Word: ridings
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...inadequacies and weaknesses just blare out at you," complained the young artist as he viewed his own one-man show at the Farnsworth Museum in Rockland, Me. Jamie Wyeth, 23, Andrew's talented and modest son, had hitched a ride with a lobsterman from his home on Monhegan Island, and almost wished he hadn't come. Even his 1967 portrait of the late John F. Kennedy was disappointing in retrospect. "I'm terribly unsatisfied with it," said Jamie, who never saw J.F.K. in the flesh and completed the portrait from photographs and extensive sketches of the President...
...military, of course, has tremendous bases all over the South. There's a big Air Force one right across the street from the MG dealer's in Montgomery. Hitchhiking back from picking up a new water pump, we got a ride from a big smiling native Brazilian para-medic in his air conditioned Volkswagen bus with two little children. During the week he flies over to Vietnam and parachutes into the combat areas to save the wounded soldiers. He does stuff for them right there while the shooting is still going on, and then flies all the way back...
...going to back down," Knowles said. "That's what they want me to do." One Senate head count showed that no more than 25 members opposed the nomination; another estimate put the opposition at ten. Finch assured Nixon that his appointee had the pluck and wit to ride out the storm. Meanwhile, the A.M.A.'s lobby operation was not idle. Hints began to circulate that Knowles proposed socialized medicine. Congressmen found that the A.M.A. was even propagandizing their family doctors...
...whimsy. Alfonso the Magnanimous of Naples, for instance, was a king so loved that he could walk the streets of his capital without an escort -during a century when neighboring Rome reached a reported average of 14 murders a day. Gentle Guidobaldo da Montefeltro of Urbino liked to ride through his duchy with a band of trumpeters, drummers and Italian bagpipers spreading harmony as he went...
...SUMMER when the city begins to steam and the mind juggles thoughts of green and blue, museums and their breezeless corridors are forgotten. Looking at paintings might be allotted to a day of rain, or to a Sunday stroll if you can not find a ride to the sea. On a summer weekday, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts is silent. Girls in white pinafores stare from the spacious brown canvas by John Singer Sargent across an empty room to the portraits on the opposite wall. A single spectator feels like an intruder, as he passes between a Renoir...