Julian Lucas
Staff Writer at The New Yorker
Editor at Large at Cabinet Magazine
Contributing Editor at The Ballot
staff writer @newyorker // edits @cabinetmagazine & @thedialmag // jes’ grew carrier
Articles
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3 weeks ago |
newyorker.com | Casey N. Cep |Jia Tolentino |Julian Lucas |Margaret Talbot
Summer is here, and with it summer reading. Every week, the New Yorker’s editors and critics select the best new books we’ve read in 2025 so far. This year, we’ve also asked the magazine’s writers to suggest favorite mega-reads—sizable, sprawling novels, biographies, and works of history that will keep you absorbed and entertained until the end of the season. Their selections are below. “He had to go fast, like an American, or he was all torpor.
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4 weeks ago |
newyorker.com | Julian Lucas
He poured the paint in layers and combed through it with an Afro pick. Or he froze and shattered it, reassembling the shards into new wholes. Like an alchemist, he altered its consistency with precisely calibrated tinctures. Like a hoodoo man, he infused it with ash, blood, and fragments of bone. His studio on Lispenard Street, in Tribeca, was full of contraptions, and his notebooks boiled over with a mad scientist’s exuberance.
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1 month ago |
newyorker.com | Julian Lucas
The literary Profile comes into the world facing a double skepticism. Most people don’t care enough about books to read about authors—unlike, say, pop stars or tech titans. And those who do care often look down their noses at the genre, which Roland Barthes mocked as a relatable fantasy for middle-class readers anxious to be told that the great novelist enjoys “his pajamas and his cheeses,” too. Fiction, of course, is already based on ransacking everyday life.
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1 month ago |
businessandamerica.com | Julian Lucas
As Davis power-washed de Lavallade off the reusable screen, Simpson settled into an armchair and reached into her formidable black canvas tote. “You wanna see?” she asked, pulling out a slim package. Inside were five wallet-size photos, probably from the nineteen-thirties or forties, of a Black man in a three-piece suit trying out various expressions.
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1 month ago |
newyorker.com | Julian Lucas
Lorna Simpson found the meteorite on eBay. “It was for a great price,” she told me, declining to give the exact figure, though she later admitted that it had cost about six thousand dollars. The seller was “some guy upstate” who’d never listed anything comparable and provided no proof of its celestial provenance. But when it was finally delivered—to her airy studio in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where I’d come to see her on a February afternoon—magnets clung to its dimpled surface.
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Jack Whitten made it his life’s mission to give abstraction soul. I wrote about the restless experimentalism behind the artist’s magnificent retrospective at @MuseumModernArt https://t.co/re4ljY6bt9
RT @namwalien: Honored to have had the chance to spend time and share words with this literary genius and revolutionary before his passing.…
RT @jcljules: I wrote about a literary profile that disillusioned me about an idol—and showed me what the form can do. On Hilton Als’s “The…