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| Dudding, George Aug 1999; Ormond Beach Fla | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 2 2009, 08:45 PM (974 Views) | |
| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 08:45 PM Post #1 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24523250/ Official: It's not illegal to vanish By JULIE MURPHY, Staff Writer News-Journal Online.com updated 27 minutes ago It conjures images of both serenity and turbulence. The ocean is a great big place, and more than one person has vanished in the surf.Some resurface; others never do.George Dudding, 45 at the time of his disappearance, was visiting Ormond Beach from New York and left with only the clothes on his back for a walk on the beach on an August night in 1999. He never returned to his friend's home -- never washed ashore -- and has never been found dead or alive anywhere under his given name."If people want to commit suicide, they do it, and they do it so they can be found," Ormond Beach Police Detective Donald Brock said. "That's the whole point -- to make a statement."Dudding's widow, Emily Listfield, has always maintained he committed suicide, Brock said. Dudding was officially declared dead Jan. 16, 2007"We have no evidence of foul play," he said. "And, the only thing that indicated suicide were some morbid pictures he left behind, but he was an artist."Dudding's story is not unlike that of Bennie Harden Wint, 49, who has been living as William James Sweet in North Carolina for the last 20 years and would not have been found out if he hadn't broken the law."It's not illegal to make yourself disappear," Volusia County sheriff's spokesman Gary Davidson said. "It's insensitive and thoughtless to your loved ones, but it's not against the law to drop out of sight and make a life for yourself somewhere else -- as long as you don't break any laws."Wint resurfaced last week when he was arrested in Weaverville, N.C., after he gave police his false name and had no driver's license during a traffic stop. He told police he believed he was wanted in South Carolina, and left there after being involved with a large drug ring and serving time in prison.Besides a drug problem, he left an ex-wife and 4-year-old daughter in South Carolina. Daughter Christi McKnight saw Wint again Thursday for the first time since he took her out for a macaroni and cheese dinner before he left."It was easier for me to believe he was dead," McKnight said Friday night in a phone interview. "I'm glad he's alive and OK, but he lost the right to be my father. My father (her mother Lynn got remarried to John McKnight) has been in my life since I was a little girl and legally adopted me. Even though Bennie was not in my life, I had a father."Wint was 30 when he headed for Daytona Beach after Hurricane Hugo hit South Carolina. He took a swim in the ocean on Sept. 25, 1989, disappeared before his fiancee's eyes and was presumed dead.Patricia Lynn Hollingsworth -- 37 at the time -- reported his disappearance to the nearest lifeguard, John Charles. But Charles never saw Wint or any other swimmers, just a lone surfer."It was a fiasco -- a hysterical lady, (Volusia County sheriff's) helicopters," Charles, a physician assistant in Jacksonville, said Friday. "This lady comes up to my tower and told me her husband drowned. Later on (when interviewed), she says he is her fiance. I knew something wasn't right."Charles was suspended for three days over the ordeal."It was hard at the end of the day, because I knew I didn't do anything," he said, adding he was 21 at the time. "I had to go home and tell my parents I was suspended and then have them see everything on TV. It was a rough couple of days for me."According to the Weaverville police report, the Volusia County Sheriff's Office notified Wint's ex-wife and told her he died, but a death certificate was never issued.Like Wint, Detective Brock also believes Dudding just walked away from his former life."I hope if he did just walk off, that (Listfield and their daughter) can forgive him and move on with their life," he said.Listfield, a magazine columnist and author of an autobiographical novel, "Waiting to Surface," kept in touch with Brock for years -- up until the time Dudding was declared dead by a judge in Tampa at her request, he said.That's something Dudding's blood relatives never did."He had relatives that we contacted," Brock said. "They never made inquiries to the Police Department to see if anything changed. Why ask the question if you know the answer?"The Ormond Beach Police Department used every resource at its disposal to find Dudding, Brock said. His dental charts were filed into the FBI's missing persons database within 30 days of his disappearance, but never got any hits, the detective said.Listfield was equally diligent."Psychics were involved who said his body was on the Intracoastal at Marker 32, and she talked to somebody in the Coast Guard who said it was possible (that he could have been swept out to sea)," Brock said. "In 35 years of police work, I've worked several cases where people drowned and they always wash up."Technology wasn't then what it is now, Brock said, but police know phone calls were made to Texas, where Dudding had a brother, and to Mexico from the Ormond Beach home he was visiting in the days before his disappearance."There were no constraints like (now since) 9-11 to get a passport," Brock said. "People are creatures of habit. He may be an artist in Mexico."julie.murphy@news-jrnl.com |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 08:46 PM Post #2 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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http://z13.invisionfree.com/PorchlightUSA/...showtopic=15539 |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 08:49 PM Post #3 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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January 22, 2008 "Backstory: Emily Listfield on her novel, Waiting to Surface." Though Waiting to Surface is a novel, it is based very closely on a my real event in my life – my husband’s disappearance. Though writing it was cathartic for me, as a mother, I was concerned the entire time I was working, about what the effect on my daughter would be. Writers are often faced with the dilemma of how to balance their creative needs versus the desire not to hurt the people in their lives … but when children are involved it is even more difficult. At the time the events described in the novel occurred, I was the features director of Self Magazine. My husband, George Dudding, was a sculptor whose work had been bought by everyone from Si Newhouse to the Metropolitan Museum. We had been married for ten years and our daughter, Sasha, was six. My husband had gone down to Florida to visit a friend. He was depressed and we were going through a rocky period. I was sitting in my office on an August morning when the police in Florida called to tell me my husband had disappeared essentially without a trace. At the time, they thought he had probably drowned. There were indications that he was suicidal. But… they couldn’t find his body. The coast guard had scoured the shore by helicopter and found nothing. Within a couple of days, the police changed their minds. They believed a body would have washed up and that my husband was alive someplace. The coast guard totally disagreed and said that because of the tides that night, if he had gone out just 100 yards, his body would have been washed out to sea. I hired a private detective who after weeks of work came to believe that George had died either accidentally or intentionally, but that his body would never be found. To me the hardest part was coming to accept that I would never really know what happened that night. Every night Sasha would ask what the detectives found out that day. I do believe he died that night, and that’s eventually what I told her. She was young enough to accept it without question. Waiting to Surface is about that first year, from the initial phone call to learning how to live with that uncertainty and find love again. I waited a number of years to begin writing, and when I did, I promised Sasha that she could read it when it was published. This October, when it came out, she was thirteen. The time had come. I was incredibly anxious as I explained to her that this was my version of what happened but she had every right to form her own narrative. She told me she was very proud of me for writing it and couldn’t wait to read it. When we got home that day, I asked her if she would like to read it now. I had worried about this day for years, imagining every outcome. But Sasha turned to me and said, “You know, Mom, I think I’m going to read Harry Potter instead.” I had to smile. She will read the book when she is ready. As a mother and a writer, that is the best possible outcome. By Emily Listfield. http://www.literarymama.com/interact/blog/...publishing.html |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 08:50 PM Post #4 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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snip The editor-in-chief of Fitness magazine, Emily Listfield’s autobiographical “Waiting to Surface” was acquired several months ago. Her sculptor husband, George Dudding, walked to the beach while visiting a friend in Florida in 1999, and was never seen again. Not only did Listfield have a demanding, fast-paced career to maintain as she dealt with the chaos and uncertainty, the couple’s 5 year old daughter had to be comforted and brought to some level of understanding about a situation the adults could not make sense of. Listfield’s sixth novel tells a story much like her own---names are changed but the facts are quite true to life, as are the anguish and uncertainties which batter her. “I must admit Sarah is extremely close to me. I gave her my insights, emotions, and insecurities, “said Listfield. “Eliza is very closely modeled on my daughter. Everything Eliza says in the book my daughter said to me at the time.” http://ntrls.tsl.state.tx.us/sanger/news-e...e-kept-man.html |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 08:56 PM Post #5 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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Waiting to Surface Eight years ago, Emily Listfield's husband walked down to the beach and never returned, leaving Emily and her daughter to navigate a new world of loss and uncertainty. Here, she shares the story of the hardest year of her life. Add page to favoritesBy Emily Listfield I never truly believed it was possible for someone to vanish off the face of the earth — until it happened to my husband. On a hot summer morning eight years ago, I sat in my midtown Manhattan office going through my in-box and wondering if the camp bus my 5½-year-old daughter, Sasha, was on had reached Coney Island yet. I pictured her playing on the beach with her friends, coming home tanned, tired, and happy. When the phone rang, I picked it up distractedly, but the minute the man identified himself as a police detective in Florida, my heart stopped. My husband, George Dudding, was visiting an old college friend in Ormond Beach. In a slow, cautious voice, Detective Brock asked me when I had last spoken to my husband. "Three days ago," I replied nervously. There was a long pause. "He's been reported missing," the detective said. A keening sound sputtered from my chest. Whatever this man had to say, I didn't want to hear it. George and I had been married for 10 years and were going through a rocky time. A nationally known sculptor whose work had been bought by The Metropolitan Museum of Art and numerous other big collections, George was depressed about a recent downturn in his career and had been drinking too much. Though I had begged him to get help, he thought he could handle his problems on his own. I watched, helpless, as his drinking escalated and he became unable to finish a single piece of sculpture. When he came home at night, I nagged and he sulked, and we couldn't seem to break that pattern. Three months earlier, George had moved into his studio 10 minutes from our apartment while we tried to work out our problems. I had hoped that getting away to Florida would help him see all that he was in danger of losing, and that he would finally agree to get help for his depression. In spite of everything, I knew we still loved each other. My mind spiraled as the detective laid out the few facts he knew. Two nights earlier, drinking and upset, George had told his friend Pam that he was going to the beach. It was midnight; he left behind his keys, wallet, money, and ID. The following morning, when he still hadn't returned, Pam looked through his things. Along with George's return airline ticket, she found two drawings: One said, "Lonely Head, Dead" and the other said, "Drowned." She called the police. "We believe he may have drowned," Detective Brock said, "either accidentally or in a case of suicide." But, he added, there was no body, no evidence. The Coast Guard had scoured the shore by helicopter and seen nothing. I hardly heard what he said after that. My mind, my heart were racing. A cool sweat pooled at the back of my neck, and it was all I could do to keep from being sick. As soon as I got off the phone, I ran out of my office. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, but going home seemed the only option. I called my friend Karen, who met me at my place, and she sat beside me as I alternated between crying and going over and over the scant pieces of information the detective had given me, as if an answer to what happened would suddenly present itself. All that afternoon, I stayed in constant touch with the police. I called George's family and friends, but no one had heard from him. The day drew to a close with no further news. I had no idea what to tell Sasha. How do you tell a 5½-year-old that her father has disappeared off the face of the earth, that you simply do not know what happened? How do you say that to a child who still believes that parents have answers? I wasn't ready to plunge her into a world of such uncertainty. I decided to tell her nothing until I knew more. All that weekend, I struggled to keep Sasha from overhearing me while I talked to the police or to friends, or simply cried. I let her watch cartoons with the volume turned up; I set up the paints and easel that would keep her busy for hours; and once, I sat in the coat closet with the door closed, the phone pressed to my ear while I spoke with the detective in Florida. He had nothing new to report. My thoughts flip-flopped from moment to moment: George was alive, he was not alive, they would find him, they would not. I saw him walking into the ocean, the black water rising against his legs higher and higher; I saw him wandering about, dazed, lost in some kind of breakdown; I saw him slyly plotting a course away from me to start a new life someplace else. I imagined the chance, too, that he was off brooding somewhere and would resurface to pick up his plane ticket and fly home as scheduled on Monday morning. I thought about everything George had accomplished despite the odds: After a rough childhood, he had left home at 16, put himself through college and grad school and, fueled by talent and determination, made a name for himself in the art world. I hoped his survivor's instinct would kick in yet again. But George didn't make his flight. And by Monday night, the police had no better idea of what had happened than when they'd first phoned me on Friday. That night, I told Sasha that her father had been in an accident and wouldn't be home as planned. "Where is he?" she asked. "I don't know," I admitted. "Can't he call me?" Tears welled up in her eyes. "You are the most important person in the world to him. He would call if he could." I knew that much, at least, was true — and that, more than anything, led me to believe he had died. The next morning, I hired a private investigator in Florida to see if he could find answers. Everyone had a different theory: Detective Brock, who initially thought George had drowned, had come to believe that a body would have washed up. He now insisted that George was alive and didn't want to be found. The Coast Guard disagreed, saying that because of the tides that night, if George had swum out just 100 yards his body would have been swept out to sea. One of George's best friends told me that he had talked of suicide. Though I believed the evidence pointed to his death, I still harbored the slim hope that he would somehow be found alive —or at the very least that his body would be discovered. Waiting for news defined my every moment; asleep or awake, there was no relief from it. Every time the phone rang I thought it would bring information — or that it would even somehow be George. My heart jumped every time I spotted a tall man on the street (George was 6 foot 4). I told Sasha I was doing everything I could to find out what had happened to her father. Each night as I tucked her into bed, she asked me what the private eye had discovered that day. "Did you tell him to ask the children in the neighborhood?" she suggested, a growing desperation in her voice. "Children see things grown-ups don't. Did he look in the closets?" I stroked her hair, my heart breaking, and told her that I would make sure he did that. There is an aperture of time after a death or disappearance when clues are most likely to accumulate. If this window passes with no major breakthroughs, the police begin to turn their attention to the next case. As the weeks went by, I saw that prospect looming and it terrified me. The chances of George being found alive were lessening each day. A month after George's disappearance, I got the phone call I had been dreading. The police had already given up actively searching; now the private eye, whom I had seen as my last hope of discovering the truth, told me that there was nothing else he could do. There would be no more daily reports, no phone calls. My worst fear — being left with no answers — had come true. Shipwrecked, I could only draw my own conclusions about what had happened that night. The explanation was mine to choose: death or disappearance, intentional or not. But I found it impossible to settle on a version. I became paralyzed. I stopped opening mail, I wandered off in the middle of sentences. Every night, when Sasha asked for news, I lied and told her they were still looking. As the days and weeks piled up, she began to grow angrier and more distant. She refused to let me kiss her, she slammed doors. The psychologist I was consulting suggested that I tell Sasha her father had died. "Tell her the police know for sure." I flinched, about to raise objections. "If you find out otherwise down the road, if he comes back, we'll deal with it then. But it's the only way she will heal." I knew that she was right, but I could not bring myself to say the words. Finally, the psychologist told me to think of that night as a locked room. No matter how much I pounded against the door, I would never be able to see inside, never truly know what happened. I made a conscious decision then to believe that George had died that night — and to stick with it despite my rambling imagination. It was where all the evidence pointed, I reminded myself. I wavered over whether he had swam out purposefully or tried to turn around, but finally I steered my thoughts away even from that. The next morning, I lay in a hot bath, sobbing uncontrollably. I knew that when Sasha woke up, I would have to say the words that would change her life forever. I took her in my arms and told her that her father had died. She instantly pulled away and hid behind the couch, her hands over her head, as if protecting herself from the news. I crept beside her and held her while she cried softly. We held a small memorial service in our apartment for 16 of George's closest friends. I asked them each to write something for Sasha to keep. That afternoon, we sat in a circle on the floor, listening to stories about George's love of art and good food, his incredible talent, and his kindness to friends down on their luck. Most of all, his friends spoke of his love of Sasha. The next day, I put the letters in a leather scrapbook, her father lost and found. After the service, Sasha began to get better, but I was overcome by extreme exhaustion. It was all I could do each day to get her dressed, fed, to school, myself to work. At night, I lay on my living room couch for hours. I went over and over the last few months, wondering if there was an intersection, a point at which I could have made a difference — if I had asked him to get help sooner? If I had been firmer, kinder, anything? But in my heart I knew I had done everything I could. One night I was so angry with George I threw away bags of his cherished books. Other times, I played his favorite music and cried. I told people that my husband had died, but I continued to pay the rent on his studio, worried that if he somehow returned he would be furious at me for giving it up. Along with the emotional limbo, it was soon apparent that I was in a legal no-man's-land. Being married to someone who does not seem to exist creates a number of problems, particularly when you have a child. There are so many things, from school forms to travel documents, that require both parents' consent. Finally, three months after George disappeared, I faced the fact that I would have to consult a lawyer. The police detective still refused to sign a death certificate and unless I was willing to go to Florida to sue for one, I would have to wait seven years before one was automatically issued. I wasn't prepared to leave Sasha and get involved in a trial, so my lawyer recommended that I sue for divorce on the grounds of abandonment. The idea sent me reeling, but I had no choice. Slowly, as the months passed, I began to regain my energy. Minutes would go by when I thought of other things. Reluctantly, I cleaned out George's studio. On the one-year anniversary of his death (I no longer called it a "disappearance"), Sasha and I went to a church he admired for its support of the arts and lit a votive in his honor. I knelt down, shut my eyes. I did not know what I believed about spirits or souls, but I wished George peace. I knew that could only come — for both of us — with forgiveness. I had come to understand that whatever pain George was in, whatever pain he had caused, his intention was never to hurt us. And in that darkened church on that hot day, I began the long journey of forgiving him. Somehow, seven years passed. Though I thought the death certificate would be granted automatically, it turned out that a judge would have to hear the case. So last January, Detective Brock (who still believes George is alive) and I both testified by phone. I told the judge why I believed George had died — he had loved his daughter too much to leave her, he was depressed and had spoken of suicide, the ocean was rough that night. The Coast Guard supported my view. And Detective Brock stated his side: "I would have found a body." After we testified, the judge asked us to get off the line while he consulted with the lawyers. I waited for close to an hour, pacing my apartment. Finally, my lawyer called to say the judge had ruled that George had died. I was flooded with both relief and sadness. That night, I got out slides of George's work, and as I looked at them I thought about how hard he had fought to create meaning and beauty despite the difficulties he had faced, and how frequently he had succeeded. There was something magnificent and brave about his continuing to struggle right up to the end, and I loved him for it. There will always be times when my life feels surreal to me, but I have learned to live in a world without the one answer I thought I needed most. Instead of continuing a futile search for certainty, I treasure the moments I had with George. I see the best of him every day in Sasha; I see the curve of his mouth in hers, I see his intelligence and curiosity in her amber eyes, and I am deeply grateful for that gift of love. Emily Listfield is REDBOOK's Sex and the Single Mom columnist. Her autobiographical novel, Waiting to Surface, was published this month. Find her at emilylistfield.com. http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/art...=8319152&page=3 |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 09:00 PM Post #6 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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Truth behind novel When Emily Listfield first wrote about the disappearance of her husband, she attempted a memoir. It didn't work, so she turned to fiction, which allowed her to plumb "deeper emotional truths," she told USA TODAY over the summer. The result is her novel Waiting to Surface. In 1999, Listfield was features director of Self magazine and mother of a daughter, then 5. Her sculptor husband, George Dudding, was visiting a friend in Florida when he vanished. The police had varying theories, including a belief that Dudding was alive. But Listfield believes he went swimming and drowned. He had been depressed, and there were problems in their marriage. Seven years after his disappearance, a judge ruled Dudding had died. His body was never found. http://www.usatoday.com/printedition/life/...tside09.art.htm |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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| monkalup | Feb 2 2009, 09:02 PM Post #7 |
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The Old Heifer! An oxymoron, of course.
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This is the first solo show for George Dudding, a 34-year-old sculptor born in Dortmund, West Germany, and now living in Minnesota. His primary material is wire, in particular copper wire, which he bends, cuts and solders into delicate reliefs that climb and balloon off the wall. Using wire not as a barrier but as a means of joining is probably a response to the divided condition of his native country. The sculptures are filled with references to tools and implements and to the idea of building. They may suggest rope, baskets, ladders or kitchen utensils. In ''Variable Sculpture,'' lines move in different directions like the arrows of a weather vane. ''Flux'' and ''Untitled (for Nan)'' suggest horses, in particular hitching posts and straps. When works like ''Di Grado in Grado'' actually suggest barbed wire, the imagery evokes the freedom identified with the American West. Throughout the more than 20 works, Mr. Dudding is trying to set up a dialogue with other 20th-century sculptors, from the Russian Constructivists and Alexander Calder through Eva Hesse and Martin Puryear. This show is a good start for someone who will probably gain more confidence and more of an edge with time. Joel Otterson Nature Morte Gallery 204 East 10th Street Through Nov. 29 http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html...n=&pagewanted=2 |
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Lauran "If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." The late, great Roberto Clemente. In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use without profit or payment for non-profit research and educational purposes only. | |
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