Word: sherbet
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Cutting Satire. For all his cult of objects, Samaras has never become as famous as the pop artists with whom he first exhibited. If Claes Oldenburg or Tom Wesselmann turned out a strawberry sundae, it looked good enough to eat. Samaras filled his sherbet glass with nails and topped it off with a razor. Such cutting satire made it impossible for dealers to promote him as part of the bland pop school. But this year dealers are pushing the school of no-school. The premium is on artists whose versatility makes them impossible to be pigeonholed. Samaras neatly fills that...
Because Sonny likes to have beautiful things out and in use, Marylou uses the silver cups and platters won by the Whitney racing stable for everything from caviar to sherbet. The same goes for the jewelry that Sonny loves to collect. As a result, Marylou has been a stunning adornment to every ball she has attended. Adding a special luster is the 1,900-diamond tiara, once the property of Empress Elizabeth of Austria, which she likes to wear for specially grand occasions, such as the opening of the Metropolitan Opera...
...color and dubbed voices (since the actors can't sing and the singers can't act). Sample lyric: "You are the Ganges of my heart, and I am the Jumna of your heart. Where, oh where, is the confluence?" During intermissions audiences devour fried field peas or sherbet, drink Cokes, then exit to buy copies of the movie's songs...
...away from." Snoopy, the dog with the floppy ears and foolish smile, is the perfect hedonist. He dances, skates, jumps rope, hunches like a vulture but above all likes to lie flat on his back on the top of his doghouse awaiting supper -which sometimes includes a dish of sherbet on the side. Snoopy is no great shakes at chasing rabbits ("I don't even know what a rabbit smells like"), but he never fails to sniff out ice cream cones and candy. "Snoopy is not a real dog," says Schulz. "He is an image of what people would...
...abstract expressionists passed. In contrast to the abstract expressionists' frenzy of free-swinging brushstrokes, Morris Louis, who died suddenly two years ago at the age of 50, turned out paintings in which any trace of imagery or personality disappeared into cool, lush fields of color. With his sherbet-soft spectrum, Louis made floral-petal shapes and stripes like awnings that left yawning, bare canvas between them...