Word: drip
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...between observers and participants has also reached a vanishing point. In at least two cases, American journalists traveling with the troops chose to drop any pretense of detachment. Ron Martz of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution held the IV drip bag of a wounded Iraqi civilian awaiting emergency medical assistance, while Dr. Sanjay Gupta, a contributor to TIME and CNN, operated on a critically injured 2-year-old who later died. The lines these men crossed may seem important in peacetime, but in wartime such lines grow fuzzy and indistinct compared with the bold line that separates life and death...
...rallying cry that activists used to punctuate the end of many songs. Amandla is a compilation of personal interviews, musical performances, reenactment and original clippings from newsreels and films of rallies. Images and songs are allowed to present themselves, appearing with minimal explanation and subtitles. The frames practically drip with color, as though every object within them bursts with an energy and vitality reflected by the nation as a whole. Amandla screens...
...their sons had died in sordid skirmishes whose names nobody had heard of or--like the six Americans killed when their helicopter crashed in Afghanistan last week--in accidents far from home. Guerrilla warfare may have fine American antecedents, but we have always recoiled from accepting a slow, endless drip of casualties from contests whose stated purpose we have long forgotten. Soon we may have to get used...
...rallying cry that activists used to punctuate the end of many songs. Amandla is a compilation of personal interviews, musical performances, reenactment and original clippings from newsreels and films of rallies. Images and songs are allowed to present themselves, appearing with minimal explanation and subtitles. The frames practically drip with color, as though every object within them bursts with an energy and vitality reflected by the nation as a whole. Amandla screens...
Jackson Pollock couldn't sleep. The next night would see the opening of the first gallery show devoted to his new drip paintings. For months he had flung lashing tangles of color onto canvases laid across the floor. Literally slapdash, yet as intricately woven as a Persian rug, his pictures pointed the way to the future--or would if anyone noticed. So Pollock sat up late with his sister-in-law. To comfort him, she read his palm. He was going to be a very famous painter, she promised...