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Full Download World of Art 8th Edition Sayre Test Bank
Full Download World of Art 8th Edition Sayre Test Bank
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A WORLD OF ART
EIGHTH EDITION
Henry M. Sayre
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Chapter 1 1
Chapter 2 9
Chapter 3 21
Chapter 4 29
Chapter 5 40
Chapter 6 52
Chapter 7 60
Chapter 8 70
Chapter 9 80
Chapter 10 92
Chapter 11 103
Chapter 12 117
Chapter 13 129
Chapter 14 139
Chapter 15 149
Chapter 16 157
Chapter 17 168
Chapter 18 179
Chapter 19 190
Chapter 20 201
Chapter 21 210
Chapter 22 220
Chapter 23 232
Chapter 24 243
Chapter 25 255
Chapter 26 266
Chapter 27 277
iii
Copyright © 2016, 2013, 2010 by Pearson Education, Inc. or its affiliates. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1 – Discovering a World of Art
2. Jasper Johns chose to paint his image of the American flag to express
a) his proclivity for things seen but not examined.
b) his own patriotism during the McCarthy era.
c) a universal concept of freedom.
d) the injustices incurred during the Civil Rights Movement.
Answer: a
Learning Objective: 1.1 Differentiate between passive and active seeing.
Topic: The World as We Perceive It
Difficulty Level: Moderate
Skill Level: Understand the Concepts
1
Copyright © 2016, 2013, 2010 by Pearson Education, Inc. or its affiliates. All rights reserved.
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There are no courses in this repast. You light a cigarette with your
first mouthful and smoke straight through: it is that kind of a
breakfast.
Then you spread yourself over space, flat on your back, the smoke
curling out through the half-drawn curtains. Soon your gondolier
gathers up the fragments, half a melon and the rest,—there is
always enough for two,—moves aft, and you hear the clink of the
glass and the swish of the siphon. Later you note the closely-eaten
crescents floating by, and the empty leaf. Giorgio was hungry too.
But the garden!—there is time for that. You soon discover that it is
unlike any other you know. There are no flower-beds and gravel
walks, and no brick fountains with the scantily dressed cast-iron boy
struggling with the green-painted dolphin, the water spurting from its
open mouth. There is water, of course, but it is down a deep well
with a great coping of marble, encircled by exquisite carvings and
mellow with mould; and there are low trellises of grapes, and a
tangle of climbing roses half concealing a weather-stained Cupid
with a broken arm. And there is an old-fashioned sun-dial, and sweet
smelling box cut into fantastic shapes, and a nest of an arbor so
thickly matted with leaves and interlaced branches that you think of
your Dulcinea at once. And there are marble benches and stone
steps, and at the farther end an old rusty gate through which Giorgio
brought the luncheon.
It is all so new to you, and so cool and restful! For the first time you
begin to realize that you are breathing the air of a City of Silence. No
hum of busy loom, no tramp of horse or rumble of wheel, no jar or
shock; only the voices that come over the water, and the plash of the
ripples as you pass. But the day is waning; into the sunlight once
more.
Giorgio is fast asleep; his arm across his face, his great broad chest
bared to the sky.
“Si, Signore!”
He is up in an instant, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, catching his
oar as he springs.
You glide in and out again, under marble bridges thronged with
people; along quays lined with boats; by caffè, church, and palace,
and so on to the broad water of the Public Garden.
But you do not land; some other day for that. You want the row back
up the canal, with the glory of the setting sun in your face. Suddenly,
as you turn, the sun is shut out: it is the great warship Stromboli,
lying at anchor off the garden wall; huge, solid as a fort, fine-lined as
a yacht, with exquisite detail of rail, mast, yard-arms, and gun
mountings, the light flashing from her polished brasses.
In a moment you are under her stern, and beyond, skirting the old
shipyard with the curious arch,—the one Whistler etched,—sheering
to avoid the little steamers puffing with modern pride, their noses
high in air at the gondolas; past the long quay of the Riva, where the
torpedo-boats lie tethered in a row, like swift horses eager for a
dash; past the fruit-boats dropping their sails for a short cut to the
market next the Rialto; past the long, low, ugly bath-house anchored
off the Dogana; past the wonderful, the matchless, the never-to-be-
unloved or forgotten, the most blessed, the Santa Maria della Salute.