Monday
In a reversal of the who-would-you-most-like-to-have-a-drink-with test, candidates declaring for the Republican presidential race this week presented as so singularly unappetising as to beg the question who among them would you leave the bar to avoid? Trump is not, weirdly, at the top of this list, since when he cares to use it one knows his charm is considerable. Mike Pence, who declared his candidacy on Monday and remains enduringly weird, would definitely break the top three, although a small part of me would like to take a crack, over a beer, at figuring out what his deal is. The former vice-president and evangelical Christian’s very clenched personality and eagerness to be photographed at the weekend in leathers on a Harley-Davidson, is suggestive of a range of possibilities.
Also throwing his hat into the ring this week is Chris Christie, the former governor of New Jersey and, for my money, the least appealing candidate in the current Republican lineup, even taking into account Ron DeSantis. Christie, you may remember, was for a hot minute in 2016 spoken of as a credible centrist Republican before everyone remembered who he was. (My favourite Christie story is the one from 2017 when he was snapped from a news helicopter enjoying a deserted beach with his family during a state-wide shutdown when the beaches were closed.) In the years since, he has flip-flopped between craven appeasement and condemnation of Trump and is now running – hollow laugh – as a moral standard-bearer on the strength of his objection to the events surrounding the storming of the US Capitol on January 6.
Other candidates in the race include the requisite comedy multimillionaire who has never held office – in this case, the former pharmaceutical company CEO Vivek Ramaswamy whose manifesto seems to be the single word “anti-woke” – and a lone woman, Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina. Described by the former CNN host Don Lemon earlier this year as a woman who “isn’t in her prime”, Haley, at 51, is among the youngest of the candidates. There are reasons to dislike Haley (“America is not racist”) as strong as any triggered by the rest of the field, but assuredly, that isn’t one of them.
Tuesday
As hot takes continue to fly around in the wake of Hannah Gadsby’s “disastrous” (ARTnews), “silly” (New York Times) curated exhibition about Picasso at the Brooklyn Museum, let’s turn instead to Françoise Gilot, whose death at the age of 101 was announced on Tuesday. Gilot was an artist, an icon in her own right and – there’s no avoiding her connection to the man, although it was the source of career-long irritation to her – the only one of Picasso’s lovers ever to walk out on him. I met her a few years ago in her apartment on the Upper West Side where she presented with the kind of fanatical chic only French women of a certain age can pull off. She wasn’t interested in false modesty. “I was considered astonishingly good,” she said of herself as a young artist. And she wasn’t sentimental about the past. “I have to admit,” she told me, “that I was never so much in love with anyone that I could not consider my own plan as interesting.” When I asked if leaving Picasso had been a liberating experience, she looked at me as if I was mad. “No, because I was not a prisoner. I’d been there of my own will and I left of my own will. That’s what I told him once, before I left. I said watch out, because I came when I wanted to, but I will leave when I want. He said, nobody leaves a man like me.” She smiled and the thrill of that moment, 70 years later, disturbed the air in the room. “I said, we’ll see.”
Wednesday
The school field trip to Staten Island is cancelled because of air quality in New York, a decision parents bemoan in the morning and revisit at lunchtime when the sky darkens to a Martian glow. The air is nicotine yellow; the sun is an eery orange disc; the cars have their headlights on at midday. While Californians fold their arms and say to New Yorkers “We told you”, people in the city re-mask and shut the windows. Outside my apartment, it smells as if there is a five-alarm fire a block away.
The fires burning in Canada cover an area 10 times larger than is usual for this time of year and Kathy Hochul, the governor of New York, describes the smoke across the state as “an emergency crisis”, while New Yorkers describe it, variously, as smelling like “a barbecue”, “cigars”, and “9/11”. It smells to me like cigarette smoke, carried 500 miles down wind by an area of low pressure and bringing a forecast to terrify us all.
Thursday
The spectacle of Harry in court this week makes one wince for the gap between what he might hope his appearance will achieve and how things in reality are likely to play out. I don’t mean in terms of judgment, exactly, but as John Crace wrote this week, the court system is an imprecise mechanism for the deliverance of closure and it is more likely to aggravate than soothe your unease. As ever with Harry, one understands that while the Mirror group is the main target of his ire, there is a family dynamic playing out, too. The 38-year-old prince must know how unbearable his father will find the breach of protocol inherent in his appearance in court, not to mention the implied criticism that while the king did nothing, Harry is the only one in the family with the mettle to take on the tabloids. And the corrupt you-asked-for-it logic of justifying the way he was hounded on the basis that he still seeks publicity seems likely to trail him until he retires to Gloucestershire and is never heard of again.
Friday
Drew Barrymore on the cover of New York magazine this week exhibits a style of celebrity that seems to date back to Lucille Ball. Barrymore, at 48, has a daytime chatshow in the US in which she giggles and sits on her legs and drops her jaw when someone says something mildly diverting, and empathises so busily with her guests that at times she looks in danger of exploding. (This style is described, by the magazine, as “radically intimate” and involves a lot of “manifesting” of “precepts”.) I urge you to look up her recent interview with the actor Melanie Lynskey, during the course of which Barrymore seizes on the alcoholism of Jason Ritter, Lynskey’s husband, with the avidity of a shark happening upon a seal. I would pay good money to see her apply that unruly energy to the field of Republican candidates for president.
