Word: thinness
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...easy is it to fall for somebody when you don't truly know what they stand for? A singer whose music you have never heard? The alluring glimpse of the pale square frame photograph of the girl with the switchblade thin elbows sticking out of a white shirt? Coat slung over her shoulder? Pale translucent cheekbones? Suspenders, providing that hint of a man's outfit? That casual elegance of the working man with sleeves rolled up--a takeoff on the cover of an early Frank Sinatra album? Coal black hair? The picture is all still, the energy curiously becalmed...
...energy of his grinding movements, no emotion glides over his soft face and glazed eyes. Perhaps he imagines that there is a razor-tin glass wall around his little world that keeps out the fat curls of smoke and perfume and breath thickened with alcohol. Here is no tall, thin, hipless model. The boy is a bit short and very muscular--he resembles classical statues of Greek god. Perhaps he pretends he is centuries away, dancing in some ancient mystic ritual. The glass wall deflects all human contact: he will twitch his butt at you but he will not meet...
...were speaking through bed sheets. A man wails deep; his anguish, supposedly lashed to a sexual moment, is only the synthetic spawn of the recording studio--artificial, abstract. A chorus of women chant undecipherable orisons to some street-wise goddess of love. Their voices are synchronized to a single, thin line; you can't tell if there are three, ten, or thirty women singing...
...cooler air of the bathroom women are divided into two camps: those that look like Bette Midler and those that are thin. The former sport needle-thin eyebrows, wavy permanents, and blood-dark lipstick that shines like grease within the neatly-pencilled borders of their mouths. The latter droop against walls and sinks and toilet stall doors, saying nothing; they seem to think that being thin is enough. They're embarassed to be here, as if admitting to human functions belies their lifeless mannequin status...
...drunk way down Lansdowne Street, shreiking and twirling and smashing into hard brick walls. Their noise intrudes in this damp, silent alley; the warehouses know no human sound or stink from five p.m. to nine in the morning. The men wail deep and coo softly, as if speaking through thin silk stockings...