Word: saints
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Count Rene de Saint-Quentin, French Ambassador to the United States who is visiting in Boston will be the guest of President Conant at lunch at the president's house this noon...
...Saint Francis, most ambitious and startling of the three, was a colorful, ingenious mixture of secondhand religious fervor with syrup of ballet: it caused terrific applause. Saint Francis had the advantage of a score by famed self-exiled German "Kulturbolschewist" Paul Hindemith (TIME, March 14), which proved to be not only top-flight Hindemith but the finest contemporary ballet music Manhattanites had heard since the palmiest days of Igor Stravinsky. To its subtly suggestive, drypoint phrases, Saint Francis (Choreographer Massine), in a medieval setting, pursued his ideal of Poverty (paradoxically embodied by demure, eye-filling Ballerina Theilade), tamed...
...months every year the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh, at other times a statue-stuffed monument to the late steel-master, becomes the world's most comprehensive salon of oil painting. The Carnegie International Exhibition, assembled with shrewd relish by the Institute's Director of Fine Arts Homer Saint-Gaudens, costs the estate of Andrew Carnegie about $40,000 a year, enlists the services of scouts in no less than ten European countries. Last month an international jury† spent two days picking eight prizewinners out of 365 paintings by U.S. and European artists; last fortnight all the paintings...
...Cunard liner did not have its customary twelve pushers as it arrived off the Fiftieth Street pier in early morning sunlight. On its bridge stood Commodore Robert B. Irving who observed the state of the weather and declared it deal, then took out his gold medal of the patron saint of travelers. In his own words" "I looked at his kindly face and asked: 'Shall I do it?" and it seemed the saint smiled at me and replied: 'Carry on old man, and you'll do it,' and I did." Whereupon the Commodore proceeded to defy the longshoremen's strike...
Outraged, betrayed, dejectedly off to bed last night, the first Friday in years without having read TIME. Brooding thoughts while seeking escape in sleep: Whistler's Mother with eyebrows plucked, lips rouged and fingernails enameled a brilliant scarlet. The Blue Danube in swing. Saint-Gaudens' Lincoln with face lifted, wrinkles erased and character lines obliterated. The legs of a fine old Chippendale piece knocked off and replaced with chrome pipe. The interior of Mount Vernon done over in 1938 night-club modern. The mellow patina of a fine old bronze reliquary burnished away...