Word: portrait
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Like a Rabbit." Frank Costello took the lesson to heart. Every man has his own secret portrait of himself, and Costello fancies himself a man who keeps his word, sticks by his friends ("I know a lot of people who are not exactly legitimate. But that don't mean I'm in bed with 'em, does it?") and does countless good deeds. After all, wasn't he supporting a boys' town in Italy, didn't he quietly give away thousands to charity every year, including some run by papers which damned him, and didn...
...last week's show were those that made no effort to be beautiful and that sacrificed the esoteric for the immediate. Préfète Dufaut's childlike Harbor at Jacmel was as flat, bright and familiar as any postcard, and Wilson Bigaud's self-portrait behind bars had the harshness of a flashbulb photo. Even these, standouts though they were, lacked most of the qualities that critics associate with good painting. Yet, as Poet Rodman suggested in his book, the qualities they did possess were the ones most lacking in modern art and most essential...
...Time for Christmas. The full-length portrait of Eleanor Roosevelt is the picture that dominates the book. "I did not want my husband to be President," she states, probably to the surprise of thousands. "As I saw it, this meant the end of any personal life of my own . . . The turmoil in my heart and mind was rather great." Nonetheless, "I never mentioned my feelings on the subject...
Really There. There were a few fine portraits. Lester Bentley's George Wyckoff Jr., a straightforward picture of a boy whittling, looked like a good bet to win the exhibition's popularity prize. Charles Hopkinson's carefully constructed Double Portrait of a mother and daughter showed the dean of U.S. portraitists at the top of his form. At 80, Hopkinson is more than ever concerned with creating an illusion M>f reality on canvas. "Things are really there," he explains, with a diffident wave of his hand, "so why shouldn't one try to capture...
...story of the movie industry has long tempted U.S. novelists, and a few writers have brought Hollywood to fictional life e.g., F. Scott Fitzgerald in his unfinished elegy to the independent film artist, The Last Tycoon; Budd Schulberg in his acid-etched portrait of a ratty producer, What Makes Sammy Run? But most novelists who write about Hollywood become infected with the faults they set out to pillory: garish sentimentality and tabloid vulgarity...