COLLECTIONS & CRITIQUES

There once was a small, lonely, painting, hanging in a museum. It really wasn't much of a painting, but then it's very difficult to find one that is much of a painting. No one seemed to pay any attention to this neatly-framed bit of canvas, and after a while, it naturally became very jealous of the other paintings which were being exhibited in the same museum. Never, during its entire lifetime, had this forlorn little collection of palette-scrapings experienced the supreme thrill of receiving such adjectival orchids as "significant form," or "masterly brushwork." not once in its whole career had it been afforded the pleasure of being designated as "the work of that up-and-coming young artist from the west." And, as is often the case, there was no particular reason for such neglect; the size of the piece was just small enough to that of Van Gogh to cause comment and comparison, while the few barns and houses which completed the landscape were sufficiently cubistic to inspire Cezannesque Colloquialisms on the part of any well-known critic. But for some vague reason the painting was gradually slipping into the lap of oblivion.

Perhaps the reason for such lack of success could be attributed to the presence of those six shiny paintings which occupied the next room. The use of line in our little landscape was just as delicate, just as sensitive as in those six popular fellows next door. But did anyone ever say that it approached Picasso? Never. Maybe the whole trouble was that, unlike those six other paintings, it had not been accorded the privilege of decorating two full pages in "Life." Or perhaps if that critic from the New York newspaper hadn't leaned down to pick up the pencil he had dropped just as he was passing the piece, he would have dedicated a few valuable cliches to it in the Sunday edition.

Whatever the reasons for lack of recognition may be, it is safe to say that for every work of contemporary or recent art that has experienced the warm rich feeling that comes from being praised and ecstatically admired, there are two equally deserving of praise, which are recognized only by the wall upon which they hang. And these unrecognized attempts can be found, not only in museums, but more often on the wall of a cocktail lounge or restaurant in the daily comic sheet, sometimes in the form of an especially well-executed advertisement, and in the lobbies of theatres. Very often real art can be found by looking toward the ground rather than by gazing at a slowly passing cloud. For this reason, criticisms and evaluations of decorative effects in such places around Boston will be discussed in this column in the near future.