Listen, Karen Durbin was a hurricane wrapped in human skin, and her life’s journey was like reading a novel that never stopped surprising you. A feminist with no fear, she didn’t just talk about sexual liberation; she spat it out like poetry and sometimes set it on fire just to see how high the flames would go. She painted her canvases as a journalist at The Village Voice, The New York Times, and wherever else her words were welcomed — or, sometimes, not welcomed. April 15, in the chaos of Brooklyn, we lost her. She was 80.
Why’d she die? Dementia’s cruel grip — Cynthia Carr, a fellow rebel in word and wit, let us know.
Back in ’94, Durbin swung into the editor in chief’s chair at The Voice, a rare moment for women back then. But predictability? Boring. Hell no. She wanted to snatch young minds. More feminism, more gay rights, more avant-garde madness, less digging into the mundane grime of crooked courts and scummy politicians. Spicy stuff for a paper that wasn’t afraid of catching on fire every now and then.
And rebellion? Oh, she had it. Like in ’96 when she told the paper’s lawyers to shove it and printed a piece that danced on the line with Michael Alig’s misdeeds. Yeah, even the headlines screamed: “A MURDER IN CLUBLAND.”
Even before steering the ship, Durbin stirred the pot, agitating the “boys club”— those old-school gatekeepers of the journalistic ivory tower were less amused. Her choices shocked, like in ’86 when she tossed Ms. Carr a bone with Karen Finley’s yam act — gender objectification served raw and unfiltered.
“She could see the threads of your brilliance and just help stitch them together,” Ms. Carr remembered. Durbin could light a fire under words like no other. Her back was always there; push boundaries, take leaps, she had your six. Fearless? Damn right.
When she snagged the editor’s chair, she told The New York Times something real: The Voice should mirror those who create it. Work hard, bask in joy, live noisy, and yes, buy those guilty-pleasure records. We exist in a material world, after all.
Rebellious yet joyful — she tried to heat up The Voice, to stop it from wallowing in darkness. Rage had its place, sure, but joy? Oh, joy was a forgotten spice in journalism’s bland soup. Richard Goldstein said that before Durbin, the paper was dipped in old, straight, white dude vibes — blissfully blind to their own staleness. She came along and opened the curtains.
First week? Wayne Barrett, a hell of an investigative reporter, rolls in wearing a dress, tweaking her feminist agenda. But Karen, she didn’t flinch. Navigated that storm, she did, bridging the past to today’s diverse journalistic landscape.
The Village Voice — was it a news paper or a wild Greenwich Village bar? Maybe both, honestly. Advocacy journalism, she argued, was honest — tell it like it is. Everyone’s got a damn agenda, might as well announce yours at the door.
She wrote like she lived — vividly. In ’75, covering the Rolling Stones, describing a smoke-choked motel room in Wisconsin, everyone looking half-dead, especially Keith (or as he liked to be Richard then). Fifty years later? The Stones are still rocking. Can they still cut it? Apparently.
In ’76, love lost with journalist Hendrik Hertzberg? She bared her heart on The Voice’s front page. Gravity shattered, universes without axes — breakup metaphors batting a thousand.
Durbin left The Voice, ventured through The New York Times, Mirabella, Elle, tossing words at whatever moved her, until around ten years ago. Her roots? Cincinnati, a dry-cleaner dad, then off to Indianapolis, eventually walking Bryn Mawr’s halls. English degree tucked under her arm; she tackled an internship and then, bang, The New Yorker snatched her up.
Where did her voice find a home in 1972? Yep, you guessed it. The Village Voice. Not a shock, her friend said profusely.
Adventure in print — Mademoiselle, The Voice again, Mirabella. Senior arts editor to editor in chief, spearing through midlife crises like a boss. Gutted the sports section, stood tall as the digital sharks circled around classifieds — Craigslist, that menace. She walked out in ’96, clashing with suits and bottom lines.
Blazing intellect cloaked in charm and grit; she wielded art like a sword, fighting for its power to change lives. Her debut article for The Voice challenged feminism’s dogma — “Casualties of the Sex War.” Pro-sex feminist banner flapping loud and proud, even tackled it in boob-focused Mademoiselle.
Nudity at beaches? Her take? Binoculars, baby. Naked honesty was her anthem.
And that’s the chaos of Karen Durbin, a smoke-filled room of brilliance and rebellion — full throttle until the end.
