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Show National Gallery of Art Is New Capital Attraction Wide Array of Great Works Displayed; Late Andrew Mellon's 'Dream' Realized In Recently Opened Exhibit. - v 1 By BAUKIIAGE National Farm and Horn Hour Commentator. WNTJ Service, 1343 "H" Street N. W., Washington, D. C. WASHINGTON. A slight, white-haired white-haired man walked into one of the narrow little houses that line the west side of historic Lafayette square opposite the White House and which he had just rented for himself him-self and his staff. He looked it over from cellar to attic, indicated where he had planned to sit and watch the dream of a lifetime come true. His staff moved in and worked there for four years. A few days ago they locked the door and moved Into a $15,000,000 building, which the man who had dreamed about and paid for, as a gift to the nation, never nev-er lived to see. The building is the National Gallery Gal-lery of Art. The man was Andrew Mellon, who died only a few months after the ground for his "dream" was broken. He had hoped to sit at a desk in Lafayette square, only a few blocks from the art gallery, with his son, Paul Mellon, and with David Bruce and Donald Shepherd, directors of the trust which turned the gallery over to the government. Congress accepted the gift and established es-tablished it as a bureau of the Smithsonian Smith-sonian institution, the other great museum which was turned over to the government by an individual. The day after the President of the United States dedicated America's new temple of art, I walked down the corridor toward the fountain beneath be-neath the rotunda on the first floor. About me moved some 2,000 other visitors who came from towns and cities and villages, all over America. And from other places, too. As I stood there on the marble floors that are like black mirrors, I heard a woman murmur, "Magnifique." I looked at her and saw a refined French woman whose eves SDoke publications, to carry knowledge of the paintings and the sculpture, their history and facts concerning the artists art-ists to the people in order that the treasures under his care may be shared with the schools and the individuals in-dividuals of the nation. There are two publications available avail-able now. One is the preliminary catalogue containing a descriptive list of the collection with notes. It sells for 50 cents which can hardly cover the cost, yet it contains 234 pages, the last 16 of which are beautiful beau-tiful black and white reproductions of some of the paintings. The book, which is to sell as cheaply as possible, pos-sible, is paper bound, but beautifully printed, containing brief biographies of the artists, descriptions of the works and factual information about them. The other volume is a picture book. It sells for one dollar and a half and contains black and white reproductions of all the collection totalling 548 illustrations. The title, date and name of author are given but no additional text. If any readers of this column would like to buy either of these books, I suggest that you write first to ascertain the postage required. I shall be glad to give you that information in-formation because I think that any art student or art lover ought to have them. They are not printed at a profit. They are part of the institution which belongs to you and which some day you will probably visit. When you do come to the National Gallery of Art, you will understand why the President spoke of the masterpieces mas-terpieces it houses as "symbols of the human spirit, and of the world the freedom of the human spirit made a world against which armies now are raised . . spontaneous tribute to the beauty about her. I had no doubt that she had seen the Louvre with its "Winged Victory" and its smiling "Mona Lisa" ; the Luxembourg with its masterpieces of Rodin. But here she found something different. Here were the priceless paintings and sculpture of the old and the new world in a temple, which, despite its shining corridors and its great dome, was a friendly human place. Unlike so many of the musty museums muse-ums of the old world, it seems as hospitable as it was spacious. Even its size, by the clever design of the architect, ' has been disguised with interrupting archways, with gently sweeping lines which give its classic dimensions a warmth and intimacy. The visitor feels at home. The pictures pic-tures on the walls are less exhibits than a part of the decoration of a beautiful living room. There are upholstered couches In the galleries. There is a smoking room and even (shades of Raphael and Rembrandt!) a very modern cafeteria. In a simple office, I met David Finley, director of the gallery. He rose from a great leather chair that all but engulfed his dynamic figure. He is a slight man who served In the last war and later became a lawyer. He was a member of the war loan staff of the treasury and later assistant to the then secretary of the treasury, Andrew Mellon. The two became friends and Finley went to London as honorary counsellor to the embassy when Mr. Mellon was ambassador. He was one of Mr. Mellon's confidants from the time the wealthy Pittsburgh banker began be-gan planning the gift of the gallery to the natioq. Mr. Finley believes that the National Na-tional Gallery of Art will become a powerful force for bringing about a love and an understanding of art among all Americans, not merely because it belongs to the people of the nation, but because it is located in the national capital. New York, he pointed out, has its fine galleries, but visitors to the metropolis go there chiefly for amusement. People come to Washington to see the historic his-toric spots of the nation, to visit buildings which are themselves monuments. But few buildings, save Mount Vernon, with its treasured possessions of our first President, contain things which have a patriotic patri-otic and a cultural value. Mr. Finley looks forward to the time when the pictures and the stat-!ues stat-!ues in the National Gallery of Art can be brought to the homes of the people through television. Meanwhile, Mean-while, he hopes through the gallery's Farm Boy, Dead Poet, And a Walking Stick This is the story of a poor farm boy, a dead poet and a blackthorn stick. I first saw the boy when he was half a century young and by that time a veteran newspaper man. His name is Bishop and he looks like one. I first saw the stick the other morning, lying across the chair in the club which is always reserved for "Bish." The poet, John Boyle O'Reilley, I knew for one verse of his which I learned by heart for my first love. It goes like this: "Oh, the red rose breathes of passion And the white rose breathes of love, The red rose is a falcon And the white rose is a dove ..." O'Reilley, a wild Irish lad, was born in County Meath, Erin, a hundred hun-dred years ago. He came early to America, fought his fights, burned with his love for the Ould Sod, and wrote his poems. Today he stands, immortalized in stone by the famous sculptor, Daniel Chester French In Boston, his adopted city. The year the poet died, or thereabouts, there-abouts, a little fellow in a Texas village vil-lage saw a toy balloon and coveted it as only youth can yearn for a bauble bau-ble whether it be a plaything, a maiden's heart or the moon. But toy balloons cost 10 cents and pennies pen-nies were few for Texas farmboys. Years passed, the desire for that balloon faded but the wound for its lack lingered. The boy grew up, sometimes lonely perhaps, for he never married, but never alone. Never very long alone, for "Bish" loves dogs, children, people. He also loves walking sticks and is never without one. But he never owned a blackthorn. This morning one of those many friends of his brought this fine old heirloom black, powerful, sprouting its strong thorns like Ireland aroused, its head worn smoothe and gentle as an Irish heart, by the hand of John Boyle O'Reilley, who carried it for many years. The friend laid it affectionately in Bishop's hands. And then "Bish" told us, with a reminiscent twinkle in his eye but a note in his voice that belied it, about the balloon and the age-old ache. "Now," he said, caressing his new prize, "John Boyle O'Reilley's cane has more than made up for it." I think the poet looked down and smiled. |
