Last week’s New Yorker published an article on the momentum of dessert, interpolating values between the primate hunting the sugary ripe fruit and the modern Spanish (where, we are to understand, it’s all happening) exquisitely arranged creations … and I came across another moment of thought.  This is why I am loving The New Yorker. Consider this definition of art:

“As we put the soufflés in the oven, he said, ‘Fifteen minutes,’ and when fifteen minutes had passed he held his hand above them, to measure the heat rising, as much as the texture firming, and nodded one last time.

“They were perfect.  The apricot intensity shone; the egg whites’ neutrality and airiness softened and lifted it; the hotness gave an edge of taste delight that is always allied to danger, even tiny danger.  A thousand small adjustments turn rules into skills, and then three smaller ones turn real skills into art.  With Yosses’s help, I had taken something elaborate and made it something that seemed elemental.”

“Sweet Revolution” by Adam Gopnik, The New Yorker, January 3, 2011.

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