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      A Celebrated Afghan School Fears the Taliban Will Stop the Music

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      The Afghanistan National Institute of Music became a symbol of the country’s changing identity.For more than a decade, the Afghanistan National Institute of Music has stood as a symbol of the country’s changing identity. The school trained hundreds of young artists, many of them orphans and street hawkers, in artistic traditions that were once forbidden by the Taliban. It formed an all-female orchestra that performed widely in Afghanistan and abroad.But in recent days, as the Taliban have been consolidating control over Afghanistan again, the school’s future has come into doubt.In interviews, several students and teachers said they feared the Taliban, who have a history of attacking the school’s leaders, would seek to punish people affiliated with the school as well as their families. Some said they worried the school will be shut down and they will not be allowed to play again. Several female students said they had been staying inside their homes since the capital was seized on Sunday“It’s a nightmare,” Ahmad Naser Sarmast, the head of the school, said in a telephone interview from Melbourne, Australia, where he arrived last month for medical treatment.The Taliban banned most forms of music when they previously ruled Afghanistan, from 1996 to 2001. This time, they have promised a more tolerant approach, vowing not to carry out reprisals against their former enemies and saying that women will be allowed to work and study “within the bounds of Islamic law.”But the Taliban’s history of violence toward artists and its general intolerance for music without religious meaning has sowed doubts among many performers.“My concern is that the people of Afghanistan will be deprived of their music,” Mr. Sarmast said. “There will be an attempt to silence the nation.”In 2010, Mr. Sarmast, an Afghan music scholar who was trained in Australia and plays trumpet and piano, opened the school, which has more than 400 students and staff members, with the support of the American-backed government. It was a rarity: a coeducational institution devoted to teaching music from both Afghanistan and the West.The school’s musicians were invited to perform on many of the world’s most renowned stages, including Carnegie Hall. They played Western classical music as well as traditional Afghan music and instruments, like the rubab, which resembles the lute and is one of the national instruments of Afghanistan.The school placed special emphasis on supporting young women, who make up a third of the student body. The school’s all-female orchestra, Zohra, founded in 2015, earned wide acclaim. Many were the first women in their families to receive formal training. In a symbol of its modern ways, head scarves for girls at the school’s campus in Kabul were optional.The school’s habit of challenging tradition made it a target. In 2014, Mr. Sarmast was injured by a Taliban suicide bomber who infiltrated a school play. The Taliban tried to attack the school again in the years that followed, but their attempts were thwarted, Mr. Sarmast said.Now, female students say they are concerned about a return to a repressive past, when the Taliban eliminated schooling for girls and barred women from leaving home without male guardians.Several female students — who were granted anonymity because they feared retaliation — said that it felt like their dreams to become professional musicians could disintegrate. They worried they might not be able to play music again in their lives, even as a hobby.In recent weeks, as the Taliban swept through the country, the school’s network of overseas supporters tried to help by raising money to improve security on campus, including by installing an armed gate and walls.But it’s now unclear if the school will even be permitted to operate under the Taliban. It is also increasingly difficult for citizens of Afghanistan to leave the country. Airport entrances have been chaotic and often impassable scenes for days, even for people with travel documentation. The Taliban control the streets, and though they say they are breaking up crowds at the airport to keep order, there are widespread reports that they are turning people away by force if they try to leave the country.The State Department said in a statement that it was working to get American citizens, as well as locally employed staff and vulnerable Afghans, out of the country, though crowding at the airport had made it more difficult. The department said it was prioritizing Afghan women and girls, human rights defenders and journalists, among others.“This effort is of utmost importance to the U.S. government,” the statement said.In the 1990s, the Taliban permitted religious singing but banned other forms of music because they were seen as distractions to Islamic studies and could encourage impure behavior. Taliban officials destroyed instruments and smashed cassette tapes.Understand the Taliban Takeover in AfghanistanCard 1 of 5Who are the Taliban? More

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      in Music

      Saving Pop Punk? That’s Just Their Warm-Up Act.

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      Depending on where you’re from and where you’ve been, you may be able to imagine a place like Davenport, Fla., which vibrates with the sleepy malaise of suburban sameness. Beige strip-mall storefronts unfurl along the streets. Some have no real names, just signs reading BARBER, TATTOOS, GUNS, TACOS. Davenport is about 35 miles from the center of Orlando, and on the drive the freeway starts to loosen and flow more easily. The atmosphere quiets. The signs of chain restaurants push into the dimming sky.Outside a cluster of resort homes was a security guard, skeptical but joyfully talkative. I told him I was there to see a band. He asked if I was sure I was in the right place. Based on the landscape beyond the gate, I didn’t feel entirely sure that I was. The place had a Pleasantville eeriness; I could imagine everyone stepping out at the exact same moment to pick up the morning papers. There were rules here, the guard told me, tentatively handing over a visitor’s pass. I had to be out by 10 p.m., no exceptions. I couldn’t park on the street or on the grass. And — he leaned close to my ​window — no loud music.Wandering down the dimly lit corridor of homes, it was hard to find addresses, or any distinctive traits at all, until I noticed something that had fallen off a door and was now sitting on a doorstep: a metal sign reading “ROCK-N-ROLL AVE.” This house was the unimaginative container for the brightness and enthusiasm of one of the most talked-about young bands of the past year: the guitarist Téa (pronounced TAY-Uh) Campbell, the lead singer Edith Johnson and the drummer Ada (pronounced ADD-Uh) Juarez, who make up the group Meet Me @ the Altar.I’d been summoned to see the would-be future of pop-punk, the new queens of noise, the band supposedly destined to drag a whole genre back to its heyday of big choruses and bigger feelings. Pop-punk has a circuitous history, full of sonic shifts and different regional scenes, but it found a peak of influence back in the early and mid-aughts, when bands like Paramore, Fall Out Boy and New Found Glory gave it a glossy sheen and a huge commercial reach, driving untold sales of studded belts and hair dye and getting their best lyrics quoted on untold MySpace profiles. What made that era special, to someone like me, was the way all of pop-punk’s scenes were rising at once — on the radio, on the music-video channels, even on the charts. But then things stalled; the mainstream moment faded; bands broke up or pivoted to different sounds. Soon enough people were looking backward at that moment, sometimes with mild amusement.The three young women who were expected to change that were sitting in one corner of a sprawling, corporate-looking leather couch on the house’s main floor. The home was one of those prefurnished affairs, with a coffee table that looked too precious to touch and a glass dining table that looked too precious to sit at. The walls were stark white and barren, save for some sparse bacon-themed art. (“We did a thing with Wendy’s, and they sent it to us,” Campbell said, shrugging.) But then, up the stairs, taped onto the walls, were rows and rows of fan letters and fan art — depictions of the band spanning from the cartoonish to the alarmingly realistic.The Meet Me @ the Altar house in Davenport, Fla.Jasmine Clarke for The New York TimesFan art in their house.Jasmine Clarke for The New York TimesBefore this house, the trio was scattered up and down the East Coast. Campbell is from Davenport, and the band played early shows in Orlando, but Juarez is from North Plainfield, N.J., and Johnson was in Peachtree City, Ga. Their recordings were initially made in separate places and stitched together. Then came a rise that, from the outside, seemed impossibly rapid. First the video for one of their songs, “Garden,” circulated online, catching the attention of pop-punk stalwarts. Then, in the midst of a pandemic, came a deal with the iconic label Fueled by Ramen, and a simmering campaign of hype. They gathered here because they needed to focus on making songs but also on learning how to be a band, in granular ways — ways it can take a band years of playing and touring together to pick up. The house was meant as a type of incubator, a vessel for emotional and creative acceleration.The members of M.M.A.T.A. have a magnetism that goes far beyond their music making. But the band is still relatively new, and facing high expectations. Watching them on that couch, talking over one another and exploding into laughter, I realized that what some might read as their youthful unawareness of the stakes was really something else. M.M.A.T.A. are a confident band — one that knows exactly where it stands, but hasn’t yet considered the possibility of failure.At a pizza shop, a few blocks away from the Orlando venue where the band cut its teeth, the 20-year-old Campbell and 22-year-old Juarez gave me the short version of their story.In the summer of 2015, bored at her grandmother’s house, Campbell went on YouTube, looking for videos of drummers covering songs by TwentyOne Pilots. That search brought her to Juarez, who had built a vast catalog of drum covers on her YouTube channel. “I had no idea where Ada was,” Campbell told me. “To me, she was just on the internet.” Still, Campbell reached out, and they exchanged contacts on the app Kik. They began by covering songs together remotely, sporadically posting the results, until they eventually decided they needed a singer.Edith Johnson was 14, living in Peachtree City and poking around online — “the beginning of my emo phase,” she says now — when she, too, saw a video posted to Juarez’s YouTube channel. The title was “I’m in a Band, and We Need a Singer.” At the time, Johnson was sinking into the music scene at an Atlanta venue called the Masquerade, whose logo she has since had tattooed on her forearm. She sent in a video of herself singing Paramore’s “All I Wanted.”Juarez and Campbell, sorting through submissions, narrowed their choices to two. It was 2016, and they posed one question to help them decide: They wanted to know their potential future singer’s preferred political candidate. “At the time,” Juarez told me, “if someone said Hillary and not Bernie, that was a red flag.” Johnson said Hillary, and so — whether or not you think it’s prudent for teenagers who can’t yet vote to make personnel decisions this way — she was rejected.“I was really angry, actually really mad,” Johnson said. “And I was like, ‘This is wrong, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m going to be in the band anyway.’ And literally that’s all I thought about, every single day, every single hour, for like two years.”The issue wasn’t just being in a band, something Johnson could have done easily. It was being in this band, with two girls she saw as at least somewhat like her — the kinds of Black and brown kids sometimes pushed to the margins of punk scenes. For Johnson, joining the band was an obsession, a mission, a destiny. “I texted her literally almost every day,” she said, nodding at Campbell. It was two years later, when things hadn’t worked out with the other singer, that Campbell relented, and the trio was complete.There is something specifically miraculous about this band’s emergence, something most easily recognized if you are of a certain age — say, a teenager in the early 2000s, when your time around any capital-S Scene would intersect with the rapid expansion of the World Wide Web. An era spent spiraling into message boards and chat rooms, lonely or bored and reaching out into a thrumming wilderness of faceless personas, hoping to brush up against another set of hands that matched enough of your desires to form something that felt like a bond. Someone “like you,” even if all that really meant was someone who loved some of the same songs, or who also felt lousy in her own scene sometimes and wanted to rage and shout. And of course, there were those of us who dreamed of starting our own bands, kicking around names on Instant Messenger with strangers we’d never meet, a thin veil of fantasy laid over the realities of our circumstances.Meet Me @ the Altar is a thrilling result of a generation beyond all that: kids who grew up communicating on the internet, with one another and with the world, and who could eventually say, “Let’s start a band,” and do it. The internet may seem to become less innocent with each passing hour, but there is still much to be said for what a young person can find on it. Here is a trio of young people who used the internet to its highest exploratory potential, and found one another — and then flourished, reveling in an unfinished but fluorescent version of themselves.First they posted covers on YouTube. Then they took to the road on small tours. It helped that they had the support of their parents, with each member coming from a musical family. Campbell’s parents met, she says, when her father, a producer, heard a recording of her mother, a singer, and fell in love. Johnson’s family has roots in gospel singing, and Juarez’s father is a drummer from El Salvador; when she was young and learning to play, he was the one to post videos on YouTube. “He just wanted to send them to my family back home,” she says. “He didn’t realize the rest of the internet could see them.”The girls began gathering in Florida, playing shows at Soundbar in Orlando, where there was enough of a scene for the group to get its bearings, and begin to create a hum of excitement. That hum became a loud buzz in June 2020, when Dan Campbell of the band the Wonder Years tweeted about the song “Garden,” starting a domino effect. Alex Gaskarth from All Time Low also endorsed the band, as did the singer Halsey. At the time, this version of the band’s lineup had just two self-released EPs to its name. But more and more people were getting a first taste of M.M.A.T.A.’s signature experience — the soaring and infectious chorus — and by the end of the month, labels were sending offers.There was only one label the group had its eye on: Fueled by Ramen, the home of bands, like Paramore, that M.M.A.T.A. idolized. “That was always the goal, the end goal,” Campbell said. “That is what we would have been working toward, to be on Fueled by Ramen. And everything happened so fast that I feel like we didn’t even truly have time to realize, ‘Damn, we’ve been thinking about this since we were 14 years old, and it’s actually happening right now.’”When news of the band’s signing hit, in October 2020, there was palpable excitement. But much of the talk was about the band’s racial makeup’s being different from that of almost every other act previously pursued by the label. Pop-punk has an image that doesn’t always align with its fan base: The fans, often enough, are young Black people or people of color, or are not male, and yet the face of the genre remains largely white, largely male. This opens the door to a lot of less-than-desirable outcomes, from small things (exhausting repetition of the same lyrical themes) to large ones (men taking advantage of their influence over young fans). Of the many reasons people were excited about M.M.A.T.A., there was also the idea that they could signal a change, a corrective.M.M.A.T.A. are a band of young women of color who have their horror stories about the ways they’ve occasionally been treated — by peers, by fans, by men working the door. Now these young women of color were being labeled their genre’s saviors, and the predictability of the American imagination was on full display. There are those who are most at ease, most in awe, when the problems in a subsection of American culture are battled by those already most affected by them. It feeds a mythology that marginalized people are acting out of charity, not necessity. M.M.A.T.A. were suddenly expected to save a scene — as opposed to building a newer, more generous one.“White guilt is something, isn’t it?” Johnson said, grinning slyly, a crescent of pizza crust clasped by her iridescent nails. “If I’m being completely honest, that’s what it was. People were like, ‘Oh, here are all these bands of color!’ And we got to be at the forefront of that. And then, also being women —” She stopped for a split second, just long enough to snap back to a needed clarity. “And,” she said, “we’re also good.”At the Mill Hill in Trenton, N.J., in February.Leigh Ann RodgersWhen I met with M.M.A.T.A., they were riding high off performing a sold-out D.J. set at an emo night in Brooklyn, and were perhaps a little energized about arguing over the fates of their favorite genres. Emo was a commercial force 15 years ago; what did it mean now? Was the pop-punk scene in decline or ripe for resurrection? What parts of it were most worth saving? The need for some kind of pop-punk reconstruction was laid bare outside Soundbar, where one of the band’s friends showed off a new belt from the store Hot Topic, a mecca for generations of the pop-punk/emo set. Campbell tapped the belt’s metallic studs and then turned, incredulous, toward the rest of the band: “Plastic!” she exclaimed. “Hot Topic is using plastic these days!”“I feel like normies have changed the meaning,” she theorized, back at home, “because they don’t know what it is. Pop-punk didn’t go away. I think the mainstream just stopped paying attention.” Johnson agreed. “There is still a scene,” she said. “There will always be a scene.”Amid all the talk of M.M.A.T.A. as the saviors of pop-punk, there was significantly less discussion of them as purists of the form. They have a very specific goal, which became clearer as our conversation continued: They want to bring 2008 back. Someone my age might wince at this, but Campbell and Johnson stressed the simplicity of this aim. There were more guitars on the radio back then. M.M.A.T.A. want pop-punk to have another mainstream moment.They also know that to make that happen, they’ll need to pull from all their creative influences: Johnson’s soaring gospel impulses, Juarez’s affection for bands like Linkin Park and Korn, Campbell’s impeccable ear for pop. Johnson’s melodies, in particular, make you reach for the repeat button; the choruses arrive like sugar and sit long enough before dissolving that you develop a craving for the next one. Earlier in life, she could have sung anything — gospel, R.&B., folk — but she chose to sing pop-punk and infuse every other influence into the way she did it.At the house, Campbell was talking about “Model Citizen,” the EP the band was preparing to release on its new label. At the time, the record was in a place many artists know well: finished but not yet headed to the public. This left time for the band to get existential about the EP’s thematic concerns. “I think it tells the story,” Campbell said, “of realizing that, like, you’re not really OK.”The music finds the band expanding but keeping its sonic impulses close, growing new branches from a familiar tree. But there is something viscerally interior about the songs — a kind of curiosity, a surgical and sometimes comical analysis of what can and cannot be felt. So many of this genre’s songs insist on turning up the volume at the edges of feeling, but M.M.A.T.A. seem obsessed with analyzing the absence of feeling, or the awareness that feeling something important might require not feeling good. The record’s first single, “Feel a Thing,” is resigned but playful, a smirking tune about floating between youth and something that is no longer youth, aimless but with big aims. The second, “Brighter Days (Are Before Us),” has an almost evangelical groove, with the band members promising that they have seen the future and it ain’t all bad — they just need to get there, together.What fascinates most about “Model Citizen” is the way the band seems happy to examine inner terrors and turmoils for its own sake, with anyone listening just along for the ride. As much as coverage of M.M.A.T.A focuses on the members’ youth, they aren’t exactly kids anymore, and they’re not in a position most people who think of themselves as kids are in. They dreamed the impossible and then stepped into it as the world around them was falling into social, political and medical upheaval. It makes sense that “Model Citizen” is taking a magnifying glass to the question of what it means to grow older, and then what it means to grow up.The members of M.M.A.T.A. may not have time to be as in awe of themselves as others are. The band’s tour schedule, starting in late August, is a sprawling sprint, with 45 shows in less than three months, supporting Coheed and Cambria and the Used’s tour together and then All Time Low’s U.S. and U.K. tour dates.I soon noticed the clock pushing well past 10 p.m., the time I was told I would be exiled from the neighborhood. On my way out, though, I found myself compelled to ask the broad and boring question: What comes after all the hype? The band members are young, with seemingly endless potential and cultural good will at their disposal. What can be made of it?At Local 506 in Chapel Hill, N.C.Leigh Ann RodgersThey all chimed in. “I want us to be a household name,” Juarez said.“Like Green Day type [stuff],” Johnson added.“I want people’s kids to know that they have someone like us to look up to,” Juarez said.Campbell, who had been nodding along, paused before adding a finer point.“We want to be the biggest band in the world,” she began. “Not for the fame or the money or any other [expletive], because that doesn’t matter. But for the sole purpose of being able to have a bigger platform so more people can discover us and realize, ‘I have someone who looks like me in this band that I have never seen before.’ That’s all we can ask for at the end of the day, because I’m not getting existential, we’re all going to die one day and what we leave behind is what matters, and if our music and just our existence as a band can change someone’s life … we just want to pave the way for other bands, so that this is normal.”With any other band, I might have been cynical about this idea of selfless success that echoes outward. But everything else this band has manifested for itself, and for the world around it, has come true. It makes them easy to believe, and to believe in.Hanif Abdurraqib is a poet, an essayist and a cultural critic from Columbus, Ohio. He last wrote about the band the Black Keys. More

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      in Television

      In ‘My Unorthodox Life,’ Fashion Is a Flash Point

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      “Show me a law that says I cannot wear high-heeled shoes.”Early in “My Unorthodox Life,” the Netflix reality series about Julia Haart, the fashion executive who turned her back on her strict religious upbringing for the high life in Manhattan, Batsheva, her elder daughter, strolls onto the set in a trim pair of jeans.“What are you wearing?” Batsheva’s husband, Ben, asks dourly. “I got used to you not covering your hair. But pants?”She has upended not just his sense of decorum but a stringent, and oft-misunderstood, dress code dating from biblical times. Ben, who has been slower to abandon the traditions of his Orthodox upbringing, pleads for time to process her choice. Plainly, she is not having it.“The idea that a woman can wear short skirts but not pants — it’s really just a mind-set that you’re brought up with,” Batsheva said the other day. “I thought it was time to deprogram that thought.”Such debates over fashion are central to a show in which fashion, along with the splashier totems of secularism — the TriBeCa penthouse, the helicopter jaunts to the Hamptons — is itself a protagonist. It is also a flash point around which family tensions revolve.Those tensions are largely inflamed by Julia, the 50-year-old family matriarch and resident firebrand, who rejected the strictures of her Orthodox community in Monsey, N.Y., for a fairy-tale hybrid of “Jersey Shore” and “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”An irrepressible mix of ambition, entitlement and caustic indignation, she spends much of her time in the series railing against her culture’s restrictive mores and, in particular, its insistence on a version of modesty that prohibits showing one’s collarbone, knees and elbows.Waging philosophical war on the community she fled, she gives rein to a fiercely evangelical bent of her own. “The idea that women should cover, that they are responsible for men’s impulses and impure thoughts, that’s pure fundamentalism,” Ms. Haart said in an interview. “It has nothing to do with Judaism.”Fashion, she insists, has been a liberating force in her life, the most visible and immediately accessible badge of her unfettered self-expression.On the show she exults in pushing boundaries, flaunting generous expanses of what her daughters would call “boobage” and greeting visitors in metallic leather hot pants and thigh-high skirts.Ms. Julia Haart, in a sequined jumpsuit, at the Elite World Group fashion show.via NetflixMore provocatively, she throws on a tailored romper for an impromptu visit to Monsey. “You’re getting some looks,” her friend and colleague Robert Brotherton murmurs as she negotiates the aisles of her hometown supermarket. But Julia is unmoved.She is more inclined to preach the gospel of self-fulfillment than to discuss the high-end labels she favors. But even in the bedroom, it would seem, her own initials aren’t enough, her pajamas boldly stamped with fancy Vuitton monograms. She flaunts chili-pepper-colored trousers and a star-spangled top on the show, proclaiming, “To me every low-cut top, every miniskirt is an emblem of freedom.”Ms. Haart’s relentless sermonizing can seem abrasive at times. “The way she talks about freedom reminds me of someone who is very resentful of all the rules,” said Amy Klein, who alluded to her own abandonment of religious orthodoxy in an article on Kveller, a website focused on Jewish culture and motherhood.Was she acting out of zavka? “That’s Yiddish for ‘spite,’” Ms. Klein said. “The idea is you should dress provocatively so that it really feels like you’re rebelling.”No question, Ms. Haart’s journey was filled with trepidation, as will likely be detailed in her forthcoming memoir, “Brazen: My Unorthodox Journey From Long Sleeves to Lingerie.” After leaving her husband, Yosef Hendler, who is portrayed sympathetically on the show, “I was sleeping with other men but still wearing my wig,” she said. “That’s the level of fear I had. To me, taking my sheitel off meant God was going to kill me and I would go to hell.”She confronted her fears in baby steps, first selling insurance to save enough money to leave Monsey and eventually designing a line of killer heels not unlike the six-inch platform stilettos she wears on the show. “Show me a law that says I cannot wear high-heeled shoes,” she taunts.Or for that matter, the flashy togs that are part of the line she created for Elite World Group, the modeling and talent conglomerate she owns with her husband, Silvio Scaglia Haart, a collection replete with mock croc candy-pink jackets, emerald-sequined jumpsuits and the glittery like.Miriam, left, and Batsheva Haart. Like their mother, they have come a long way. via NetflixHer daughters tend to take their styles cues from mom. Miriam, 20, a student at Stanford, favors vivid tartan strapless tops, hot pink puffer coats and skinny tanks. Batsheva, 28, adopts a cottage-core-inflected look, all fluffy skirts and puffy sleeves, with an occasional, if not overtly racy, display of cleavage.Partial to labels including Valentino, Fendi and Dior, she shows off her caviar tastes on the series, as well as on Instagram and TikTok. Very much her mother’s daughter, she favors vivid prints and color: searing coral, sweet lilac and hibiscus. Like her mother, she has come a long way.Ms. Haart attended the Bais Yaakov seminary in Monsey, where she raised eyebrows when she wore a red dress. “Someone complained and I was called into the rabbi’s office,” she recalled. “He told me: ‘You have to stop wearing color. It’s not appropriate. You’re attracting attention.’ But where in the Bible does it say you can’t wear color?”Where indeed?“Modesty is not mentioned in the scriptures,” said Jonathan Sarna, a professor of American Jewish history at Brandeis University. “Those rabbinical interpretations of modesty were retrojected into the biblical texts over time.”Deeply rooted in the Talmud, the primary source of Jewish law and tradition, those interpretations, Dr. Sarna said, were based largely on the supposition that the sight of a woman, and even her voice, is arousing for men.Ms. Haart on her wedding day in 1991.Elite World Group, via NetflixHistorically, the call to modesty was by no means uniformly or universally heeded. “A considerable degree of divergence was to be found in the social norms in this realm, which were significantly influenced by social, economic and geographic differences,” Yosef Ahituv observes in The Jewish Women’s Archive.Men, it should be noted, were hardly exempt from the rules. Boys were expected to turn up at school in an unvarying uniform of black pants and white shirts buttoned to the neck, Ben recalled. “That way they wouldn’t be distracted from their studies.”And yet, Dr. Sarna points out, “The paradox of modesty is that its obligations fall mainly on women.”Because standards rarely were codified, it was often left to schools to enforce regulations, including the edict to cover one’s knees. Dr. Sarna can still remember a time when teachers measured girls’ skirts to determine how many inches they were above the knee. “Sarah, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel also were modest,” he said. “But I have doubts as to whether anybody was measuring skirts in those earlier days.”Ms. Haart with Batsheva and her son Shlomo in 1999.via NetflixMs. Haart chafed under similar restrictions and ultimately ditched them along with her sheitel and calf-sweeping skirts, trading them for the gilded accouterments of corporate success. Her audacity has earned her a following, but it has also drawn ire.“The show is not called ‘My Fringe Sect Life,’ it is called ‘My Unorthodox Life,’” reads an opinion piece from The Jerusalem Post. Julia “is therefore pointing the accusatory finger at all mainstream Orthodox Jews.”Others question her motives, speculating that the show was a marketing ploy conceived to pave the way to a planned Elite World Group public offering.Julia’s style alone has spawned plenty of chatter.“I know Netflix loves fetishizing ex-Orthodox women who abandon their Judaism,” Chavie Lieber, a reporter for The Business of Fashion, wrote on Twitter, referring to the near prurient fascination spawned by shows like “Shtisel” and “Unorthodox.”But as she observes: “There are thousands (millions?) of Orthodox women who have a very different story. And yes, some of us work in #fashion too.”As Julia herself hammers home repeatedly, and somewhat defensively, her issue is not with her faith but with any and all expressions of religious extremism. Reaching for consensus, she aligns herself broadly with the precepts of feminism.“How many times was I told as a girl, ‘Julia, your dancing, your learning the Talmud, these things are not appropriate,’” she said. “I want to eradicate this whole concept of the well-behaved woman.”And with it the notion of suitable garb. “We are relying on men to tells us what God wants from us,” she likes to chide. “I want women to choose for themselves.” More

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      in Movies

      Marcia Nasatir, Who Broke a Glass Ceiling in Hollywood, Dies at 95

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      A former book editor and agent, she got her first movie studio job, at United Artists, when she was 48. She insisted on being hired as a vice president.Marcia Nasatir, who was the first woman to become a vice president of a major Hollywood studio — although, unlike some female executives who followed her, she never got to run one — died on Aug. 3 in Woodland Hills, Calif. She was 95.Her sons, Mark and Seth, confirmed the death, at the Motion Picture & Television Fund’s Country Home and Hospital.Ms. Nasatir — “the first mogulette,” as she called herself in her email address — was a forerunner of female Hollywood executives like Sherry Lansing, who became the first woman to head production for a studio at 20th Century Fox in 1980, and Dawn Steel, who achieved another first when she was named president of Columbia Studios seven years later.“She was a grande dame, our first female elder,” Lucy Fisher, a former vice chairwoman of Columbia TriStar Pictures, said by phone. “She gave me my first job, as a reader, at United Artists. And she helped me get my next job, with Samuel Goldwyn Jr.“She asked me: ‘Do you really want the job? Then go back and put on a pair of hose.’ I said, ‘Marcia, I don’t own a pair of hose,’ and she said, ‘Good luck.’”Ms. Nasatir began her path to Hollywood as a single mother in New York in the 1950s, when she was hired as a secretary at Grey Advertising. After successful stints as an editor at Dell Publishing and Bantam Books, she left for Hollywood to become a literary agent; her clients included the screenwriters Robert Towne and William Goldman.In 1974, she approached Mike Medavoy, a former top agent who had just been named vice president of production at United Artists. “I hear you’re moving to United Artists,” she said, recalling the conversation years later in “A Classy Broad: Marcia’s Adventures in Hollywood” (2016), a documentary directed by Anne Goursaud. “I think he said, ‘I’m going to need a good story editor,’ and I said, ‘How about me?’”They met soon after for breakfast, and he offered her a story editor position, in which she would look for books, scripts and plays to turn into movies. It was a traditional job for women in Hollywood. But, at 48, she wanted more and demanded that she be hired as a vice president. (Her title was vice president of motion picture development.)“It seemed to me,” she told The Arizona Republic in 1985, “that I would be a more effective employee, and my opinions would be more respected by writers and actors, if I had the title of vice president instead of story editor.”Mr. Medavoy, in a phone interview, said that Ms. Nasatir had brought “taste and reach” to United Artists.“She was strong-willed and tough but really fair,” he said, “and she got everybody to sign on to being that way, to being collegial.”Ms. Nasatir with Mike Medavoy, who hired her at United Artists. “She was strong-willed and tough,” Mr. Medavoy recalled, “but really fair.”A Classy Broad/Marcia Nasatir ProductionsMs. Nasatir worked closely with Mr. Medavoy from 1974 to 1978, a fruitful period for United Artists that begot films like “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” “Carrie,” the 1976 remake of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” “Bound for Glory” and “Coming Home” — whose female lead, Jane Fonda, thanked Ms. Nasatir when she accepted her Oscar for best actress.It was Ms. Nasatir who gave Sylvester Stallone’s screenplay for “Rocky” to the producers Irwin Winkler and Robert Chartoff. The film won the Oscar for best picture and had a worldwide gross of more than $117 million (nearly $555 million in today’s money).“‘Rocky’ is, of course, the perfect fairy tale,” Ms. Nasatir said in “A Classy Broad.”Her tenure at United Artists did not have a fairy-tale ending. When Mr. Medavoy and four other executives, including the chairman, Arthur Krim, left United Artists to create Orion Pictures in early 1978, they did not ask her to join them as a partner. And she did not get Mr. Medavoy’s job at United Artists, where he had been in charge of worldwide production; it went to a man, Danton Risser.She resigned and joined Orion as a vice president, hoping that her former colleagues would make her a partner. But that did not happen.“They didn’t want to split things six ways, and didn’t value what my contribution was,” she told The Hollywood Reporter.Mr. Medavoy said in the interview that it was “interesting” that Ms. Nasatir had felt disappointed at not being asked to be a partner at Orion. “Was it because she was a woman? No,” he said. “It was the fact that there were five of us already.”Marcia Birenberg was born on May 8, 1926, in Brooklyn and grew up in San Antonio. Her father, Jack, sold cloth for men’s fine woolen apparel; her mother, Sophie (Weprinsky) Birenberg, had been a garment worker in New York City before her wedding and talked about going on strike “as one of the greatest moments in her life,” Ms. Nasatir once said.Wanting to be a newspaperwoman, Ms. Nasatir studied journalism at Northwestern University and the University of Texas, Austin, but did not graduate.In 1947 she married Mort Nasatir, who was later president of MGM Records and publisher of Billboard magazine; the marriage ended in divorce after six years. She joined Grey Advertising in about 1955 and left after a few years for another secretarial job, at Dell, where she worked for the publisher. While there, she became an editor and recommended that Dell buy the paperback rights to “Catch-22,” Joseph Heller’s dark satirical novel about World War II. Within a year of its publication in 1962, it had sold two million copies.Ms. Nasatir in 2017. In recent years she and the screenwriter Lorenzo Semple Jr. had reviewed movies online as “Reel Geezers.” Richard Shotwell/Invision, via Associated PressMs. Nasatir moved on to Bantam Books, where her biggest coup was suggesting that the company publish the Warren Commission Report on the assassination of President John F. Kennedy within days of its release in 1964, kicking off the genre of “instant” books. She also worked on acquiring paperback rights to books that were being adapted for movies, a role that brought her into contact with Evarts Ziegler, a Hollywood agent, who hired her for his agency in 1969.She left after five years because Mr. Ziegler would not raise her $25,000 salary (about $146,000 today).“He said, ‘You don’t have anyone to support; a man has a family support,’” she recalled in “A Classy Broad.” “And I said: ‘Zig, I support myself. Why shouldn’t I make as much as a man?’”United Artists offered her $50,000, and after her four years there and one year at Orion, she was briefly an independent producer before being hired to run the film division of Johnny Carson’s company Carson Productions. While there she agreed to take on, when other studios would not, Lawrence Kasdan’s “The Big Chill” (1983), about former college classmates who gather for the funeral of one from their circle. She became its executive producer, and it proved to be a moderate box office success and an enduring favorite among many baby boomers.From then on, her career toggled between holding executive positions, with Fox and Phoenix Pictures (which Mr. Medavoy co-founded), and producing films, including “Hamburger Hill” and “Ironweed” (both in 1987), “Vertical Limit” (2000) and “Death Defying Acts” (2008).Starting in 2008, Ms. Nasatir and the screenwriter Lorenzo Semple Jr., who had been a client of hers when she was an agent, reviewed movies online as “Reel Geezers.” Close friends, they were passionate and deeply informed about moviemaking. He could be dyspeptic. She was more laid back. They kibitzed. They squabbled.In addition to her sons, she is survived by two granddaughters and a sister, Rose Spector, the first woman elected to the Texas Supreme Court.Being hired at United Artists had historic significance for Ms. Nasatir, because the studio’s founders had included the actress Mary Pickford. But despite that precedent, she was not destined to run United Artists — or any other studio.“If I had been born 20 years later, I would have been the head of a studio, which I would have liked,” she told Scott Feinberg of The Hollywood Reporter in 2013. “But I’m content with how things turned out for me and happy to see other women carry the torch even further.” More

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      With #MeToo Case Against Kris Wu, China Hits Out at Celebrities

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      The detention of Kris Wu, a popular Canadian singer, has been hailed as a rare victory for the movement. But Beijing, wary of social activism, has cast it as a warning to celebrities.China’s ruling Communist Party has seized on the high-profile detention of a Canadian Chinese pop singer in Beijing on suspicion of rape to deliver a stark warning against what it regards as a social ill: celebrity obsession.In less than a month, the pop singer Kris Wu, 30, has gone from being one of China’s biggest stars, with several lucrative endorsements and legions of young female fans, to perhaps the most prominent figure in the country to be detained over #MeToo allegations. The police said over the weekend that Mr. Wu was being investigated after weeks of public accusations of sexual wrongdoing against him, though officials provided few details.Born in China and raised partly in Canada, Mr. Wu rose to fame as a member of the Korean pop band EXO, before striking out on his own as a singer and actor. He built a huge following in China with his manicured good looks and edgy swagger. He amassed endorsement deals with many domestic and international brands, including Bulgari and Louis Vuitton.Mr. Wu has not been formally charged, but his career in China has already taken a big hit. After mounting public pressure, more than a dozen brands cut ties with him. His Weibo social media account, where he had over 51 million followers, was taken down shortly after the news of his detention. His songs have also disappeared from Chinese music platforms.Chinese women’s rights activists have hailed the detention as a rare victory for the country’s fledgling #MeToo movement. But the Communist Party’s official news outlets have largely cast the investigation into Mr. Wu as proof that the party, led by Xi Jinping, one of its most hard-line leaders in decades, defends the interests of ordinary people.Guo Ting, a gender studies scholar at the University of Hong Kong, said, “Xi has tried to reinvent the party as the legitimate party for the people and the party of Chinese socialism for the people.” By going after Mr. Wu, she added, the party is “targeting the so-called rich and powerful, while evading the real kind of gray area of that wealth and power within the party elite.”Mr. Wu on the runway during a Louis Vuitton show in Shanghai last August. Before the allegations, Mr. Wu had several lucrative endorsements.Lintao Zhang/Getty ImagesWhen the accusations against Mr. Wu first emerged weeks ago, the party’s propaganda outlets largely stayed quiet. But after his detention, they put out commentaries and news reports hailing it as a lesson to celebrities.“Wu Yifan has money, he’s handsome and he has the status of being a ‘top star,’” read a commentary in The Global Times, a Communist Party-run newspaper, referring to the singer by his Chinese name. “Perhaps he thought that ‘sleeping with women’ was his advantage, maybe even his privilege.”“But on this precise point he has made a mistake,” the newspaper noted.Some of the rhetoric noted that foreign citizenship did not place celebrities beyond the reach of the law, pointing in part to continuing tensions between China and Canada as well as rising anti-Western sentiment among Chinese.CCTV, China’s state broadcaster, said in a commentary, “No one has a talisman — the halo of celebrity cannot protect you, fans cannot protect you, a foreign passport cannot protect you.”The state news media’s approach reflects the Chinese government’s recent crackdown on the entertainment industry and the culture of celebrity worship that Beijing has accused of leading the country’s youth astray. The authorities have stepped up censorship, cracked down on the widespread practice of tax evasion within the industry and ordered caps on salaries for the country’s biggest movie stars.Concerns about the outsize influence of celebrities on the country’s youth reached a peak in May when fans supporting contestants in a boy band competition spent huge sums of money buying — then apparently dumping — yogurt drinks to vote for their favorite idols. The government promptly issued regulations aimed at cracking down on what they called “chaotic” online fan clubs and their “irrational” behaviors. The authorities on Monday said they had already taken down thousands of “problematic groups” as part of an ongoing effort to address “bad online fan culture.”The authorities “are concerned about the impact on the youth,” said Bai Meijiadai, a lecturer at Liaoning University in northeastern China who studies fan culture. “They want to see the youth studying and working, not spending excessive amounts of money to chase stars.”Mr. Wu, too, had an army of fans eager to open their wallets to bolster his image by buying albums and even making donations to charities in his name. He has also sought to use his influence to pressure his critics into silence, according to his accuser and a producer of a popular showbiz program.The producer, Xiao Wei, said his show, “Xiu Cai Kan Entertainment,” had been compelled to remove a video it had posted online in which its hosts criticized Mr. Wu after the allegations of sexual misconduct had emerged. Mr. Xiao said the short-video platform Douyin had told the program that they had been contacted by Mr. Wu’s lawyers.An Elle magazine cover featuring Mr. Wu, at a newsstand in Beijing on Sunday. The government in China has accused the culture of celebrity worship of leading the country’s youth astray.Ng Han Guan/Associated Press“This is an age of stars, fans and traffic,” Mr. Xiao said in an interview. “Money has become the only criterion to success — this is not right.”.css-1xzcza9{list-style-type:disc;padding-inline-start:1em;}.css-3btd0c{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-size:1rem;line-height:1.375rem;color:#333;margin-bottom:0.78125rem;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-3btd0c{font-size:1.0625rem;line-height:1.5rem;margin-bottom:0.9375rem;}}.css-3btd0c strong{font-weight:600;}.css-3btd0c em{font-style:italic;}.css-w739ur{margin:0 auto 5px;font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-weight:700;font-size:1.125rem;line-height:1.3125rem;color:#121212;}#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-w739ur{font-family:nyt-cheltenham,georgia,’times new roman’,times,serif;font-weight:700;font-size:1.375rem;line-height:1.625rem;}@media (min-width:740px){#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-w739ur{font-size:1.6875rem;line-height:1.875rem;}}@media (min-width:740px){.css-w739ur{font-size:1.25rem;line-height:1.4375rem;}}.css-9s9ecg{margin-bottom:15px;}.css-uf1ume{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-box-pack:justify;-webkit-justify-content:space-between;-ms-flex-pack:justify;justify-content:space-between;}.css-wxi1cx{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-flex-direction:column;-ms-flex-direction:column;flex-direction:column;-webkit-align-self:flex-end;-ms-flex-item-align:end;align-self:flex-end;}.css-12vbvwq{background-color:white;border:1px solid #e2e2e2;width:calc(100% – 40px);max-width:600px;margin:1.5rem auto 1.9rem;padding:15px;box-sizing:border-box;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-12vbvwq{padding:20px;width:100%;}}.css-12vbvwq:focus{outline:1px solid #e2e2e2;}#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-12vbvwq{border:none;padding:10px 0 0;border-top:2px solid #121212;}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-rdoyk0{-webkit-transform:rotate(0deg);-ms-transform:rotate(0deg);transform:rotate(0deg);}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-eb027h{max-height:300px;overflow:hidden;-webkit-transition:none;transition:none;}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-5gimkt:after{content:’See more’;}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-6mllg9{opacity:1;}.css-qjk116{margin:0 auto;overflow:hidden;}.css-qjk116 strong{font-weight:700;}.css-qjk116 em{font-style:italic;}.css-qjk116 a{color:#326891;-webkit-text-decoration:underline;text-decoration:underline;text-underline-offset:1px;-webkit-text-decoration-thickness:1px;text-decoration-thickness:1px;-webkit-text-decoration-color:#326891;text-decoration-color:#326891;}.css-qjk116 a:visited{color:#326891;-webkit-text-decoration-color:#326891;text-decoration-color:#326891;}.css-qjk116 a:hover{-webkit-text-decoration:none;text-decoration:none;}The police investigation into Mr. Wu came weeks after a university student, Du Meizhu, now 18, accused the singer of enticing young women like herself with the promise of career opportunities, then pressuring them into having sex.Ms. Du’s public accusations were met with an outpouring of support, but also criticism from the singer’s fans, prompting debates about victim shaming, consent and abuse of power in the workplace.Some women’s rights activists saw Mr. Wu’s detention as a sign that feminist values had finally permeated the mainstream to the extent that the authorities could no longer afford to look the other way. They said they were hopeful that it would encourage more women to come forward to share their experiences and that it could lead to wider avenues for legal recourse for sexual assault survivors.“This time, progress was made very suddenly, but it was very satisfying,” said Li Tingting, a gender equality activist in Beijing. “Everyone is looking forward to what will happen in the future.”But it remained unclear if the police in Beijing were looking specifically into Ms. Du’s complaints. The authorities last month released initial findings about her allegations that said she had hyped her story to “enhance her online popularity.”Ms. Du did not respond to requests for comment. Emails to Mr. Wu’s studio and his lawyer received no response. Mr. Wu denied the allegations on his personal Weibo account last month, saying he would send himself to jail if they were true.Despite the surprise development, activists know that China’s #MeToo movement is tightly constrained by the government’s strict limits on dissent and activism. Women who have previously come forward with accusations of sexual harassment and assault against prominent men have often become targets of threats and defamation lawsuits. Feminist activist accounts and chat groups on Chinese social media sites are routinely shut down.The swift manner in which the authorities have addressed the complaints against Mr. Wu contrasts with how they responded to #MeToo accusations against Zhu Jun, a prominent television personality at CCTV, the state broadcaster. Mr. Zhu was accused by a former intern, Zhou Xiaoxuan, in 2018, of forcibly kissing and groping her in 2014 while she was working on his program, accusations that he has denied. Ms. Zhou has sued Mr. Zhu for damages, but three years later, her complaint remains unresolved.Zhou Xiaoxuan at her home in Beijing in 2018. Her #MeToo accusations against Zhu Jun, a prominent television personality at CCTV, the state broadcaster, remain unresolved.Iris Zhao/The New York TimesMr. Wu, by comparison, is not part of the party establishment.Professor Guo, of the University of Hong Kong, said, “It is still a state capitalist system and Wu Yifan is not a part of that official establishment,” adding, “His nationality and his status, I think, make it easy for the party to on one hand cut him off, while still maintaining its own legitimacy.” More

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      in Movies

      ‘Sabaya’ Review: Light Breaking Through Darkness

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      This intrepid, immersive documentary follows the men and women who rescue Yazidi girls kidnapped and held by Islamic State fighters in a Syrian refugee camp.In the black of night in northeastern Syria, two men drive their rickety jeep deep into Al Hol, a refugee camp for families of fighters for the Islamic State, also known as ISIS. The men rifle through tents and argue with hostile residents before finding their target: a Yazidi teenage girl kidnapped years ago and held as a “sabaya” or sex slave. As the rescuers make their way out of the camp with her, they dodge speeding cars and bullets.All of this happens in the first 20-or-so minutes of Hogir Hirori’s “Sabaya.” Mahmud and Ziyad, volunteers at the Yazidi Home Center in Syria, will make several more such trips over the course of the film, and hundreds more after the cameras stop rolling. Their task is enormous, and it demands a stoicism that Hirori’s intrepid, immersive filmmaking mirrors.Shooting with a hand-held camera, Hirori (who also edited the film) stitches together glimpses of the men’s daily lives at the Center — smoke breaks, meals with family, endless phone calls with relatives of the captured girls — into a portrait of unsentimental routine. This is in part a protective tactic: To dwell on the tragedy of the 7-year-old rescued after six years in captivity, or the girl whose family refuses to accept her son because his father is an ISIS fighter, is to open up to debilitating horror.Which makes the courage of the former sabayas who embed themselves in the camp as informers all the more remarkable. As I watched them enter the camp in niqabs, Hirori following closely with his camera, my heart fluttered with both fear and hope. In a film about the light that breaks through the darkest of darknesses, these women shine the brightest.SabayaNot rated. In Kurdish and Arabic, with subtitles. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes. In theaters. More

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      in Music

      A Violinist on How to Empower Asian Musicians

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      Jennifer Koh, an acclaimed soloist, calls on classical music to make space for artists of Asian descent, who remain marginalized in the field.I have not been surprised by the recent violence toward Asian Americans. I palpably remember being afraid when I was a child in Illinois, in the 1980s.At that time, Japan was seen as a looming economic force invading the United States. In 1982, Vincent Chin, a Chinese American man, was beaten to death by two white men who thought he was Japanese, here to steal American jobs. The perpetrators received a $3,000 fine and probation for killing a man who looked like my father. The message was clear: Asian American lives had little value.This message trickled down to my elementary school, where my classmates broke eggs into my hair and hit me on an almost daily basis for five years because I was not white. And yet I was grateful to be Asian American. After all, we were the model minority.This myth that all Asian Americans are quiet, diligent and successful was invented to pit minority groups against each other, making racism palatable by giving Asians distorted praise and falsely promising them access to the white American dream. The myth defers the kind of solidarity between minorities that could threaten entrenched racial power structures.This myth also hides truths: Currently in New York City, nearly a quarter of the Asian population lives below the poverty line; Asian immigrants have among the highest poverty rates in the city.A beneficiary of changes to American immigration policies that had placed quotas on nonwhite immigrants, I am the daughter of Korean War refugees. During her childhood, my mother witnessed horrific violence and experienced overwhelming fear and hunger. Although my family’s history is a common one for Korean Americans, it is a part of Asian American history largely ignored in this country. But perhaps even less known is what it is like to be an Asian American woman in classical music.“In the beginning of my career, I was told by an influential conductor — who had never heard me play — that I could never be a true artist.”Caitlin Ochs for The New York TimesHaving had few opportunities in their childhoods, my parents provided me with numerous extracurricular activities, one of which was violin lessons. But when I was growing up, I saw very few people in music who looked like me. In 1980, according to the League of American Orchestras, 96.6 percent of orchestral players in the country were white. At that time, the “Oriental presence in classical music,” as a New York Times article put it, was a topic of discussion.These days, Asians are often referred to as overrepresented minorities. In the League of American Orchestras’s most recent data, 86.8 percent of orchestral musicians are white and 9.1 percent are of Asian descent. Among executives in classical music, 91.7 percent are white. The percentage of ethnic Asians in these management positions is too small to be included.It is highly misleading to say that Asian Americans are overrepresented in what remains an overwhelmingly white and male field.Classical music is often called “universal,” but what does universality mean when the field was built for white men who still hold much of the power? In my nearly 30-year career, I have seen not even a handful of ethnic Asians — much less Asian American women — ascend to executive or leadership positions.I have witnessed throughout my career that those of us who are ethnically Asian but were born, raised or trained in America and Europe, are burdened with the belief that musicians of Asian descent are diligent, hard-working and technically perfect — but cannot understand the true essence of music, have no soul and ultimately cannot be true artists. In the beginning of my career, I was told by an influential conductor — who had never heard me play — that I could never be a true artist because he did not understand Chinese music and therefore Chinese people could never understand classical music.The American historian Grace Wang uses the term “innate capacity” to describe the belief that different types of music originate from, and therefore belong to, specific groups of people from specific places. The assumption that a musician can be a great interpreter of a composer because he or she is from the country where the composer once lived is often expressed, both implicitly and explicitly. Technique can be learned, according to this perspective, but the ability to truly understand the essence of classical music can only be acquired through bloodline and race.In 2007, it was revealed that Joyce Hatto, a white British pianist, had stolen recordings of other pianists — including those of Yuki Matsuzawa, a Japanese woman — and released them as her own. Tom Deacon, long considered a gatekeeper in classical music, a former record executive and a well-traveled competitions judge, had written on a classical music message board about both Hatto’s and Matsuzawa’s recordings, without knowing they were the same.Of what he believed to be Hatto, Deacon wrote: “My oh my, this is a beautiful recording of Chopin’s music. The pieces flow so naturally and so completely, without precious effects.” Hatto, he added, played “the octaves so incredibly smoothly that they seem to flow from her fingers”Of what was labeled, correctly, as Matsuzawa: “Faceless, typewriter, neat as a pin but utterly flaccid performances with small, tiny poetic gestures added like so much rouge on the face of a Russian doll.”.css-1xzcza9{list-style-type:disc;padding-inline-start:1em;}.css-3btd0c{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-size:1rem;line-height:1.375rem;color:#333;margin-bottom:0.78125rem;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-3btd0c{font-size:1.0625rem;line-height:1.5rem;margin-bottom:0.9375rem;}}.css-3btd0c strong{font-weight:600;}.css-3btd0c em{font-style:italic;}.css-w739ur{margin:0 auto 5px;font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-weight:700;font-size:1.125rem;line-height:1.3125rem;color:#121212;}#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-w739ur{font-family:nyt-cheltenham,georgia,’times new roman’,times,serif;font-weight:700;font-size:1.375rem;line-height:1.625rem;}@media (min-width:740px){#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-w739ur{font-size:1.6875rem;line-height:1.875rem;}}@media (min-width:740px){.css-w739ur{font-size:1.25rem;line-height:1.4375rem;}}.css-9s9ecg{margin-bottom:15px;}.css-16ed7iq{width:100%;display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-align-items:center;-webkit-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-items:center;-webkit-box-pack:center;-webkit-justify-content:center;-ms-flex-pack:center;justify-content:center;padding:10px 0;background-color:white;}.css-pmm6ed{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-align-items:center;-webkit-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-items:center;}.css-pmm6ed > :not(:first-child){margin-left:5px;}.css-5gimkt{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-size:0.8125rem;font-weight:700;-webkit-letter-spacing:0.03em;-moz-letter-spacing:0.03em;-ms-letter-spacing:0.03em;letter-spacing:0.03em;text-transform:uppercase;color:#333;}.css-5gimkt:after{content:’Collapse’;}.css-rdoyk0{-webkit-transition:all 0.5s ease;transition:all 0.5s ease;-webkit-transform:rotate(180deg);-ms-transform:rotate(180deg);transform:rotate(180deg);}.css-eb027h{max-height:5000px;-webkit-transition:max-height 0.5s ease;transition:max-height 0.5s ease;}.css-6mllg9{-webkit-transition:all 0.5s ease;transition:all 0.5s ease;position:relative;opacity:0;}.css-6mllg9:before{content:”;background-image:linear-gradient(180deg,transparent,#ffffff);background-image:-webkit-linear-gradient(270deg,rgba(255,255,255,0),#ffffff);height:80px;width:100%;position:absolute;bottom:0px;pointer-events:none;}.css-1jiwgt1{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-box-pack:justify;-webkit-justify-content:space-between;-ms-flex-pack:justify;justify-content:space-between;margin-bottom:1.25rem;}.css-8o2i8v{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-flex-direction:column;-ms-flex-direction:column;flex-direction:column;-webkit-align-self:flex-end;-ms-flex-item-align:end;align-self:flex-end;}.css-8o2i8v p{margin-bottom:0;}.css-12vbvwq{background-color:white;border:1px solid #e2e2e2;width:calc(100% – 40px);max-width:600px;margin:1.5rem auto 1.9rem;padding:15px;box-sizing:border-box;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-12vbvwq{padding:20px;width:100%;}}.css-12vbvwq:focus{outline:1px solid #e2e2e2;}#NYT_BELOW_MAIN_CONTENT_REGION .css-12vbvwq{border:none;padding:10px 0 0;border-top:2px solid #121212;}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-rdoyk0{-webkit-transform:rotate(0deg);-ms-transform:rotate(0deg);transform:rotate(0deg);}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-eb027h{max-height:300px;overflow:hidden;-webkit-transition:none;transition:none;}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-5gimkt:after{content:’See more’;}.css-12vbvwq[data-truncated] .css-6mllg9{opacity:1;}.css-1rh1sk1{margin:0 auto;overflow:hidden;}.css-1rh1sk1 strong{font-weight:700;}.css-1rh1sk1 em{font-style:italic;}.css-1rh1sk1 a{color:#326891;-webkit-text-decoration:underline;text-decoration:underline;text-underline-offset:1px;-webkit-text-decoration-thickness:1px;text-decoration-thickness:1px;-webkit-text-decoration-color:#ccd9e3;text-decoration-color:#ccd9e3;}.css-1rh1sk1 a:visited{color:#333;-webkit-text-decoration-color:#ccc;text-decoration-color:#ccc;}.css-1rh1sk1 a:hover{-webkit-text-decoration:none;text-decoration:none;}Aside from the obvious contrast between his praise of Hatto and his loathing of Matsuzawa for the exact same performance, what fascinates me is the language. Deacon encapsulates nearly every stereotype of Asian musicians: He writes that Matsuzawa’s performances are “faceless,” while a white woman’s “flow naturally”; the Asian pianist is technically “neat as a pin,” a “typewriter,” not organically creative and only able to copy a European’s innate capacity.Classical music continues to perpetuate these and other stereotypes, including through the continued use of yellowface — white performers painted with yellow makeup and slanted eyes — in opera productions. Yellowface normalizes caricatures of Asians and fetishizes Asian women, exoticizing them through stereotypes of them as alternately submissive and hypersexual.So how can classical music empower and create space for all members of our community?Ask Asian Americans to curate programs and create work — not just about Asia, with token Lunar New Year concerts, but about our unique experiences and contributions as Americans of Asian descent.Hire and commission Asian and Asian American singers, instrumentalists, conductors and composers to break stereotypes and amplify our individualities and complexities.Mentor Asian Americans at the beginning of their musical careers. Sponsor and promote Asian Americans in arts management and administration. Recruit Asian Americans onto the boards of arts organizations.And, when you have Asian Americans on your boards, listen to them — empower them to reframe discussions about inclusion and equity, and give them the freedom to issue statements about violence against those who look like them. Learn the histories of Asian Americans and create paths to engage with all members of your community.My mentors fought for my inclusion in the classical world. It is now my responsibility to help build a more inclusive field for future generations. I invite musicians and musical institutions to create these new spaces with me and my forward-thinking colleagues. More

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      One of China’s Biggest Stars, Kris Wu, Faces a #MeToo Storm

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      An 18-year-old said the singer Kris Wu enticed young women like herself with career promises, then pressured them into having sex. He has denied the accusations.Several major luxury brands have severed ties with Kris Wu, a Chinese Canadian singer with a huge following, after an 18-year-old accused him of targeting and pressuring her and other young women for sex.The accusations, which Mr. Wu denied in multiple statements, have triggered widespread public outrage and thrown his career into tumult. At least 11 companies including Louis Vuitton, Bulgari, Porsche and L’Oréal suspended or terminated contracts with Mr. Wu this week, after his accuser spoke out during an interview with an online Chinese news outlet on Sunday.Mr. Wu, 30, rose to fame as a member of the K-pop band EXO before embarking on a solo career as a model, actor and singer, drawing more than 50 million fans online as well as lucrative endorsement deals. Known in China as Wu Yifan, he is one of the country’s most popular celebrities to face #MeToo accusations.Mr. Wu’s accuser is Du Meizhu, a university student in Beijing who said she first met him when she was 17. She said she had been invited to Mr. Wu’s home by his agent with the suggestion that he could help her acting career, according to her social media posts and the interview with Netease, an online portal. Once there, she was pressured to drink cocktails until she lost consciousness, she said, and later found herself in his bed.Ms. Du said she believed that this was a tactic he used to draw other young women. She accused Mr. Wu of regarding women as though they were all concubines in a harem. “You look at a lot of pictures of girls at drinking parties and select them like merchandise,” she wrote in one social media post, addressing him directly.Mr. Wu has denied the accusations, through his lawyer, Zhai Jiayu, and public statements. On Monday, Mr. Wu said that he had only met Ms. Du once in December of last year.“I declare that there has never been any ‘selecting a concubine’!” he wrote on the social media platform Weibo, referring to Ms. Du’s harem comment. He denied having ever seduced, drugged or raped anyone. “If there was such behavior, please don’t worry, I will go to jail by myself!”His lawyer has vowed to file a lawsuit against Ms. Du and report her to the police for defamation. Ms. Du has also said that she reported her accusations to the police.Ms. Du and Mr. Wu did not respond to emailed requests to comment.Ms. Du’s account has been met with an outpouring of support, a sign of the growing strength of the country’s small Me Too movement. One of her posts on Weibo has been liked by more than 10 million users. Hashtags such as #girlshelpgirls and others calling for Mr. Wu to quit show business have been viewed by millions.Ms. Du’s supporters flooded the social media pages of several brands with threats of boycotts if they did not terminate their endorsement deals with Mr. Wu. One by one, the brands moved to distance themselves from him.“This incident shows that nowadays people will no longer swallow insults and humiliation and be afraid of slut shaming,” said Feng Yuan, a feminist scholar and activist. “People increasingly want to speak up and make themselves heard.”#MeToo activism can be challenging in China, where the ruling Communist Party imposes strict constraints on dissent and public debate. Some women who have come forward with accounts of abuse have faced a public and legal backlash. The authorities often discourage women from reporting rape and other sex crimes.Mr. Wu walking the runway during a Louis Vuitton show in Shanghai last year. Several major luxury brands suspended or terminated contracts with him this week.Lintao Zhang/Getty ImagesIt was unclear how the authorities were planning to respond to the allegations against Mr. Wu, but at least three groups affiliated with the government put out statements calling for an investigation.“Everyone is equal before the law, and celebrities with huge followings are no exception,” China Women’s News, the newspaper of a state-run women’s group, wrote on its social media page. “Believe that the law will not wrong a good person, nor will it let a wicked one go.”Ms. Du first started speaking out on July 8, when she released screenshots of conversations between her and Mr. Wu, as well as people she said worked for him. She accused them of enticing young women by dangling opportunities in show business.In one screenshot, dated July of last year, a person reaching out to Ms. Du on Weibo asked her if she would be interested in working in the movie industry. The person then added her contact on WeChat, a chat app, and asked if she had just completed her college entrance examination, saying that he worked for Mr. Wu’s studio and they were looking for new talent.Ms. Du said she felt helpless when she learned that Mr. Wu specifically targeted young women like her. “Indeed, we are all softhearted when we see your innocent expression, but that does not mean that we want to become playthings whom you can deceive!” she wrote in a post on Weibo.She said soon after that, another associate of Mr. Wu’s contacted her on WeChat to offer what she considered hush money to take down the post. When she demanded a public apology from Mr. Wu, the associate said they were considering legal action against her, according to screenshots of the chat she posted online. She said that 500,000 yuan, or nearly $80,000, was later transferred to her bank account, though she had not given her consent.A store displaying an advertisement featuring Mr. Wu. His accuser, Du Meizhu, has been a target of cyberbullying since going public.Tingshu Wang/ReutersIn the Netease interview on Sunday, Ms. Du said that she had started to return the money in batches and that she was gearing up for a legal fight.In detailing her first encounter with Mr. Wu, Ms. Du said that she had been told that she would be going to discuss potential jobs. She said that she tried to leave, but that his staff took away her phone and warned that if Mr. Wu did not have a good time, it could be detrimental to her future as an actor.Pressured into drinking heavily, she said, she ended up sleeping with Mr. Wu. They dated until March, according to her account of the events, when he stopped responding to her calls and messages.Since then, she said, she had heard from seven other women who had been similarly treated. She said she wanted to fight for their interests as well. She did not identify the other people, and the accusations could not be immediately corroborated.Since going public, Ms. Du said she has been a target of cyberbullying and death threats, and that she had been diagnosed with depression. Mr. Wu’s international fan club said in a post on Weibo: “It’s a pity to see a groundless internet drama turn into an evil carnival that violates the truth and laws.”But several other people on social media this week posted messages of support, including screenshots of chats that they said indicated Mr. Wu or his staff inappropriately targeted young women.“Girls, please protect yourself,” Zhang Dansan, a former member of a girl band, wrote on Weibo on Monday, after sharing screenshots of conversations that she said showed how Mr. Wu had asked her if she was a virgin. “I want to be loved too, but don’t be fooled.” More