Word: handkerchief
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...lobby or the plaza. The sense of intimate contact goes. So does the feeling of envelopment, the mysterious orchestration of additive detail in a limited, and hence obsessive-seeming, space. Nevelson's open-form, welded sculptures, such as the set of Shadows and Flags recently installed on a handkerchief-size plot near Wall Street (which New York City benevolently renamed Louise Nevelson Plaza), are big, imposing and mannered. They leave one convinced that this kind of postconstructivist sculpture-in-the-round is not her forte at all. In her hands the idiom has neither the power of David Smith...
...afternoon in early December, Los Angeles was in the 60s and Ronald Reagan looked like a dream. He was wearing a blue-and-green wool tartan jacket, a purple tie, white shirt, white handkerchief, black pants and black loafers with gold along the tops. Who else could dress that way? He settled back on a couch in a living room so splurged with color that even the black seemed exuberant. A florist must have decorated it. A florist must have decorated his voice. He was talking about job hunting as a kid in his home town of Dixon, Ill., telling...
Lennon loved language, the sounds and rhymes and elastic elusiveness of words, and, like a dandy with a lace handkerchief, he liked to keep a pun up his sleeve. The early songs, all written in collaboration with Paul McCartney, were playful, ebullient, rich in imagination. On his own, Lennon planed down the richness of the words into a sparseness that matched the immediacy of the music...
...best disguise. When Robert Penn Warren came to Vanderbilt University in the early 1920s, fresh off the farm in Gutherie, Ky., he looked like a poet. A city poet, after the style of T.S. Eliot. Glossy shoes. Handkerchief triangulated in the jacket pocket. Fingers exquisitely laced for the camera. Now, at 75, with over 50 years of poetry behind him-not to mention, a good deal of fiction, including All the King's Men-"Red" Warren looks like a farmer...
...would palm my copy to her. The day of our rendezvous I looked at my handwritten report (it was thought wise to leave my portable typewriter at home) and found it indecipherable even to my own eyes. I telephoned the TIME office on Kutuzovsky Prospekt and, with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, asked if I could come over and type my story up before going off to Pushkin Square. Alas, B.J. was at the office, so I handed the typed copy to her there. Too bad. I felt I had let the side down. I liked all the mumbo-jumbo...