Word: surrealist
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...20th Century, Max Ernst (see col. 3) renounced the pleasures of painting the sunlit world he saw around him. By concentrating on the feathered, taloned, sharp-toothed horrors visible to his inner eye, Ernst became modern art's first surrealist (old masters Bosch, Brueghel, Grünewald, and others had been there be fore him). All Ernst had to do was to close his eyes to see Satan hovering before him in the studio. And Ernst's Satan was easy to recognize: he invariably looked like everything that Ernst feared most...
Alien Sin. The war brought Peggy and Surrealist Max Ernst together in Marseilles. Says she: "He had white hair and big blue eyes and a handsome, beaklike nose resembling a bird's. He was exquisitely made. . . . When I began my affair with Max Ernst it was not serious but soon I discovered that I was in love with him." They fled to the U.S. together, and while Ernst painted feathered nudes, Peggy got her Manhattan gallery under...
Disclaiming abstractionism and surrealism alike, Joan Miro paints gaily-colored fantasies, filled with cavorting, infectiously-jovial organisms, figures in a symbolism which is both intensely personal and completely charming. As a young man, Miro was influenced by the Dadaists, and he has been frequently accepted as a surrealist, although the simplicity and individuality of his idiom far transcends surrealism...
...mean, of course, that he is a saint unilaterally." Other effusions: "He is not just one animal but the whole zoo"; "He is the common denominator of man"; "When he goes to sleep, it is like . . . Aphrodite ascending"; "He has returned to the womb bearing great gifts." A surrealist mingles caution with admiration: "To Henry Miller. . . . Don't let the amphibious wife strangle you with a nightgown. It isn't decent with an orange...
...selection from among four of the six volumes of verse which this facile versifier wrote in France during and after the German occupation. Aragon was celebrated in this volume as the laureate of the Maquis. In English these poems, intensely patriotic, often loose and ballad-like, richly embellished with surrealist imagery, are eloquent, interesting, but difficult to assess as poetry. The detached reader is likely to wonder whether Aragon is being canonized with too little regard for Jean Cocteau's cynical observation: "In French poetry there is only one rhyme: La France, la Résistance...