Word: grins
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...first she is very naked indeed. Even today, a century later, his image of Indolence, 1898, carries a terrific sexual charge--young Marthe sprawled on her side of the big bed, a coarse grin of satisfaction on her round face, her left foot scratching the inside of her right thigh like a cat. Sometimes she poses like an orthodox model--The Bathroom, 1908, where she seems transfigured by the wormy quivering of light and transparency that prevails in the room, is such an image. Sometimes Bonnard unobtrusively reuses the pose of a classical sculpture in rendering her body: the Medici...
...great things American, the home run deconstructs strategy with a beautiful act of aggression. So Mark McGwire, 250 lbs. of muscle in a game full of the fat and unfit, doesn't really shock when he sends the ball more than 500 ft. And Ken Griffey Jr., hat backwards, grin cocksure, seems almost bored as he gently taps homers over the fence. The crowd expects it, the crowd gets it, and the crowd goes home happy. We delight in the obvious. Give us a 6 ft. 5 in. guy named McGwire, and we're going to nickname...
Only rarely does his grin crack. He takes the rare criticism directed at him by the press and fans a little too personally, but even then only because, at heart, he wants to be liked. "At the ball park, I understand there are certain obligations," he says. "I just want people to treat me as a human being. When I leave the ball park and go home, I'm just Ken." And some topics are still off limits, no matter who the questioner. Before a game last week, seven-year-old Michael Foster spent an hour with Griffey through...
...know we're not normal," Jerry Yang says with a boyish grin, making a halfhearted effort to straighten up his cubicle for his visitor. It's not much of an office by mogul standards: just a nondescript desk, a couple of cheap plastic milk crates bulging with papers, an old futon. Magazines are piled in a corner, and a window offers a distinctly declasse view of the parking...
...smiling Stephen in his M*A*S*H shirt, shouting racist epithets to incite the crowd. I silently compared the two men, Stephen and this massive ruffian--both black, both poor, both probably with a reason to hate whites. But Stephen's eyes sparkled above his childish grin. The man's eyes had narrowed, and his skin had deep furrows from a permanent frown on his deep set jaw. And I watched the beefy, red-faced white police, armed with shields and jackboots, herding people--most particularly black people--as if they were cattle headed to slaughter...