Word: clam
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What De Kooning found at the end of this highway, however, when he moved permanently to Long Island in 1963, was mostly suds and mayonnaise. The long $ series of pink squidgy pictures -- landscapes, nudes splayed like frogs in memory of Dubuffet, and female clam diggers -- that issued from his studio over the next 15 years was lush and trivial. The drawing is submerged in weak, declamatory, wambling brushstrokes; the color -- mostly pink -- is bright and boring. Yet you could never write De Kooning off. He came back in the late '70s with some big, rapturously congested landscape-body images with...
...tragedy (or comedy) of the self-deluded rebel, Kempton dryly sums up another progressive hero: "Paul Robeson's was a career whose rise and fall were both tethered to his identity as a man of conspicuous color." Kempton's asperity can be hilarious. Of the proprietor of Umbertos Clam House in New York's Little Italy, he writes, "Matthew Ianniello has been lost to Mulberry Street and on long-term lease to the federal prison system since 1986, and where are the scungilli of yesteryear...
...that wasn't tall. For who can talk of Veritas without the ratification of one of the Veritas' high priests--a Harvard Medical School Professor of Psychiatry, assured the audience in clam academic terms that alien abductions are undeniably common. The aliens, according to his research, are particularly interested in why we humans are so full of hostility, when we have such "a nice planet." This leads Dartboard to pose a corollary question--if our planet in truly so "nice," why doesn't Dr. Mack join us here on its surface rather than dilly-dallying around Cloud Nine...
...more clam commentator, Debra R. Maltenfort '97, is convinced that crosswalk buttons change lights from green to red. "I press it," she admits. "If I don't press it I feel it would take me longer to cross the street...
...caricatured Little Italy with charming, trenchant detail. A butcher's son, in an agonizing move, bets his only ticket to the Met in a pinochle game with his friends; old women squeeze large, ripe eggplant, and tell tall tales of how they made soup out of clam shells stolen from the back door of a seafood restaurant; a sausage-maker chants an ancient rhyming Italian recipe while she kneads meat. From here, reality glides quickly away with no emerging theme to fill the void, and the movie, like Teresa, can only say to itself: "This is my punishment...to become...