Word: pinkness
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Manhattan's 66th National Horse Show grew most exciting when a U.S. Army jeep toted jumps and fences into the ring and pink-coated Honey Craven, ringmaster, blew a fanfare on his long, thin trumpet. The stable owners in evening clothes, the teen-age girls who had come to show off their saddle horses, the grooms along the ringside, now all waited tensely for the real stars: the jumpers. About to begin as the competition for the President of Mexico Trophy, toughest of the international jumping events...
...white-haired but boyish-looking priest in a knee-length clerical coat strode to the dais in the Waldorf-Astoria's Jade Room one afternoon last week, took a soldierly stance between the grand piano and a bowl of pink-and-white chrysanthemums, and faced the expectant crowd. Scotland's Roman Catholic Father Sydney MacEwan, 45, started to sing in a small voice that recalled much of the bewitching sweetness of the late John McCormack. He sang the centuries-old songs of plaintive and merry love, of the sea and of the rugged Hebrides, while mink-jacketed matrons...
...eyebrows were light brown and delicate, her mouth pale pink, generously curved, perfectly and definitely cut like the mouth on a Roman statue. Whatever her eyes had seen before the first blow struck, they were closed now and could mirror nothing. Her face was not distorted at all; it was in remarkable repose considering how she died. But the wounds on her forehead and cheeks were too numerous and too gaudy, like the wounds of St. Sebastian in the cheap plaster statues seen in the churches of little Italian towns. Marilyn's slayer was an extravagant slayer, wasteful...
...Matter of Fun. On a more down-to-earth level, Matisse was a pleasant, plump and proper bundle of paradoxes. He was finicky in his dress as he was daring in art; a pleasure-lover in his leisure time and a puritan in the studio. His pink face was bearded and benevolent; his slate blue eyes coolly attentive. He would discuss art lucidly and at length with all comers, punctuating his remarks by precise gestures of his small, square hands. Matisse knew his field as well, perhaps, as one man can. He tilled it conscientiously, and enlarged it courageously...
...never seen so many women in my life," grumbled a veteran Boston Garden ticket taker as he watched a mass of sequinned bonnets and pink corsages seething through the entrance gates. Pushing a long blue feather out of his eye, he gazed at a red and white "Liberace" placard plastered over the announcement for the previous night's Bruins-Rangers game. "They sure do go for him, don't they," he mused...