Word: rubins
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...artist Anthony Caro that opens this week is just such an event. The ponderous slipway has been checked and greased. Brochures prepare us for a new Cunarder, the latest in a steelworking tradition that goes back to such august four-funnelers as the M.V. Picasso. The chairman, Curator William Rubin, picks up the champagne bottle and takes aim. The grizzled chief engineer, Critic Clement Greenberg, puts down the disc grinder with which he had been stripping an American dreadnought, the U.S.S. David Smith; he wipes away one gruff tear of pride on an oily rag, then jerks the levers...
...pepper-and-salt beard, he is by general consent the best sculptor to have emerged from England since Henry Moore. One powerful wing of American Establishment taste-the Greenberg circle, which includes such critics as Michael Fried and curators like Boston's Kenworth Moffett and MOMA'S Rubin-is disposed to think of him as the most important sculptor alive: the sole inheritor to David Smith. This has been announced so often in the past ten years that it has become a pedagogical dogma...
...Jerry Rubin...
...Melvoin's superb fall production of Philadelphia Here I Come, the overlapping ambiguity between the two characters who play the schizophrenic selves of one person made for a rich interplay. Melvoin has consciously chosen to differentiate very clearly the two main characters in Rosencrantz. Jeff Rubin as Rosencrantz plays a good Yiddish Sancho Panza character who alternates between dawdling silliness and self-indignant outrages over nothing. But our comic response is much more problematic towards Guildenstern (Steve O'Donnell), played as a brooding almost Hamlet-like character who utters Stoppard's lines dripping with metaphysical existentialisms as if they were...
...PHILADELPHIA, Melvoin's specialty is the rapid-fire repartee. Rubin and O'Donnell are a brilliant duo when let loose. And in a word-spitting duel like the Questions Game (where each must retort with a question), the verbal fireworks are dazzling. Chris Minkowski, a properly regal Claudius, looks like he's still savoring his triumph as last fall's production of Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound. The mimed deaths of the Tragedians, choreography by David Fechtor, resemble the last writhing gasps of fish drowning in air, and coordinate well with the heavy rope-netting...