Word: burnt
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...determine the shape of Italian modernism: a systole and diastole between innovation and tradition. Particularly in the 1950s and '60s, Italian artists had a way of talking raw but painting cooked. In the early '50s, when Alberto Burri began to exhibit his paintings assembled from torn sacks and burnt strips of wood, they looked as leprous as Dubuffets. Today they seem tender, full of regard for discarded things, and about as threatening as sunlight on an old wall; one realizes this was always part of their intent. Even the Italian artists dealing with popular imagery in the early '60s, like...
...there is no quick way to test for liquid-cyanide poisoning in fruit. But by week's end the FDA was taking an approach similar to the airlines', allowing new imports of grapes and other small fruits but warning consumers to look carefully for holes, mushiness, discoloration or a burnt- almond smell. Safe rather than sorry had given way to FDA Commissioner Young's statement, "It is impossible to assure 100% safety...
...monthly. BEI Defense Systems, a Fort Worth-based arms manufacturer (1988 sales: $51 million), has come up with a novel twist on the aromatic advertisements that fill consumer magazines. When scratched, the latest ads for its Hydra-70, a relatively inexpensive rocket ($400 to $800), emit the odor of burnt cordite, an explosive substance in such weapons. The ad's tag line: "The Smell of Victory...
...they did, even the most brilliant among them. Janis Joplin. Jimi Hendrix. Jim Morrison. Burnt-out martyrs to the cause, done in by drugs and alcohol. The nobility of their nihilism is, today, a nightmare, the dark side of the force set free in the '60s. The paeans to the generation's liberties echo dolorously, as Love has truly become as strong as Death. "Sometimes," ( Eric Clapton said recently, "you need to hear some harmonic softeners, some quiet, to kind of quench the fire and calm yourself." But the fire cannot be fully extinguished. Though they abhor its destructiveness, those...
Factually speaking, I wasn't really in the Eliot House dining hall, but with Dan Quayle unable to wipe a smirk off his burnt flash-bulb of a face, and with George Bush--George Bush--finally able to look old Ron in the eye and say, "Well, pard...," it sure feels like I'm choking on a nation-wide haze of loose strands of woollen argyle and wafting fumes of Bean's Best Leather Oil. So I decided to get on a train. Heading north...