Word: extinction
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...love and indifference, language, landscape and class behavior. It is not a young man's (or a moralist's) book. But it is intensely moving and contains, in its winding and ironic cadences, not a slack sentence: a performance in a difficult key about the making of a near extinct kind of European...
...winter morning, Will's mother and father inform him that his favorite fauna, the woolly mammoth, is extinct. But the boy knows better. Squinting his eyes, he manages to conjure up the prehistoric past, complete with saber- toothed tigers, early versions of horses, warthogs and, of course, the elephant's tusky ancestor. In Will's Mammoth (Putnam; $14.95), Stephen Gammell augments Rafe Martin's whimsical text with celebrations of early mammals, snow and that greatest of all time machines, a child's imagination...
...power, so that the tradition that stretched from Ambroise Vollard to Leo Castelli and Paula Cooper will be lost. Big dealers will have their tame resident critics, as princes their poetasters. There will no longer be much distinction between collectors and dealers, and the collector-as-amateur will be extinct. On the boards of many museums, a new breed of broker, the collector-dealer-trus tee, will hold sway. And art will keep draining out of America toward Japan and Europe. Welcome to the future: a full-management art industry. Most of it is here already...
...over dinner in Sydney in the early 1980s, "is he worth having?" But a major impressionist collection was what Bond hankered after. He knew this could not possibly come cheap. He didn't care. He was, in short, a dealer's dream: Billionaris ignorans, a species now almost extinct in the U.S. but preserved (along with other ancient life-forms) in the Antipodes...
These figures are upsetting. Not that I have the sort of dinosaur mentality that makes me cling hopelessly to extinct and obsolete artifacts. I was completely pleased by the demise of that quintessentially 1970s conduit of musical mush, the eight-track tape, which had the annoying habit of dividing songs as it switched tracks, and also seemed to be what you bought for such embarrassing works (mistakes?) as the soundtracks to Grease and Saturday Night Fever, or anything by Andy Gibb, Bachman Turner Overdrive or Barry Manilow (yes, I admit it, I once owned this stuff; anyone who tells...