Word: drips
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...coat weighed twelve pounds before she scissored away at waists and armholes, sleeves and bulky seams and reduced the total to a mere four pounds. This year's collection moves Madame Potok to grandiloquence. "For the girl who forgot her gloves," she has a broadtail coat whose sleeves drip ermine over naked hands ($7,800); "for unheated castles," there is a black mink, floor-length caftan with a gold-beaded bib front ($5,900); "for a five-finger exercise," a calfskin coat, dyed an unpretentious wine and appliquéd with black antelope in the shape of fingers...
...WELL. I can wash out forty-four pairs of socks and hang'em on the line, Y'know I can wash and iron two dozen shirts 'fore you can count from one to nine. I can slip up a great drip off along from a drippin's can, Throw it in the skillet, do the shoppin', and be back before it melts in the pan, 'Cause I'm a woman. W-O-M-A-N, let me tell you again...
...mile hike from one end of Britain to the other. In the course of it, he managed to be fogbound on Dartmoor, musclebound in Bristol and sodden in Somerset. He was rained upon almost everywhere (though not, oddly, at a place in Scotland called Hill of Drip), making clear why one of the few Gaelic words he picked up en route was fliuch. It is pronounced, he says, "floo-chh" and it means...
...JUST received a letter from a Cliffe in Paris, who says that she does, indeed, love it "in the summer, when it sizzles." I'm glad for her. In Newport on Thursday night it wasn't sizzling; it wasn't even drizzling, it was more of a slow drip (and I began to think I knew what it was like for my coffee grounds every morning.) I swear the girl who sold me a raincoat for 50c looked just like an angel. Still, I didn't like it much. Neither did the crowd. They retreated to the woods, returning only...
...show demonstrates, the major figures were highly individual artists. Perhaps their only unifying characteristic was exuberance-exuberance of size, exuberance of gesture. Instead of the carefully calculated stroke, there was the swirl of Pollock's drip paintings, the splattered brilliance of Willem de Kooning's terrifying women. Franz Kline's huge black-on-white compositions showed no more sophistication than a Chinese ideograph, but they conveyed the energy of the man that made them-and commanded a whole wall rather than a corner of a scroll. The smoldering color clouds of Mark Rothko drew a viewer...