Word: brushed
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There were so many factors that fed this sixty-minute spectacle with emotional fuel. It would be a crime to brush it off with the superficial characterization that "Both teams played real strong hockey." Tangible examples of expertise abounded. Among them were...
...bone. The prow of a nose and the jutting underlip have a fierce antique gravity, like Renaissance portrait sculpture-one thinks of the faces of Verrocchio's Colleoni or Donatello's Gattamelata. Every cut of the chisel seems to possess the final, unlabored Tightness of a brush stroke by a master of sumi-e (ink painting). There is probably not a sculpture on view in America this week that gives a clearer impression of the mystery of great portraiture: how realism, a recognizable type and shape, can be conveyed through complete stylization. Like a Giacometti, the figure...
...were bright stars in the 18th century, Kauffmann in England for her history paintings, Vigee-Lebrun in France for her sparkling and elegant society portraits, like that of Varvara Ivanovna Narishkine (1800). By her 35th year, Vigee-Lebrun reckoned, she had earned more than a million francs with her brush, a prodigious income for a painter, and her husband spent every sou on whores and gambling...
...Jeep trail, jauntily swinging their arms and breathing deeply the crisp, fine air. Suddenly, a sweatsuit-clad figure crashes through the underbrush into a clearing. Panting from a hard run, mud dripping from his shoes, face scratched by brambles, he stares wildly about, then plunges into the thick brush once more. Despite their different styles, all of the people making their way through the forest area near Boston are participating in the sport of orienteering−speed hiking over a prescribed course in unfamiliar terrain, using only a compass and a map to navigate...
...then begins to curve east. Suddenly another trail appears, this one not marked on the map. We are tempted, but keep going. Another hundred meters and we pause, kneel down and take a compass bearing directly into the woods. Now we are sprinting, leaping over logs, crashing through small brush, legs and arms flailing. We try to pace a 200-meter leg but fail, losing the count at the bottom of a hill where we have plunged into unexpected muddy ooze. We stand, gasping for breath, shin deep in the freezing mud, tracing our path...