Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-05-13
| II WAS SNAGGER
70 NEED a RAlRCUT
| AAO A SHAUE.

Neither did we, once. In our ultra.
Bohemian days, it was swagger to neec
a haircut and shave. An Impressed
suit and lusterlesS shoes were indica-
tive of "doggishness" among the select
of the idealistS in our coterie of Seriou;
thinkers.
There was a time right here in
Washington when we regarded a saw
dust-strewn floor and bare table tops
as the only appropriate setting for the
place where one might enunciate those
theories, moronic now, in the light OF
present reflection.
The ladies of the group were fat
heeled and flat-tired. Rouge and pow
der and vanity cases were alien to
their lives. Razors, cold cream and
talcum were the gadgets of the poser
and we were opponents OF the truth
Neat white collars, a carefully mas
saged suit and glistening shoes had
nothing to do with painting better
pictures or writing better books. Art
was long and time was too fleeing to
of fashion and convention.
Rat-infested studios provided at
moSphere Here one could do his stuff
| without fear of molestation on the part
of those whose Grass materialism de-
manded hot and cold running water,
| light and ventilation.
Then, one day, a stranger entered
the scene. We didn't care what he
thought and 1t was quite evident that
he didn't care what we thought. His
face had recently been treated by a
tonsorial artist. His clothes were
pressed to q knife edge. His fingers
ally speaking, he looked like a poster
| of what the Summer man was wearing.
It was whispered that he drew and
painted pictures. Also 1t was said that
| there couldn't be much art about them,
| for people could understand them and
the editors actually paid money for
| his illustrations. That was enough to
blackball him.
A few days later he appeared again,
accompanied by a peculiar-looking girl.
Most materialistS would have called her
beautiful. Her hair was meticulously
arranged and her gown was wrinkle
| less. And she wore high heels. This
was all very disturbing to the little
group who didn't care what anybody
thought about them.
"a strange lot of folks, these" he
murmured to his lady friend, who nod
ded her head acquiescently.
One night the small tables were all
occupied, and the strangers were COM
pelIeQ 10 JOIN group at b IOIlS JdOle.
Michael had been unusually busy that
night serving what was known in the
distant days as beer. Stimulated by its
| magic beads, one of the idealists rose
| and suggested that the stranger make
| a speech. Glasses banged on the table
tops, and the stranger modestly stood.
He went straight at his subject.
IT am an artist" he said.
How could he be, when people under
stood what he painted and editors
bought his wares?
Moreover, am a stranger in this
city and sought the companionship of
kindred workmen. This Is what I have
found. My friend here is q novelist.
Both of us are realiSts."
Somebody suggested throwing them
out of the joint.
Very frankly, we get paid for our
work.
That was terrible statement Of fact
Most of your stuff is pricless'
There was scattering applause.
Priceless because 1t is a drug on the
market. Night after night have lis
tened to your naive discussions about
art, and what do you know about it2
Nothing This afternoon I sauntered
around the Lincoln Memorial and sur
veyed the vista about 1t. Back of the
Virginia hills the sun was setting in
golden glory. Shaggy slopes leaned to
the historic water Of the Potomac. Here