As we head toward our centenary—The New Yorkerwas born, kicking and cackling madly, in the snowy days of February, 1925—I’ve been reading some of the masters of the Profile, a literary-journalistic form that was there from the very start of the magazine. (Thatfirst Profilewas about the opera impresario Giulio Gatti-Casazza. It ran just a little more than a page.) For years, I’ve been an evangelist about the Profiles ofKenneth Tynan, the British theatre critic who, in our pages a half century ago, artfully portrayed the lives of showbiz titans such as Johnny Carson, Laurence Olivier, Mel Brooks, and Louise Brooks. This week, we are publishing an astonishing and absolutely hilarious piece by a kindred soul, a fellow-Brit, aNew Yorkerstaffer, and an artist of the Profile, Ian Parker. The piece is a tale of creative genius gone bonkers. With reportorial mastery, Ian tells us aboutthe recent adventures of Ye (formerly Kanye West) and his house on the Pacific; it is a quest for purity and perfection that ends in sadness, a sledgehammer, millions squandered, and no small amount of dust. In Ian’s telling, we glimpse Ye’s brilliance, his peculiarity, his ego, and his mania.
The piece is an amazement, at once moving and purely pleasurable. In that way, it resembles so many other pieces by Ian Parker. Mavens with a memory will recall his Profiles of movie starsAlec BaldwinandGeorge Clooney; Apple’s design master,Jony Ive; the acerbic writersChristopher HitchensandEdward St. Aubyn; and the thriller-writer-self-fabulistDan Mallory(a.k.a., A. J. Finn). He is so good that he can even profile, after a fashion,a bunch of apes. As ever, David Remnick Editor,The New Yorker |