Word: bleakness
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...seascapes. He does no portrait work on order. Nor does he paint for a living. He lives first and paints afterward. His last trip was to Ireland. Consequently his recent exhibition at the Wildenstein galleries, Manhattan, was a collection of Irish crags, cliffs, inscrutable waves, symbolical shadows, all stark, bleak, sternly ecstatic. Some critics deplore Artist Kent's dearth of variety-"his gaunt monotonous forms are always inflexibly the same." All critics admire his virile compositions, his color effects. In his art they perceive that however repetitious his works, they are all like the man himself, boldly individualistic. Since...
...coupe at his factory laboratories at Dearborn, Mich., pointed the car's nose toward his home, half a mile away. Driving at his customary 25 miles per hour, even though the Chicago-Detroit highway was comparatively empty, he had nothing to vex him but a drizzling rain and a bleak landscape. Suddenly, as he crossed the Rouge River bridge, he heard the roar of a big car behind him and a Studebaker drew up alongside, smashed into him, sped on toward Detroit. Mr. Ford's Ford spun around crazily, bounced over a six-inch curb, tumbled down a 15-foot...
From Samarkand the Golden, once capital of half the conquered world, and seat of Tamburlaine news came last week of things deep stirring in the heart of Asia. Bleak Soviets rule today, instead of Tamburlaine, but even so the men of Samarkand still sip iced honey as of old, still deal in that exquisite lambskin, caracul, worth sometimes ?500 ($2430) a hide and still transship eight hundred million pounds of Chinese tea each year to Russia. The men of Samarkand were occupied last week in quite the good old way. The women were causing trouble...
Stops were male along the bleak coast line at the tiny settlements in the sheltered bays. Altogether there were only 35 families, 200 people in all, which scrape up a bare existence in this barren land...
...chock full of energy." They might know him almost anywhere between the Mississippi and the Pacific, especially in the Northwest, where he laid out vast stretches of the Canadian Pacific and Great Northern roads. Near Havre, Mont., there is a statue to jog the memory. It stands on a bleak ridge where, after visits to the camps of treacherous Blackfeet Indians, Mr. Stevens learned that below the ridge was a secret pass which the Indians said was haunted. Mr. Stevens found the pass alone, but lost his homeward way when night fell. Munching a frozen biscuit, gnawing a strip...