Nasher curator plays sleuth to identify Gerard painting
(04/12/06 4:00am)
The tiny, cryptic initials "FG," primly stamped in the corner of a stately oil painting, don't look like the handwriting of a 17-year-old.
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The tiny, cryptic initials "FG," primly stamped in the corner of a stately oil painting, don't look like the handwriting of a 17-year-old.
Before Duke was Duke, politically minded graduates didn't go far beyond elected office. Eight Congressmen have come from Duke over its century of history, and of those, four represented or represent North or South Carolina. Logical, given that the University was founded as an educating and advancing vehicle for Carolina kids.
Romare Bearden's art is the riffing of a bluesy cornet to the midcult art world's ubiquitous Bach suite. It lacks the chilled fragility of landscapes or portraiture; it surpasses the folksy kitsch of idiomatic primitives.
The mystery man lurking behind Door #3-or the mastermind behind the column to my left-is no longer a shadowy figure, as you'll see at the bottom of his piece.
Forget the chainsaw-we're not in Texas anymore. And steak knives are so passé.
Give him one hour per week for a month and a $40 check, and Richard Badu will teach you how to dance. And not that leg-quaking, booty-shaking brand last seen on the Shooter's bartop, either.
At a time of year when regional rivals square off to assert their athletic prowess, Duke and her neighbors are taking their competitive instincts to another rabble-rousing and crowd-pleasing realm-big-band jazz.
I'm not really sure how I got here. I've been having that thought for a while. It started as a classic utterance between a friend and me whenever our surroundings seemed too weird to comprehend.
This time around, "to be or not to be" is not, in fact, the question. The query that Dov Weinstein, founder of the traveling Tiny Ninja Theater, poses instead: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the karate kicks and flung ninjitsu stars of- an outraged ninja. Talk about creative-and combative-license.
Ultimately, it's the old one-two-punchline that betrays Whagoo-le Tramper's "live Indian dance show" as more shtick than sacrament. He tugs at his feather headdress, part of his dance costume. His lips hover inches from the red foam microphone head. "I was talking to my elder the other day, and he said, 'The Indian is going to be the first ones to get to heaven.' I said, 'How you figure that?' And he said, "'Cause we have reservations.' T Badabing. The audience roars.
It changed my life," a friend said, plopping a pink-jacketed hardback down in front of the assembled girls and our Indian take-out.
Chrismakwanzaakah is upon us. Now is the time for giving, receiving and gloating over your amassed haul.
You know, you really shouldn't smoke," I said to Pokey, a friend's two-month-old cat, as she lifted her paw to her mouth and took another pull on her Parliament. Her tail twitched idly, thwacking against the sofa's arm. "You're still young and all. It could stunt your grow-"
Violin virtuoso Hilary Hahn performed in concert last Saturday night to a nearly sold-out Page Auditorium. From the first confident chord to the final graceful flourish, the performance proved brilliant, as was expected. Only the jingle of an inconsiderate audience member's cell phone during a pause between pieces marred the concert experience.
Stop me if you've heard this one.
I have seen faces of barely restrained ire, of emphatic and arduous disapproval. I have seen disdain. I have watched the arc of hurled epithets, watched as criticism dribbled from tongues swollen with indignance.
Growing up, my sisters and I made a sport out of journal-reading. One or all of us (there are four young Balls) kept a diary; we started, as did most burgeoning female writers still in elementary school, with psychedelic Lisa Frank notebooks. Ah, the '90s.
In the 2:30 mass exodus from BioSci a few weeks ago, I caught a waft of woodsy, piney cologne-the kind Abercrombie advertises on rippling male models in flannel boxers and Santa hats. I watched as the source of the smell sauntered by-tall, shaggy light brown hair, blue eyes. He pulled open the door and held it for my friend Leslie and myself, smiling slightly and drawling into his cell phone.
When I asked around Thursday night to find friends to come to an art museum with me, I got some laughs. Apparently, I can be really hilarious when I want to be.
Like many great moments in Duke's history, it started as a tale of athletic finesse.