Word: headed
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...battered right arm belongs to a powerful (6 ft. 4 in., 212 Ibs.) Negro of melancholy mien named Sad Sam ("Toothpick") Jones, 33, and it is largely responsible for putting the San Francisco Giants on a tottering perch at the head of the National League. Last week Sad Sam chomped morosely on his customary toothpick and turned a sullen eye on the Philadelphia Phillies. His crackling curve ball seemed about to eviscerate righthanded batters before breaking sharply to catch an inside corner. Humming and hopping, his fast ball loosened up any Philly who dared dig in too firmly. When...
...Cossack. Then there was Aunt Kate, who seemed to some merely an aging spinster, slightly touched in the head. But on Moss Hart's stage she emerges as a kind of Bronx Blanche DuBois, a woman defying her mean surroundings by living in a world of her own with smelling salts and trailing dresses and a stubborn refusal to go to work "no matter how needy the rest of the family might be. She was "a touching combination of the sane and the ludicrous along with some secret splendor within herself." Come debt or hunger, she would...
Sculptor Henry Moore sits in an aged wicker chair on a crumpled cushion. He is small and compact (5 ft. 7 in., 154 Ibs.), with a high-domed face that is benign yet cragged. Thinning strands of greying hair stretch errantly across his head. From beneath brows that jut at least an inch beyond pale blue eyes, he stares intensely at a small plaster shape held in his left hand. The right hand, thick-wristed and broad, with straight fingers that are surgically muscular, holds a small scalpel. In a few minutes, the chunk of thumb-shaped plaster takes...
Form of what? Vague outlines of the female figure flow from beneath the blade. One breast pushes forward from a gently twisted torso. Where the other breast should be, Moore's scalpel scoops out a smooth crater. The head does not satisfy...
Reaching for a smaller tool, the sculptor pares the head into an elongated, rectangular appendage, no larger than his thumbnail, perhaps one-twentieth the size of the body instead of nature's less than one-seventh. He pushes his own head backward and thrusts the piece forward, studying it with a frown. Then he pokes two tiny indentations to make the eyes. One or more such small maquettes, produced between breakfast and a 1 o'clock lunch, may prove the seed for another of the large reclining women or mother figures to which the mind of Henry Moore...