Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

(Continued from page 53) f/INGrc LIPS Instead of coating your lips with greasy artificial paint, Tangee uses the natural tint of your lips as a base. Orange in the stick, it actually changes when applied, to the shade of rose or red most becoming to you — gives you the warm, soft, alluring lips Nature meant you to have. Try Tangee today. See in your own mirror what smooth, tempting loveliness Tangee — and only Tangee — can give. Your Own Shade of Rouge— Tangee Rouge matches the color of Tangee Lipstick and actually seems to give your cheeks a natural blush. Powder— with an Underglow— Tangee Powder, too, contains Tangee's color change principle . . . seems to give your skin a delicate "underglow." BEWARE OF SUBSTITUTES ! There is only one TANGEE. Don't let «e sharp salesperson switch you. Be sure to ask for Tangee Natural. Try Tangee 1 hcatrical, T| Worlds Most f.rmous lipstick too, for special occa ^_ _ . -tmm —mm —mm It: creamy A*M MLM ^^^ ' E^ ^L\ smoothness gives your 14 WlfM ^^9 ^Ch ^C| exciting W m MM] ^Mf ^MW ^W color— yet never looks ENDS THAT PAIMTED LOOK ".minled." | 4-PIECE MIRACLE MAKE-UP SET The Georite W. Luft Co., 417 Fifth Ave.. New York City . . Please rush "Miracle Make-Up Set ol sample Tanqcc Lipstick, Roukc Compact. Creme Roukc and Face Powder. I enclose 10« (stamps or coin). (15* In Canada.) Check Shade of Powder Desired: B Peach (1 MRht Rachel □ Flesh Rachel J Dark Rachel Tan Nome HIT CI' I Cllv painting was "more respectable than playing the violin." He could draw a likeness with a few strokes of the pencil. Hill got his guardian to send him to Boris Anisfeld, a well-known painter in Chicago. Anisfeld too saw an uncanny quality in the boy. For long summer vacations Orson spent his days in Anisfeld's studio, learning brush techniques, daubing away at canvas. He did well. He was just sixteen when he graduated from Todd School with a high school diploma. Roger Hill and Dr. Bernstein wanted him to go to Harvard. But a crew hair-cut and a Phi Beta Kappa key strung across his vest didn't appeal to Orson. Spring was in the air, and the Rose of Sharon trees were in bloom in the Woodstock gardens. At sixteen he was more than six feet tall, and his body was as broad and big as a man's. His spirit took wings. After graduation, he took the train to Chicago, and went to call on Dr. Bernstein. "I'd like to go to Scotland for the summer, and paint," he said. "Scotland?" The doctor was taken aback. He didn't particularly approve. But he remembered that he had been young once. There were a few dollars to spare from Mrs. Welles' estate. He told Orson he could have them for a summer vacation — and no more. ORSON thanked him with a whimsical gleam in his eyes. In three days he was on a boat bound for Liverpool, with an easel and a battered box of paint brushes under his arm. He never reached Liverpool on that voyage. To this day he cannot quite remember how it happened. Perhaps it was the sight of the sea again — the sea he had not seen for more than four years — and the feel of a ship's engines throbbing beneath him, when he lay in his berth at night. Perhaps it was the stars, so much bigger and brighter on the ocean than they are over the land, that made him dizzy and confused and a little mad. At any rate, when the ship stopped one twilight at Galway, Ireland, he got off — bag and baggage. The city Orson found at sunset was like something out of Southern Spain. It was a painter's paradise. By next morning he had fallen in love with Galway head over heels. Scotland was forgotten. He would paint this beautiful city, this countryside, every Spanish arch and sombrero, and sober Gaelic face. There was exactly twenty dollars in his wallet. He went off to the marketplace and bought himself a donkey and a donkey-cart. The donkey's name was Sheeogh. She had a gray hide, dainty little hooves, long eyelashes, and the temperament of a prima donna. Orson bought her a bale of hay and gave her a good long swig at the municipal water trough. Then, with a jingle of her harness bells, they were off — for a life of adventure. They traveled north toward Connemara, jogging along the dusty little roads of Western Ireland. And Orson painted as they went. Sometimes it was a lake, set like a blue jewel in the heart of soft green hills. Sometimes it was the lovely face of an Irish girl who waved to them from her potato patch. Or the portrait of some 56 Seamis or Patrick who took the picture in return for a meal or a place where the painter could lay his head. He became wild looking and shaggy. His beard grew and his face turned brown with the sun. But Ireland entered deeper and deeper into his blood. And when the summer was over, and it grew too cold to sleep under his donkey cart and wander the roads, he came back to Galway and sold Sheeogh — not without heartache, for they had become fast friends in spite of her temperament. He booked passage on a barge and sailed north up the Shannon River. He was a vagabond, and he loved it. But in the natural course of events, a boy with a temperament like Orson Welles could not be a vagabond forever. By the end of his second spring in Ireland, he began to feel a new kind of restlessness — that desire to fulfill himself in the world. What did he want to do with his life? Painting? That had been fun, but he was not really a great painter. Music? Once he had loved to play the violin, but he had not touched the instrument for many years. Writing — perhaps. He did not really know. He decided to go away — far off, by himself — and find out. Perhaps in some wild and lonely spot it would come to him. He had heard that the Aran Islands were the wildest spot in Europe — gray reefs of stone, where the ocean licked hungrily in great fans of angry foam. He set out for the smallest one. There was nothing but a few lonely cottages on the island, and gaunt cliffs where the sea birds built their nests. He plodded over broken rocks and coarse grass, with his easel under his arm, and knocked on a cottage door. And once again, he asked for board and lodging, in return for portraits of the family. All summer long, he painted and tramped around the island, trying to make up his mind. College. Perhaps he should go back to college, and be a diplomat. Perhaps he should go to Vienna, and study music. Every week he toyed with a different notion. When September and October came, he still had not made up his mind. YE'D better be getting back to the mainland where it's decent and warm," the men of Aran told him. "The islands ain't no place for sober folk, when winter comes." Still undecided, he took their advice. And one late October day, when the sea was less boiling than usual, he set out for Ireland, in one of their frail boats. When he reached the mainland, he went to Dublin. It was the big city, and the only one where he might find temporary work, now that winter was coming on. For the first time in his life, he felt a kind of gnawing sense of terror. For a year and a half he had lived on the kindness of the country people. But who in a city like Dublin would buy his paintings? Or give him even a crust of bread for them? He had not heard from his guardian or written him for more than a year. He was too proud to write to him now. In his pocket were five shillings — a little less than one dollar and twenty-five cents. Another boy in such a situation might have been in the depths of despair. But not Orson. For some reason or other, he felt strangely light RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR \