rushing back and forth between mental institutions”). Or I could, like a savvy host at a drinks party, point out possible conversation starters: works in translation, maybe. Or romance novels (“I am a sucker for women carrying each other around,” Renee Gladman writes in “My Lesbian Novel”). Or the visionary (“It could be a dog crossing the street one morning with a string of wieners, which is something I’ve always wanted to see,” Mary Robison tells Rebecca Bengal in her Art of Fiction interview. “That’s my golden dream”).

I was a fairly unsupervised child, living like a rat on the crumbs of adult culture, its cinema in particular. 1976’s Taxi Driver I saw for the first time at eight—rented and shown to me by a housemate of my mother’s—and what I remember most is the gamine Jodie Foster at a diner’s laminate tabletop: her cheer, and her will, her fistfuls of prostitution money. The relieving and misguided lesson I absorbed, likely because I felt particularly attuned and exposed to adult violence, was that childhood could be short-circuited. Soon after, thanks to a few errant adults in my life, I was renting the most obscene things I could find, studying the horror aisle of the Silver Screen Video in Petaluma as though it were the Library of Alexandria: containing and promising and threatening all. Unusual to my experience of these films was that their one-dimensional and sex-warped predators did not seem so different from the world reflected in my actual life.

A few years before, the month I turned five, my neighborhood had been infested by the FBI, who were searching for traces of the just-kidnapped twelve-year-old Polly Klaas. She was abducted in October of 1993 from a sleepover at her house, which was around my literal corner. What Polly became, in the child’s simplistic understanding, was the greatest celebrity: her face on every magazine and national news segment, the vigil always lit for her in town looking like an ancient shrine to the cruelest gods. It took almost two months to find her body. When the guilty man was finally tried, he famously declared in court that Polly had pleaded: Just don’t do me like my dad. Her ruined father lunged for him.

In the years I consumed most of the horror canon, I saw Sissy Spacek in her red shower, Tatum O’Neal with her hips electrocuted by sin up toward God, Jamie Lee Curtis in breast-bouncing flight. I watched the Pet Sematary trilogy, though the supernatural was never of much appeal—I was a girl, and I was curious about girls being killed. One could say that this curiosity was only an expression of internalized misogyny, and one might be very right, but this theory would exclude the great protection afforded me by the chance to experience this kind of hatred against women with no disguises, in private, with the ability to rewind and replay.

Decades later, I’d read the white feminists who castigated the slasher canon, Solnit and her derivatives who called for its expulsion, asking why it was that depictions of violent misogyny, the fetishization of the missing woman and the female carcass, had not been dismissed from the cultural record. By then it was too late to revise my response to genre’s blunt messaging, which had been a comfort when I was a girl, requiring even for the child little decoding. That bluntness was welcome among the subtleties of other monoculture staples: how a likeable male character on The Larry Sanders Show might meet jokey opprobrium for being “pussy-whipped,” or how, as in the dispiriting pablum of You’ve Got Mail (1997), a charming woman could find real love so long as she sacrifice her financial and spiritual purposes. The horror movie was also the beginning of my indoctrination into image culture, the fascination with the unidirectional, the film still or painting that could change me—and that I could never change. It did not occur to me until recently that this submissive solace came at certain personal costs. Back then these movies felt like an empowerment, because what I hoped to comprehend, in order to master, was the machinery of fear.