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Time it was

机译:时间过去了

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A bigail thomas is not a painter, but she makes paintings any way. Using oil-based house paint, which is toxic, she drips, flings and pours colour onto glass and then pushes it all around. Failed compositions are scraped away, yielding new and surprising arrangements. A dopey bunch of apple trees can suddenly become a ghostly stand of birch. "You have to have some faith," Ms Thomas writes in her beautiful new memoir. This is not a book about painting. It is about pushing around sometimes toxic material in an effort-sometimes vain, often frustrating-to make something that looks right, or at least to find beauty in the results. This, of course, is what it means to write, and certainly to write a memoir. It is also what it takes to find contentment, particularly in one's later years, when most of the colour already has been dripped and flung. That is the real subject of Ms Thomas's book.
机译:比盖尔·托马斯不是画家,但她以任何方式绘画。她使用有毒的油性房屋涂料,将其滴下,甩干并将颜色倒在玻璃上,然后将其推向四周。报废失败的作品,产生了新的令人惊讶的安排。一团苹果树突然变成了桦木的幽灵。托马斯女士在她美丽的新回忆录中写道:“你必须有信心。”这不是一本关于绘画的书。它是要努力地驱散有时有毒的物质,有时是徒劳的,常常是令人沮丧的,以使某些东西看起来正确,或者至少要在结果中找到美感。当然,这就是写作,当然也就是写回忆录的意思。这也是找到满足感所需要的,特别是在一个人的晚年,那时大多数颜色已经滴落并甩掉。这是托马斯女士书中真正的主题。

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    《The economist》 |2015年第8932期|79-79|共1页
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