Word: max
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Johnny McClellan had died that morning of a brain injury. The family had buried Max on a Friday. On Monday Johnny was buried in Malvern, next to his mother's grave...
John McClellan's mother had died bearing him. His first wife had died hating him. His second wife died loving him. After his third marriage, McClellan reached again for family happiness and stability. They were beyond him. In North Africa, during World War II, Corporal Max McClellan-Eula's son-came down with a back ailment. Doctors neglected him, his Army superiors accused him of goldbricking-until he. like Lucille McClellan, died of spinal meningitis. John and Max had never been close, which made the boy's death all the more painful. Says a close family friend...
Almost six years later the body of Max McClellan was returned to the U.S. for burial. Two nights before the funeral, John McClellan received word that his favorite son John Jr., who was preparing to follow his father in the law, had been injured in an automobile accident near Fayetteville. But Johnny was reported not badly hurt, so the family attended Max's funeral, then flew to Fayetteville. Recalls Jimmy, the only remaining son: "When we arrived at the airport, there was a little delegation waiting to see us. Dad looked out of the window at their faces...
...music rooms have taken away the nightclub audience, but nobody is exactly sure why. The 20% federal cabaret tax plainly had something to do with it (instrumental music only, without dancing or floor show, is not considered entertainment under the law, hence is tax-free). The Vanguard's Max Gordon (who also owns a part of Manhattan's still flourishing Blue Angel supper club) blames the shift to the suburbs: "My old customers have been lost to Great Neck." Broadway Producer Richard Kollmar once accused the LP record: "When...
This provides formidable competition. Next to Rouault, Max Beckmann's strength, coherent though it is in both still life and portrait, becomes an inflexible and dry stiffness. Bradley Walker Tomlin's vivid pattern of color dabs appears insubstantial and weak. Even Miro's usual verve and wit fail to bring his Lasso to satisfying completeness. Yet, such free-swinging abstractions as Toti Scialoja's or Richard Diebenkorn's, have far less to say. Their absence of representational basis is perfectly acceptable but their lack of aesthetic articulation...