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Show j Report from America PIERRE CARTELL NEW YORK, N. Y. I have just gone through what rru'ght be called a profound emotional experience, ex-perience, seeing for the first , time New York's Museum of Modern Art. Even a step inside this oppres-'sively oppres-'sively modern building is not , recommended to those who have jnot a firm faith in the essential sanity of humanity, for that faith will be shaken, shaken mightily i by what there is to see. I This I was told was a great ex-J ex-J ample of the mind of the twentieth twen-tieth century, of the progress of civilization "into new dimensions", dimen-sions", I believe the phrase was; yet after taking it all in, I can only thank heaven I just returned return-ed from the farms of the Middle west where life is life and men are men, and where I feel a desire de-sire to flee at the moment, This so called modern art is the product of the city, and of the city's hairbraincd, neurotic, off centered art colony. That it caa. ; be called art is a miracle, but that it is called art by a majority could never be claimed by even the most fanatical of its supporters. support-ers. The desire I had to laugh at the monstrosities 'that deck thor.c well groomed walls was painful, , and at times led to to wonder whether I could be all alone in my ignorance of what it was all about. Other people looking sane ' enough, were there and seemed to be making a rational effort to ; digest what they saw. A counle j of them were snickering, but for i the most part they were simply I staring and attempting to look j wise and somber. To make sure of my own impression, im-pression, to make sure I put it crudely because that was the wav it affected me that I was not off my l:at, I went over to Radio City, a mere couple of blocks and dragged back a friend who had just completed his afternoon , broadcast. j I We trod the slippery and some-, some-, what disconcerting marble again, ' j paid our quarter and entered the inner sanctum. The profanity that came from the frankly amazed amaz-ed gentleman at my side would ! not look well in print, but his I general opinion was clearly 1 enough expressed. I was not a-' lone. j We tackled one particular I monstrosity, entitled if I remember remem-ber correctly "The Red Cart", and began, reasonably enough by trying to find the cart. On a can- i vas Fomc seven leet long and almost al-most as high this should not be too difficult a task. But this may the good Lord nily the creator is modern art. The enrt turned up in the lower right hand corner, slit by numerous numer-ous bands of superbly contrasting contrast-ing and revolting colors, and bearing so far as both of us could discover no possible relation rela-tion to the rest of the picture. Every snicker and word of disapproval dis-approval that we heard from the passersby was swallowed up as manna from heaven and the words were not few. For a normal norm-al mind the thing was simply impossible. im-possible. Comments would range, from the artist's "No composition. No colour. No sense of the beautiful. No picture'" to a startled and . very disgusted 'How awful!" i from a kind and gentle looking , old lady who walked from one room to another, looking hope-j hope-j fully for something to bring her ; back to the world of civilization j but quite unable to find it. At last she gave uf the effort after seeing the second floor where the more calm and sedate work of earlier years reposes and retreated via the elevator, unable we assumed, to walk again past the statue that threatens from the head of the stairs. , In general the comments, and the disgust, bestowed on the first floor go for the second as well. There the canvases have a bit more of the sanctity of " age, a faint trace of awakening rather than disrupted mental playfulness. playful-ness. The sculpture that one bumps into is better disregarded. For it is often sickening, even to one who has seen life at its rawest. The one touch of the human to be found is tucked away in a little room on the thind floor. To that point it is all mechanistic seemingly the product of an impish robot, out on a spree, out to show human beings what a dismal interpretation can be made of life. Yet the touch of life is not in painting, not in sculpture, strangely and ironically ironical-ly in the most mechanistic of arts, photography. There in the little section devoted to some nretty, some journalistic print" is a simple, yet superb picture of a quite little town in moonlight by Ansel Adams. One picture does not make it -ill worthwhile though. To be out of there was a blessed relief. If1 that be art. dear old New York mav have it. Not only because of enforced ; onlimism, but because of person- I al exnerience. I feel sure and certain that this was no reprcsen- tation of our modern civilization only of a dingy and best forgotten forgot-ten corner of it. Instinctively I tie up my impressions of this type art with what I dislike most about cities and city life. This may be unfair but so is modern art. I need a long breath of fresh air right now, and the only place I know to get it is away from the city. Aren't we forced to say all the more now that when we want beauty and truth and the glory of life it is away from, rather than in, the great city that we must go to get it? |