Word: dusts
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...five-story apartment building looks somber with its dirtencrusted windows and greasy Venetian blinds. Opposite, a group of tenement houses stand in the glare of DuPont's smoke and flames. The passengers waiting on the platform of Philadelphia's Thirtieth Street Station look like molish members of a dust-filled underworld. The train pulls out into a complex of electric power lines, intricately crossing tracks, and still freight cars. It then runs parallel to a river, crosses over, and continues through a residential area. To the right, a small rowboat drifts lazily on a pond set among grassy walkways...
...When the dust had lifted, Harvard was entering the seventh inning protecting a precarious 12-10 lead, trying to hold off an inspired herd of rampaging Jumbos...
...gloves in the Sox defense played flawlessly but not brilliantly. Terry Hughes scratched the same dust as Brooks Robinson at third and went one-for-five. Hughes made no errors and before each pitch waggled his butt in the air, but Robinson looked like a long-legged goose searching vainly for its eggs when he let Tommy Harper lash one between his pins in the second inning, to give the Bosox a 2-0 lead...
When Alberto Giacometti died at 65 in his native Switzerland eight years ago, he was already a figure of legend. His seamed casque of a head (like that of a Renaissance condottiere) and his cramped, dust-floured studio in Paris, had become almost as famous as Picasso's simian mask and opulent villas. He was, it seemed, the existentialist answer to Mediterranean man. And as such he appeared to be one of the very few sculptors who, in the 20th century, had discovered a fresh convention for the human body - spindly and eroded, impossibly vertical, a gobbet of clay...
Like ancient Greek sculptors, Giacometti sometimes painted his pieces as well - not in primary hues, but in a range of pinky grays and dirty skin colors that recall the primal dust of his own studio. This, too, makes them less approachable. One cannot easily imagine fondling a Giacometti. It would not feel good, and in any case the thing always seems too far away. It was the use of distance, both real and implied, to disclose meaning that gave Giacometti's work so much of its aloof, hieratic tension...