Swank in The Arts; Clips from various episodes

Native Chicagoan Edward Larabi Barnes put in his student time at Harvard, bachelors and masters of architecture, and wasted relatively speaking little time in building a practice that has taken him to some far corners of the world and spread from houses in Maine in Minnesota to botanical gardens in New York. There have been schools as well, one example is the Haystack School in Maine, and some impressive office buildings, the IBM World Trade Headquarters in New York for instance, and 590 Madison, also in New York, and also for IBM. Among post-war two architectural firms which have dealt with museum design, and that includes most of the major ones in this country. Barnes has come to be grouped with a small number who have most successfully managed a balance between the architect's

own desire to produce a singular design and the requirements of the art objects which are to be shown in such buildings. Two projects from the Barnes Office obviously weighed strongly in his choice as architect for the proposed New Dallas Museum of Fine Arts. One is the Skafe Gallery, a thoroughly contemporary addition to the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh, a palace of culture structure of the Ornate style that had spelled museum to generations of Americans. Barnes did not attempt to adapt to the older structure only relate to it in materials and mass, and produced a thoroughly contemporary and compatible building of sweeping spaces, pleasant exteriors, and effective lighting both natural and man-made. His problem for the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis was perhaps less restrictive. With no feasible way to remodel an older building, he simply replaced it with a structure of gradually ascending galleries wrapped around a central service core. Successfully it relates what goes on inside the museum with

what is happening outside of it, with a scale sufficiently grand to meet the most adventurous of artist requirements, yet comfortable enough never to swallow the visitor. Over its 75 years, the Dallas Museum of Fine Arts has been a living factor in the life of the city. Edward Barnes charge, make it more so. New York's Museum of Modern Art, whose architect was Edward D. Stone, is the grand dom of US museums built with a contemporary design approach. Its recent

addition was the work of Philip Johnson. Johnson, of course, also designed and has recently enlarged the Amon Carter Museum of Western Art in Fort Worth. One of Frank Lloyd Wright's last commissions was the Guggenheim on Fifth Avenue in New York City. A little further uptown is Marcel Breuer's Whitney Museum. Breuer also did the addition to the Cleveland Museum. Roach, Dinkaloo, and associates were responsible for the new Lehman Wing of the Metropolitan and also did the Oakland Museum. IMPA made this addition to the late Eroseranon's original Des Moines Art Center and put this east building on the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. Besides the Carter, Fort Worth's great museum complex includes Louis Cahn's Campbell and O'Neill Ford's revitalization of the Fort Worth Art Museum. Ford also did extensive additions to San Antonio's MacName Museum which

started life as a private residence. Edward L. Barnes enlarged the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh by addition of the Scafe Gallery and rebuilt from the ground the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. Of these eight firms, six were given detailed and serious consideration for the Dallas Museum of Fine Arts commission. Life magazine was born November 23, 1936, and for half a human lifetime it continued as

a magazine built around its photographers. Life boasted the best. Margaret Burkwhite, Alfred Eisenstadt, Leonard McComb, and hundreds of others in a stunning synthesis of mind and machine captured life for life. Those photographers covered the entire spectrum of the world's events, from the shrieking atrocity of wars to the frivolity of ultra-high fashion. Their Henry Loose wrote that the reader of life would see and take pleasure in seeing, see and be amazed, see and be instructed. And so the cameras traveled into the beginning of life, recorded the pain of inhumanity toward life, and celebrated the corny joy of living.

Life captured the disbelief of a finally free prisoner of war, along with the light doodles of a legendary artist. It recorded the grim reality of a nation divided by prejudice, and brought us closer to the struggle for freedom throughout the world. Richard Avedon disguised Marilyn Monroe as Theta Barra, and the nation breathed a little heavier. The great minds were flashed before our eyes, along with the leaders of nations and the men of independent mind. Life followed the bullets which rang through the 60s and mourned the passing of a president by substituting for the only time in its history, black, for its traditional red cover format. Life on Espanol and life international reached readers throughout the world. Nothing was too gruesome as long as it was true. Nothing too contrived if it struck a universal

emotion. Life extended our vision in an increasingly complex world. This was the last issue. It marked the end of a colorful, conscientious, outrageous, tender, funny, brave, thoughtful, and venture some existence. Many of us felt it was too short a life. The Manhattan Clearinghouse tells a lot about what we're all about. The essence of what

we're about, because Clearinghouse, I mean a point of exchange, a point of gathering, to the point of being a credit union for artists, to the point of people coming down here, photographers and dancers and filmmakers and sculptors and using each other and exchanging information and working on projects together. It became apparent that it really didn't matter what space we were in that our energy was enough we would continue being together until we found the space. We're talking about ourselves, why did we incorporate to get three cent stamps? We need building and suddenly it's like we got an arena. Somebody told me to go over to this house

one night and see what was going on. I went over there and there were a bunch of people lying down on the floor screaming and kicking their feet and legs and looked like a lot of fun so I got down and started screaming too and I've been screaming ever since. Listen to the dream I had when we could go. Before me in a little field, two little hands in the kitchen were the most difficult to create the show every stream. Oh my God, I woke people up and they got名.

And the group of people, they clumsy as for just a moment, then the visitation of the world shouted somewhere with power to the tent. It began to flow. Now I saw. And they just put us on columns as a child. It'll give Dallas artists a chance to do something with their talent here rather than if they've got talent picking up and leaving town and going places like LA or New York. And they just put us on columns as a child. And they just put us on columns as a child.

And they just put us on columns as a child. And they just put us on columns as a child. And they just put us on columns as a child.

A father is a strange thing. He will leap across a generation and peep out of a grandson's eyes when unexpected with all the secrets of him resurrected. A man is taken by complete surprise to see his father looking from the eyes of a little boy he thought his own and thought he had the breeding of alone. His father looks direct through eyes, new blue. His father moves on stout, buys, quick and new. He takes hold of things as once he did and none of his old handsomness is hid.

The grace the father thought well hit away shines like the sun upon a boy at play. The log he kept so close for none to see looks up naked at the father's knee. All the proud, high ways his father had are lowered to his knee. A man is sad to see them so, but then he catches breath to see how one so loved has cheated death. A man is taken by complete surprise to see how one so loved has cheated death. A man is taken by complete surprise to see how one so loved has cheated death.

They say New York City is the only town in the world worth caring about. Athletes lust their entire careers to play there. If that's true, it must be the legends that make it so. New York legends those rare moments in sport to become real for the rest of us because they were witness by people just like us, fans of boo and cheer heroes in the sports archives. The sportswriters who wrote and broadcast from up there to the rest of us down here. There's no other explanation for today's occasional Yankee fan out in Amarilla. Harry Carey, a red barber, screaming to us over miles of static. Grantland Rice created more heroes than all the wars, but we were ripe then. Only our hand for Kalasman Pete Reeser crashed into the wall at Abbott's Field in Jolton Joe, hitting 56 straight.

Where are our legends today? Well great moments in sport forever take place in New York, Chicago, Detroit, those cities that have had time to form myths, old men like Doke Walker legends, but only became so believing home. Bobby Lane, Sammy Baugh, Kyle Rowe, all left us to become the heroes for foreigners, Yankees mostly. But now can we have the Cowboys, the Rangers, the Astros, the Oilers? Can today's athlete become a legend? Is Bob Lillie a real hero? Will Lee Roy Jordan's stories be told a great grandchildren? I think not. Oh not because Lillie or Jordan aren't up to measure, but because we aren't, the fans have changed. Adjustment though is mandatory. For now we cannot sit with our ears pressed against an old radio, cheering the crack of stand demands bat, curving a double inside the right field line. Instant replays robbed us of legends, chopping our heroes, and their deeds down saddeningly close to our own size.

Embellishments impossible. The hot stove league watches hockey. It's lucky for our legendary heroes that they were finished before we had the opportunity to watch their every move. It's lucky for them we couldn't get close enough then to hear them talk, see them sweater, or touch them even. It's lucky for them we couldn't barge into their privacy to watch them shave, brush their teeth, and use hairspray for guide's sakes. But it's lucky for us for the fans or true fans no more. We clamored for the game to be brought to us. We tempted opportunistic men with our dollars and they brought us our own teams. Space age, dope walkers would found they could demand half a million dollars and get it before being blindsided by Chuck Bednarek. We're lucky because we can still have our heroes of another day and having them can remember what it was like. The past is not dead. Back when receivers wore high tops and our own feet were more firmly set. We've grown jaded along with our heroes. We don't mourn for Roberto Clementi or Freddie Steinmark like we did with the babe and Gary. We look past the fallen to what's left on the bench, depth.

Then the offense sputters just once and we boo. We boo them in with cheer to game ago. We forget because we must not because we will. We've had too much of everything and carpet executive club owners and television are giving us more. Profit and lost millionaires and TV have destroyed the myth of player as hero. Modern fans, modern writers do not think in terms of the book of revelations as a Grantland rice did. Rice was raised with us down here in the Bible belt before television. He used the language of power and majesty because he thought he was living in an age of giants. And when Notre Dame swept down on army at West Point, he naturally reached into the Bible to describe the devastation wreaked upon the cadets. But today, the best of our writers tend to the psychological, the topical. Perhaps they must after all they can now but rehash what we fans have already seen. At age of giants, which was as much created by as reported by men like Rice has passed. City slickers up north, folks down in Dallas, Atlanta, we're all the same.

We see the same things at the same time read the same stories. We think alarmingly alike. As our cities run together and become indistinguishable, so do we melt into high-rise pots. Owners look for tax shelters. Legends wear pantyhose and the Dodgers move to LA. Henri Neuss. The most money my daddy finally made was $500 a month, and that was the last year he ever worked.

While he spent precious breath urging his sons to become doctors and lawyers, we practice diving for fly balls and running post patterns. Kept at it too, polishing moves, picking up speed, that we ran right by the sorts of things you need to do any good with law or medicine too late even to make the dentistry. Still for some reason we had little or nothing to do with, we limped and stumbled from beneath the arc lights and the jobs paying right off, more money than old dad ever made. Things are looking up, easy street, downhill too, no not so fast, first of course a hit you with a tax which is okay, this is one club with the doser well worth it. Next thing you know though, you have to dog on near be somebody else and wear knives you're closing more of them even, shoot it don't hurt to look good and two-tone shoes is up town no matter, but how about a car and I mean a nice car, whoo gotta have it since in all likelihood you'll be called on to taxy big shots to and fro, like relief pictures on a six place club, in a house to a course since entertainment is part of the gig, and what part of town now that's the thing to consider.

Heavy weights feel dusty when junk cars are stacked up long side your neighbor's house, the real ticket to out of the question locked in called a side to low is how it's all of a sudden so easy to land those here to four know where to be found bank loans, the house, 40, $50,000 no problem, new car sign right here, master charge, bank America, American Express you name it like falling off a log, and there you are right on top of the heap, who'd ever thought it, but is it the top, well the old village for a leave you with that one, he's in a hurry has to get on out of the lake where some fellas he knows, roasting the side of beef and drinking whiskey and it's Tuesday for God's sake, no oh no I couldn't go the heat zone, I've joined the club, just got the first bank loan of my life for the first house of my life, it's a big old place over on gas and needs a bit of work, all $11,000 worth or so, and I'm doing it myself, which means I get to that big paying job about eight thirty a.m. leave it five, hit the house straight on and banging hall and wheeze and cough till twelve or one the next morning, I'm not all

at concern though, I do have twenty-five years to get it all paid off, twenty-five years, I really never thought I'd be inside your spot and what else, my wife, a vangeline, a Jane and I have a little duffer on the way, and at my age why this is a young man's game, this new arrival has a lot of meaning for me, not the least of which is that the mother of the house will quit her job and cut our income, slap and have, all that means is that our bills are suddenly triple and our income suddenly have, if I was all the laws of economics and worse beats logic alongside the head too, still there's one saving grace. In the dead middle of the big back yard, shaded on all sides by hundred-year-old trees, stands a giant pecan overlooking the garden I sold and tilled and watered against all odds, in there and back of that seventy-year-old million dollar shanning with a lifetime obligation, I sit against that pecan, and my feet propped up in the late afternoon, chew on a fresh radish, it's hot, so sip a beer to cool the burn and I think about lawyers and ball

players and my old dad and what I'm going to do twenty-five years from now. All right. .

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