Word: corduroys
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...there is one thing Colin Middleton can't abide, it's "this long-haired, corduroy cult of artists." The stocky Irish painter prefers to wear his own hair trimmed short and to roll about Belfast and Dublin in hand-woven tweed plus-fours, red suede shoes and a black beret. His would be a notable figure in any landscape; in Ireland, which has produced hardly any painting worth the name,* Middleton is a current sensation...
...never have existed, Professor Joseph Bell. It was Bell's favorite trick (and later, Holmes's) to guess who and what any patient was without being told. "This man," he would declare, "is a left-handed cobbler . . . You'll obsairve, gentlemen, the worn places on the corduroy breeks where a cobbler rests his lapstone? The right-hand side, you'll note, is farr more worn than the left...
Teacher Roy Fisher, 22, just out of the University of South Carolina, was like no teacher Bunk had ever heard of. In his green corduroy jacket, Mr. Fisher could pitch horseshoes and he could square-dance. But he also knew something about symphonies and poetry. On the walls of the classroom, he hung reproductions of paintings by artists Bunk did not know: Cezanne, Bellini, Rouault, Rousseau, Winslow Homer. And on the blackboard, he wrote things like "The best portion of a good man's life, according to Wordsworth, is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love...
...first time in a decade, Britain's most durable top-rank painter was having a one-man show. On opening day, the doors of London's little Leicester Galleries had parted promptly at 10 o'clock and the corduroy-jacketed clique of fellow artists hurried in for a long, appraising look. If anyone came with doubts, there was colorful evidence on every side that Augustus Edwin John's considerable gifts are still as full-blown and as fresh as they were when he gave his first exhibition, 49 years...
Strenuous Rest. At the fashionable Waldhaus in Sils, Switzerland, Conductor Klemperer was not very communicative about his wrestlings with the Einem score. He showed up in the hotel lobby in bright green corduroy shorts, white sleeveless shirt, his thin white legs encased in striped silk socks. Yes, he felt he needed a rest, he said. It was a strenuous rest: he was playing tennis, going for long walks, working on two compositions of his own, sitting up late alone evenings over a benedictine with mineral water in the hotel bar. Did he like Einem's opera? Klemperer was guarded...