Word: wood
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...thrown into an incinerator run by a firm called Konvex near Lake Vanem, southeast of Stockholm. Using a new method that was developed with the help of E.U. funding, raw animal material is crushed, ground and then pumped into a boiler where it is burned together with wood chips, peat or other waste to produce heat. "It is an efficient system as it solves the problem of dealing with animal waste and it provides heat," says Leo Virta, the managing director of Konvex. "The main part of this fuel is coming from cows, pigs and moose. Rabbits are only...
...existing schools in Weimar, the charming, tradition-minded little city where Goethe had lived. But very little about the school Gropius had in mind would be traditional. Instead of teaching students to imitate great works of the past, the Bauhaus entry course explored fundamentals like the material properties of wood and metal or how colors and forms operated within an image. Instead of focusing on painting and sculpture, the curriculum was built around workshops in woodworking, ceramics, metalworking, printmaking and weaving...
...Harvard Club of Boston, located in the heart of Back Bay, boasts a lobby lined with dark wood panels. A crimson carpet covers its floor. It is the kind of place that conjures up images of graying men in well-cut suits lounging in leather armchairs, nursing a scotch in one hand and a smoking cigar in the other, all the while discussing politics or stocks...
Alivan’s, the only IQA-approved broom manufacturer, makes its brooms entirely by hand, using solid sassafras or oak wood and hand-tied straw, according to David A. Wedzik, Alivan’s founder...
...poet’s voice. That, after all, is really all one gets at such a performance. I’ve found that poets tend to have beautiful reading voices. It makes sense, given that their vocation requires them to be as intimate with words as a carpenter with wood. It is the most immediate pleasure of a reading, the way the sound of an instrument pleases more immediately than the composer’s melody. I remember, when Simon Armitage read in Houghton Library earlier this semester, sitting in rapt attention to a repetitive poem (that I would have...