Word: artists
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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With a new McNaught Syndicate writer-artist team set to pump fresh ink into Joe, his prospects for an early retirement have faded fast. Best guess is that Joe's son will indeed be born. But poor Joe may never see the life as the worker for good causes that Leff had planned. Instead, to earn his living-and contribute to the McNaught Syndicate's income-Joe is more than likely to be tossed back into the ring with the rest of the palookas...
President Eisenhower has been true to the anti-sitting tradition, never allowed more than an hour or two for portraitists-until last month. When TIME commissioned famed Realist Andrew Wyeth to paint the President, both artist and subject hesitated momentarily. Wyeth, a deliberate and profoundly emotional artist, was naturally a bit overawed by the assignment. The President, for his part, was relaxing at Gettysburg, gathering his forces for his momentous and precedent-shattering visit to Europe. But TIME and mutual admiration brought the two together to create an important addition to the picture gallery of American history...
Making good on a promise given in 1956, Tibet's exiled Dalai Lama posed for Hungarian Artist Elizabeth Brunner at his refuge in Mussoorie, India-the first time the god-king had permitted an artist to paint his portrait from life since his flight from Lhasa. Last week he saw the result: a likeness showing him seated before a religious scroll, holding a Buddhist prayer book...
...both with the masked magician and the drunken actor, who dies with his battered top hat on, raving: "I always longed for a knife to free me ... Then what we call the spirit would rise up from the meaningless carcass." Cinemagician Bergman seems to see both men as despairing artists whose creative imaginations doom them to social obloquy and the distrust and disdain of hardheaded authority. What scant optimism there is in this fatalistic philosophy lies in the final triumph of the Magnetic Health Theater: the artist suffers, but art endures...
...author's delight in being oracular does not detract much from a clever investigation into mysticism and the mystique of power. The ironic Artist Tutmose-whose hauntingly beautiful head of Nefertiti is on view in West Berlin's Dahlem Museum-solves only part of the puzzle when, near the book's end, he concludes that "beyond our own motives, existence has no reason." Perhaps, Stacton seems to be saying, the puzzle of existence constitutes its own reason...