Word: curtains
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...down longer afraid. How "she would like to run her fingers through his silky beard. Plow nicely it ran down from his white hair past his big ears and around his chin! He was like a cleaned-up Santa Claus. And his big mustache was hanging like a curtain below his fleshy hooked nose. That nose was like the snout of an amiable tapir...
...much with wild, intoxicating color as Stravinsky did with his horns and strings rhd piano. Marion Talley (TIME, Mar. 1) was the Nightingale, never once seen. She stood in the orchestra pit with the players, right in front of Conductor Tullio Serafin, sang difficult music creditably, won curtain calls for herself alone, when it was all over, from an audience that found Stravinsky's cacophonies a bit unintelligible, Soudeikine's color a bit dazzling...
Opera singers die a thousand deaths. In almost every role, the last curtain finds them sprawled across a parapet, pierced by treacherous bullets, boiled in the oil-vat of some inquisitor or crumpled upon a doorstep with their throats, their canary throats, slit from ear to ear. But in life, as everyone knows, opera singers have to be careful of their health. This last reflection was one that occurred to Beniamino Gigli, celebrated tenor, as he sat in a Detroit hotel, one night last week, staring at a piece of paper. He read...
...vigorous, exuberant prima donna swept across the stage of the Brooklyn Academy of Music. The big curtain was down tight; another makeshift drop shut off the people seated on the stage, from the strip of stage whereon the singer was to stand. At the appointed hour, the great curtain lifted, slowly, solemnly, disclosed Jeritza, there, ready, her weight on one foot in true Bernhardtian manner. Her husband, big Baron von Popper, had carried her on, propped her against the piano, left her there to give pleasure to a great audience that applauded her singing, her pluck...
...Manhattan theatre dressing room, a tall, angular actor scrubbed furiously at the grease paint on his gaunt features. The curtain had just rung down on his matinee (That Smith Boy) and he* had an engagement even more pressing than seeing a manager at the Algonquin or sipping something cold in a friend's flat. He jerked on his overcoat, flung himself into a taxi, leaped out again at the Seventh Regiment Armory, where he plunged into a dense crowd of humanity and was seen no more, until he emerged in tennis costume on a brilliantly illuminated court surrounded...