Word: glared
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Humor helps, especially in a form that usually gives off a flat glare of one-dimensional optimism. It is hard not to like the "well read, well shaped, well disposed widow, early sixties, not half bad in the dusk with the light behind me." She sought a "companionable, educated, professional man of wit and taste," and she probably deserved him. Her self-effacement is fairly rare in personals. The ads tend sometimes to be a little ner- vous and needing, and anxiously hyperbolic. Their rhetoric tends to get overheated and may produce unintended effects. A man's hair stands...
...President, a few patted him on the back, others embraced the First Lady. Some shyly or proudly introduced their wives and children. But all seemed eager to move on, eager to hug those waiting for them a few yards away, eager to get home and out from under the glare of being the unwilling heroes of a televised international crisis. After embracing Nancy, an ebullient Victor Amburgy of San Francisco rushed over, picked up his small niece and bear-hugged the beaming girl. He seemed to want to press...
...long months they have lived in a no-man's-land: no glare of TV cameras, no transcontinental phone calls from network anchormen and no publicized negotiations. It is not clear exactly who seized them, or where they are being held, or even whether all are still alive. Only because of the attention focused on the TWA hijacking was the U.S. public reminded of the plight of the seven other Americans who have been taken hostage in Lebanon, one by one, since March...
...though the conditions that produce great art -- patience, internalization, ruthless self-criticism and an engagement with the authoritative past that goes deeper than the mere ransacking of one's culture for quotable motifs -- have been bleached out of current painting by the glare of its own success. And this success depends as much on the eager passivity of consumers as on the opportunism to which America, besotted with cultural therapy, consigns its talents. No culture needs a hegemony to produce its quota of strong artists; such people do continue to emerge in the U.S. But there is no doubt that...
Fischl country is a place of shag carpets lit by the desolate glare of TV sets, of king-size beds seen as altars of suburban promiscuity, and blue swimming pools that slyly parody David Hockney's less tainted vision of a Californian Eden. It smells of unwashed dog, Bar-B-Q lighter fluid and sperm. It is permeated with voyeurism and resentful, secretive tumescence -- a theater of adolescent tension and adult anonymity. Fischl paints this world of failed intimacies with conviction and narrative grip: at best, his drawing is beautifully concise (though marred, at present, by too many botched...