Word: turbidity
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...corner of DeWolf and Mem Drive on a cold March morning. An hysterical motorist jumped out of his Pontiac screaming that a car had just veered off Mem Drive into the Charles River. Within minutes, Sgt. Peter A. O'Hare and Officer Thomas Simas were groping about the turbid ice water for the submerged car door. They dragged one of the two women from the river and collapsed from overexposure. A month later they were to be commended for saving one woman's life. Not every day in the life of a University policeman is that memorable, but the fast...
...tiny canal that is shaded by weeping willows, but the water is gray with filth and refuse. Dressed in knee-length tunics and pantaloons, the women of the village squat at the canal's edge to do their laundry and wash their pots and pans in the turbid, disease-infested water...
...seemed to inhabit an endless summer. Then New York believed in its manifest destiny; it had become the new Paris, or even Imperial Rome. The "mainstream" ran through New York. And it seemed by mid-decade that virtually everyone with something to invest was blundering about in its turbid flood like a shark, snapping up artworks. The culmination of this process was "Henry's show," a huge and partial exhibition called "New York Painting and Sculpture: 1940-1970" that Henry Geldzahler organized at the Metropolitan. If ever an exhibition broke the back of a decade, it was this...
...evening. "The Stage," in English. Barry Boys looked like a mock, effeminate Paladin, if you can imagine such a creature, in his black slacks and black dueling shirt; every time a dramatic gesture was forthcoming, he took a gun fighter's stance. His delivery was like that of a turbid Shakespearian actor, Edwin Booth, perhaps, at the Ford Theater. Barnum and Bailey could have found a better barker. Who sold this guy to Yevtushenko, I don't know and why Yevtushenko not only let him butcher the lyrics but also appeared to approve of the fallen, uneven slices is beyond...
...Naples. There was no broad direction of style. The artists worked more and more outside Italy, pursuing foreign commissions and coming back with the seeds of foreign taste sticking to them like burrs. As a result, the range of the period was astonishing; it ran from Magnasco's turbid compositions of raggedy monks to the grandeur and sun-washed transparency of Tiepolo's Armida Abandoned by Rinaldo, from Pier-Leone Ghezzi's wry grotesqueries and exact social observation to the flaccid but competent imitations of French classical landscape turned out by such artists as Orizzonte...