Word: gnomes
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...fact that the sound is not Mussorgsky's piano or Ravel's trumpet, but one of human voices-or rather, canned choral sounds transmogrified by Tomita's Mellotron, an electronic keyboard device that plays prerecorded tapes. Things perk up considerably with the first picture, "The Gnome," a succession of subterranean squeaks and giggles that resemble a band of tipsy trolls frolicking beneath Frankenstein's castle. As for "The Old Castle," it sounds like a caravan of balalaika players pursuing an Arabian shawm virtuoso...
Small as a gnome, now white-haired, Miró lives and looks, or tries to look, like a conventional bourgeois (even in his Paris days when his friends were Picasso and the wilder Dadaists, he was always the one in the sober suit and tie). He is in search of no publicity at all; he has more commissions than he can handle, more monographs on his work than he can count, more requests for interviews than he cares to consider...
...Australian Artist John Coburn are soggy pastiches of Matisse's paper cutouts. In the foyers, no effort to mask and confuse the nobly strict curves of the roof ribs has been spared: one is met by a jumble of well-made but visually meaningless joinery, as if some gnome from the stingyback forests had gone berserk promoting the rarer Australian hardwoods...
...Pantomime Circus demonstrates a rare and precious conceit: dance can be funny as well as fashionable. One of the best of American mimes, Goslar is a dumpling of a woman with a turned-up nose and a turned-down figure that often resembles a lightly squeezed tube of toothpaste. Gnome is where her heart is, especially when spoofing flowers, inch-worms and swishy ballet masters, or imitating a katydid rubbing its legs (Splendor in the Grass). When four of her dancers somehow managed to portray a cowardly lion encountering an equally cowardly clown in a cage (Circus Scene), it became...
...Ipswich home! With long legs and arms that flopped around with nonchalant grace, he scaled the Crimson steps looking like a suburban squire should, work-booted, wearing nondescript dungarees and a good sweater gone bad. With eyes looking out from a face somewhere between a hawk's and a gnome's, he glanced at the fading pictures of fading editors on our tack-marked cork bulletin board, and asked the photographer. "How did you get those black borders on them?" Mechanical details and competence in mastering them impressed him--part of the reason he wrote Rabbit Redux was his vision...