Word: polkas
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...world of white-collar work appears to a black man. "We can still usually tell what floor we are on in a corporation by the whiteness of it," he says. "In the basement, it might be all black; on the first floor, it's sort of polka dot. But as you go up, it gets whiter, and soon you get near the top, and except for that guard or receptionist out front you don't see many blacks." Certainly the union leaders have a point when they complain that integration is being forced on them while business...
...Marine who has given up hunting to help "conserve some of the species," an actor for whom Paint Your Wagon was not just a film but "a dream of a time when I should have lived." As he moved along the chitchat-and-canape circuit last week in his polka-dot shirt, Levi's and sneakers, he seemed more a displaced mountain man than movie star, a character created not by Logan but by Zane Grey. When he launched into one of his stories, punctuated with bammos! and whistles, arm waving and mimicry, he might well have been regaling...
...haiku, they proclaim their sureness and their charm with an absolute economy of means. A sometime poetess and six times a grandmother, Ryan took to collage in 1948 after seeing an exhibition of the collages of the Dadaist Kurt Schwitters. Her own instincts led her toward ladylike materials: failles, polka-dot ginghams and tulles. Betty Parsons, the pioneering dealer whose gallery introduced abstract expressionism to Manhattan in the late 1940s, has also at one time or another represented Jackson, Kulicke and Ryan. "It's amazing," says Parsons of Ryan, "how she would capture light with material and shape...
...LORD, I WISH I WAS A BUZZARD, by Polly Greenberg (Macmillan; $4.50). This matter-of-fact rendering of a day in the cotton fields is somewhat removed from the modern child's experiences. The illustrations in brown and orange by Aliki catch the polka-dot bleakness of the Southern landscape at cotton-picking time...
...deep in their sockets--the only glow of color in his face. His skin is pink and peeled away, the shinylayer that is left to an old man after the epidermis is worn away. He wears a vest that he pulls at, a white starched shirt and a darkly polka-dotted tie. Behind the desk with its law books and walnut, he is only a head, only those blue gems of eyes. But he will stand every 15 minutes or so, walk about behind the desk, take a drink of water, gulping it down very quickly, sucking...