Word: threading
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...fall 2004-05 collection, Prada spent three months working with textile mills developing first a very fine thread and then a computer-graphic print that was inspired by images of 18th century ruins. Using pixelated computer screen grabs, she reprinted copies of the original images onto faille and brocade, giving them a moiré effect. The final print had a high-tech feeling, but the fabric was traditional...
...demonstrates her utter mastery of characterization and transcends petty provincialism, instead exploring complex relationships of all sorts and the various ways in which they intertwine and affect the individual. Though the characters in each story differ vastly from each other in circumstances and personality, they all share the common thread of facing some sort of personal distress. Eisenberg tells each story from multiple perspectives to capture this distress, switching seamlessly from third person narrative to interior monologue. These transitions are initially confusing, but as the story continues, the reader learns to recognize each character’s voice and perspective...
...This trio of woes seems to have a common thread: Underlings snared while trying to please their bosses. It's almost like blaming the hammer instead of the carpenter for a bent nail. Speaking to the Associated Press, Feith took umbrage at descriptions that his work was "inappropriate." Said he: "The policy office has been smeared for years by allegations that its pre-Iraq-war work was somehow 'unlawful' or 'unauthorized.'" He has a point: it was the Bush Administration that chose Feith's reports over those generated by its $1 billion-a-week intelligence operation. Feith's work...
...sent back to the drawing board multiple times. Professors criticized the reports, including one that recommended that students fulfill distribution requirements in three categories—Arts and Humanities, Science and Technology and the Study of Societies—for being too vague and lacking a guiding philosophical thread...
...snapped the lock and went away. I stood just inside the door in total darkness, trying to make out where I was. An unpleasant odor of staleness and decay assailed me. Gradually I realized that the tiny room had no windows. However, the door fitted badly; a thin thread of light seeped through the gap. When my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I saw vaguely that there was a wooden board on the dusty floor and a cement toilet in the corner. The room was no more than about five feet square. The handcuffs felt different. They were much...