Word: yorkerism
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Last week, in The Bronx, detectives haled before Magistrate Frank Oliver seven newsdealers, charged them with selling a magazine, For Men Only, containing three "obscene" words. When the defendants' lawyers showed that one or more of the words had also been published in the New Yorker, Esquire, some 20 books in the city's public library, Shakespeare and the Bible, the magistrate ruled the words were not obscene, dismissed the charge. The New York World-Telegram and Herald Tribune, carefully reporting to their readers that one of the words appeared in verse 7 of chapter...
During the late '20s The New Yorker employed a bright young man who wrote a column called The Sky Line, noting the erection of Manhattan's new apartment houses and office buildings. In the criticism of architecture The Sky Line included such amiable judgments as that the new, incredibly ornate and lugubrious Roxy Theatre was "a truly fine expression of what a place of entertainment should be." In the autumn of 1932 Lewis Mumford took over The Sky Line and speedily transformed it into its present role of the most perceptive, severe and expert column of architectural criticism...
Night and Day, a London imitation of The New Yorker, was published from last July to January, then folded up. Its best piece of fortune was that it had libel insurance when dimpled, kink-curly Shirley Temple sued it because of Critic Graham Greene's review of her Wee Willie Winkie. One of England's famed film critics, Oxonian Greene, a devout Catholic, had found Shirley's acting offensive, and offensively intimated that it appealed to man's baser sex instincts. "She wore trousers," he wrote, "with the mature suggestiveness of a Dietrich. . . . Her admirers-middle...
Nearly a decade ago a New Yorker cartoon by Carl Rose showed a mother urging broccoli on an emancipated child whose response became immortal: "I say it's spinach-and I say to hell with it." To designers, spinach is not only a humble green but a trade word for any superfluous decoration. From these two sources came the fitting title of a book published this week by Manhattan's No. 1 dress designer, petite, smart, feline Elizabeth Hawes.* To Designer Hawes, "fashion" is superfluous decoration. In the process of telling how she shrugged it off she gives...
Last week Fashion Critic Hawes was still pouting at her publishers because they refused to illustrate her book with drawings she had had made by one of her favorite artists, the New Yorker's Helen Elna Hokinson. She vowed she was going to write another book, one that no publisher could consider too serious for Hokinson illustrations. Far less concerned with the incident than the fiery Hawes, shy Artist Hokinson, a specialist in the idiosyncrasies of clubwomen, was last week mainly interested in a delightful mass of raw material-a mob of inimitably shaped Garden Clubbers who descended...