Those same eyes, in black and white, stare out of a mug shot, also part of the show, that was taken last summer, when Mr. Melgaard was arrested in Manhattan, charged with assault with intent to do bodily harm.
That dude with the white beard and the blank stare?
The Pughs held cookouts and invited mixed crowds, disregarding, even slightly savoring, their white neighbors' stares.
Yet as you click through the turnstiles a mural of the old Croatia Sydney SFC logo, complete with the red and white sahovnica stares back at you.
A hefty pastry cook, his bulk encased in a white overall, stares at the camera, full of professional pride as he wields his whisk in a giant copper bowl.
When the white page stares blankly at you, I suggest two strategies.
White grout stares back at you from every wall.
Tiny brilliant red toadstools sprout from the ground, yellow-brown fungus sails shoot out from the bark, dwarf tulips no bigger than a large pin head burst forth with bright yellow and red stripes, guanaco (or are they vicuña?) browse in the distance and, nearby, a large white alpaca stares at me with stunning blue eyes.
The chef, wearing white linens, stared dully at the camera.
Mr. Carneglia, who wore a blue prison jumpsuit, had slicked back his graying hair and displayed a long, neatly combed white beard, stared back.
