Word: artfully
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Republicans (the city administration is Democratic) suggested that, if the nudes were kept draped through the winter, the city might charge 10? a peek and so liquidate its record $3,332,000 deficit. Art lovers wanted the unveiling put off till spring, when the plaza would look more verdant and hopeful. Barrel-chested Mayor Bernard Francis Dickmann last week gathered himself together and chose a December date. Director of Streets and Sewers Frank J. McDevitt objected to the whole thing, on the ground that motorists would look at the nudes instead of watching where they were going. But St. Louis...
Aaron Bohrod is a shy, blond, hardworking Chicagoan. Whether he will rank as a major U. S. artist 20 years from now is anybody's guess. Undoubtedly his brush points in that direction. At 31, he has won two Guggenheim fellowships and eight art prizes. Thanks to the latest, a $200 honorable mention at the Carnegie International (TIME, Oct. 30), he went by day coach to Manhattan last week, saw a one-man show of his open at the Associated American Artists' Galleries...
...ramshackle houses, old women haggling at a fruit stand, batting practice in the Cubs' ball park (where he once sold score-cards), knobby bathers by Lake Michigan. Says he: "The shabbier parts of Chicago are what intrigue me." Less intrigued is Mrs. Frank Granger Logan ("Sanity in Art"), who stormed "It isn't worth a nickel," when a Bohrod picture of a filling station won top honors and her $500 prize at the 1937 Chicago Art Institute exhibition...
Album of Early Cantatas and Songs (Isabel French, soprano, and Hugues Cuenod, tenor; Technichord:*10 sides). When 18th-Century Parisian Jean Philippe Rameau took time off from writing the first modern treatise on the art of composition, he composed deft, archaic, but charmingly tuneful music. His cantata L' Impatience, along with songs and cantatas by Monteverdi, Schütz and Thomas Arne, gives French Tenor Hugues Cuenod a chance for some fancy, old-style tenor...
...endless hour between Fine Arts and Anglo-Saxon class. The Vagabond has always found it difficult to brook the transition from an hour of Italian art to the toothy language of his primitive ancestors. Even the free hour between the two, spent wandering about the Yard clucking at pigeons (if that is what one does at pigeons), never seems to set him in the proper frame of mind...