Word: stare
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Weird things go on at Fenway--not really weird. I guess, just if you think about them long enough. These drunks get into shouting matches and smart-ass college kids tell them to ennunciate, and when the drunks do the smart-ass college kids stare at the field in triumph and say. "Let's hear it for ennunciation!" "If this were some other country," someone asked me at my last game's seventh-inning stretch, "do you think the Bicentennial banner would seem okay...
Strong Illusion. Riley's paintings, especially the recent ones with their finely tuned ribbons of color, suffer in reproduction: full scale-up to 8 ft. wide-is needed for their effect, which is to deny one's point of focus. You cannot stare at any one point on a Riley for long. It slides away and is lost in the shimmer. A painting like Shih-Li, 1975, sets up an undulation of space that one feels as a physical pressure. The illusion is so strong that no act of will...
Forced to stare at things it wouldn't normally waste its time on, an audience can, with no qualms, just walk out. Many people will no doubt walk out of The Passenger. So much of it is unpleasant, and more will simply be tedious for those who aren't geared to the director. Only Antonioni's vision of a decadent, uninvolved and overinformed western civilization and its own use of the camera eye corresponds easily to a conventional sense of social criticism. David Locke, the journalist, his wife and his news colleagues all lead prechanneled lives, never confronting nature...
...variety of family life. Figures at both ends of the frame are cut off and those within are arranged haphazardly. Each is involved in his own world, not the photographer's. A baby near the foreground is blurred by motion; most of the others seem lost in contemplation and stare blankly in different directions. Yet there is a unity: the paradoxical combination of wide diversity of attention and easy physical proximity, make the photograph an unmistakeable account of a family, not of individuals...
...rear tire is punctured and the Mercury hobbles onto the shoulder of the road. We don't feel like climbing out. A man from the other car, parked now a few yards behind us, squats near the fender before coming to stare through my window. A khaki shirt flaps against his lank chest, his black hair touches his shoulders, and one arm swings round and round from its elbow, at a right angle to his hip, out of control. He offers us his jack...