Word: artist
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...time in his life he was dressed conventionally was so great that the doctors almost cried. He rushed home, in new shirt and suit, to surprise his family. Now he earns his own living by designing Christmas cards, attends the Chicago Art Institute in the probability of becoming an artist. But he keeps up his old habit of opening doors by grasping the knob between his cheek and shoulder...
...faces an audience three successive times and in fifty three minutes condemns them to dullness or leads them to light. To call him an actor is perhaps to flatter, perhaps to foil. Yet after all, higher learning is amusement--or it is dead. So the lecturer and the vaudeville artist have something in common, more than either would willingly grant...
...vaudeville artist knows that a successive series of unsuccessful appearances will send him either to the wilds of the wastelands or to a job in a store; the college lecturer knows that his pittance is like the poor, always with him. This does not keep all lecturers from playing to their audience. Indeed it makes some of them play too hard. But it does keep them from remembering that youth is a careless audience, that it cannot see vitality in matter unless the matter is presented in a vital form. And too often tradition alone keeps the mythical second balcony...
...Beatrice James, daughter of the noted sportsman Walter John James, third Baron Northbourne. As everyone knows, Mr. Barrie met the four Davies children years ago in Kensington Gardens, and adopted them after the death of their parents. Their mother, Sylvia (Du Maurier) Davies, was the beautiful daughter of famed artist George Du Maurier and a sister of Sir Gerald Du Maurier. She and her children figure in many of Barrie's works. George, the eldest, suggested one line of Barrie's play, Little Mary, and received one ha'penny royalty for each performance, until he was killed...
Pablo Picasso, the artist, likes fried eggs. They probably taste to him much as they taste to another man, but because he is a great painter he is capable of liking them more passionately and more concretely than your common fellow. It is not merely their savor that appeals to him; it is their mass and rhythm. The concentric ovals of their yolks and whites, the fecund chromes bewitched to a dark gold, haunt his dreams with the memory of a beauty marvelous and fugitive. To satisfy the demands of that memory, he painted them, the fried eggs...