Word: tamarinds
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...medieval alchemist's sign for stone. Today it is the trademark, or "chop," as printmakers call it, of the Tamarind Lithography Workshop, a modern, scientific, and rather messianic attempt to revive the making of graphic art from stone. As the Los Angeles-based, nonprofit workshop prepared to print its chop last week on the 1,000th litho created there since its beginning four years ago, it seemed to mark the rebirth of an art form lately thought inferior to painting because of its duplication by mechanical means...
Pressure Cooker. True enough, a lithography studio like Tamarind does resemble an industrial plant-it is full of polished stones, pots of ink, presses, reams of handmade paper. The artist's task, in the simplest form of lithography, is to draw his work on flat stone with a greasy crayon. A printer-artisan wets the stone with water, which the grease rejects, and then rolls on ink, which the grease accepts. When the artisan presses paper to the stone, the ink prints the work of art, and the process can be repeated as many times as the artist requires...
...spunky Chicago woman named June Wayne had to travel to Paris to find an artisan with whom to illustrate a book of John Donne's poetry. She griped to the Ford Foundation, which has since mollified her with $565,000 worth of grants to found Tamarind for a limited period of time, and made her its director...
Chits for Everything. In the clean, graceful former French colonial capital of Pnompenh, women glide silently in their vivid sampots (floor-length sarongs), while pousse-pousses (pedicab taxis) clog the broad, tree-lined avenues. Orange-robed Buddhist monks contemplate under bougainvillaea and tamarind trees, watched by some of the mangiest dogs west of El Paso. From gardens gecko lizards cry "Gecko, gecko, geck-o"-and some consider this the nearest thing to logic one hears in Pnompenh...
...word that the last of France's troops, some 13,000 in all, would leave Viet Nam in the immediate future. For weeks truckloads of French soldiers bound for troubled North Africa have rumbled towards the waterfront, their full-throated soldiers' songs ringing out under the arched tamarind trees like a recessional. "There is no singing now," said the French proprietor of a local bar when they had passed. "Only the voices of the ghosts of our old comrades...