I

JOHN MARIN
AT THE INTIMATE GALLERY

ROOM 303
ANDERSON GALLERY BUILDING
489 PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK

Some Press Comments by Henry McBride, Forbes Watson, Guy Eglington, Ralph Flint, Murdock Pemberton

"Marin Water-Colors are on View.—Masterly Art Not Yet Fully Appreciated." By Henry McBride in The Sun, December 12, 1925:

MRS. M'COMAS, from Los Angeles, Cal.; Waldo Pierce, from Paris, France, and Maurice Sterne, from Anticoli, Italy, arriving in town last week, asked me, as people arriving from anywhere always do, where there is something stirring to see, and to each I was able to make answer: "Go see the Marins in the Intimate Gallery in the Anderson building," and I believe I added special instructions to each of these people, who are as different the one from the others as may be, as to the best method of approach to Alfred Stieglitz, who is there with the Marins and who is thought by some to be formidable.

I consider them all distinctly now in my debt, not only for saving them the ignominy of a misunderstanding with the custodian of the Marins, but for putting them all so promptly up to the question which all must resolve individually sooner or later—and the sooner the better, as dentists say—whether or no you consider Marin great. It is a question, you see, upon which hinges the quality of your own intelligence, and it is therefore a matter of importance for you to decide quickly to which division of society you belong, the lucid or the dense, for once you know, you can arrange your life accordingly, with better chances of success, such as you are. Personally, I decided long ago for myself, "yes," so my reputation is at your mercy. But pay no attention to me. Decide for yourselves.

This is more easy to do now than ever before, I think, for the group of Marins is more complete and better edited than any I have seen previously. Marin, in case you do not know, is a water colorist. In my

opinion, there is no one that matches him in his own line of work either here or in Europe, but water colors by anybody are sensitive things and can be ruined or made according as they are placed, so it is singularly lucky for all concerned that the present installation is happy. If you now do not like the Marins it is your own fault.

Years ago Marin, as a care-free young man painted land and sea scapes lyrically. It must be wrong to intermingle terms from the various arts, and once we finally escape from the condition of life that produced, and still produces, cubism, we shall no doubt find clear cut and more appropriate definitions, but just at present, when the arts seem to be more indissolubly wedded than the men and women of the period are, it is all right to make parallels for pictures in music. The young and lyrical Marin, then, warbled a la Mozart. This is after all nothing more than saying he was poetical. He is older now with probably a sub-physical grievance against the world and the heavy Maine surf breaking upon a rock or even a mere pine tree perched upon a cliff stirs him to passionate remonstrance against—what? I'm sure I don't know. But the power of the human utterance is unmistakable and it comes to us in such freighted rhythms that there is nothing left to us poor journalists—Marin being still a poet—but to hail him as a "later Beethoven." I have been laughed at for linking the two names before this, but I don't mind being laughed at for what is after all but a subterfuge in writing—for the real thing, the deep thing that makes Marin's emotion eloquent, is a thing that never can be described. It is there, however, for those with power to feel.

## *Forbes Watson in the "World," December 20, 1925:*

### STIEGLITZ OF "291" BEGINS AGAIN IN ROOM 303

Paintings by John Marin occupy Room 303 at the Anderson Galleries, Fifty-ninth Street and Park Avenue. Room 303 has for its host Alfred Stieglitz, whose little gallery at No. 291 Fifth Avenue started all the trouble years ago. Out of the fierce arguments of the crusaders for modern art, whose first meeting place in New York was No. 291, came the necessary impetus to bring about the "Armory show." Indeed, so excited were the voices that emerged from the inner sanctum that it required the keenest concentration to keep one's mind upon the pictures in the little front gallery, which was seldom silent except at the hour when Mr. Stieglitz had led his little cohort of revolutionists over to the then existing Holland House.

There was, in those days, a Negro elevator boy who carried both the initiated and Philistines to the top floor, where Mr. Stieglitz had his gallery. The elevator boy had only harsh looks for the Philistines, but to the initiated, the initiated being those whom Mr. Stieglitz had patted on the back, he was always courteous. He had taken on some of the crusader spirit which permeated the atmosphere of the building, and when a particularly abstract or devastatingly modern exhibition had just opened, the elevator boy carried on each of his shoulders a large pile of chips which he would spill in the cause of modern art if any passenger in his small car had the audacity to look incredulous.

Those were the happy days, before the Philistines had been cowed into obedience and before so many theoretical artists had developed so many writing proselytes. I remember well one morning when Mr. Stieglitz and an unknowing Philistine were arguing about the first abstractions of Walkowitz. After Mr. Stieglitz had recited a short and moving psalm of praise about the spirit of the work the unknowing Philistine burst out with the remark that he could not see anything in the pictures and that if they were any good he would feel that he was a damned fool. And Mr. Stieglitz, rising benignly to the occasion, said with extraordinary sweetness, "Perhaps you are a damned fool."

Now, after the floods of modern art propaganda have overflowed the banks of the river of art, and every one who is any one has broadcasted the theories of his fa-

vorite artist, times necessarily have changed. Seeing Mr. Stieglitz in Room 303, I could not help feeling a real pang of regret that the days of 291 had passed forever. Since then bold young critics have come into the field, who, without following the footsteps of the National Academy, are yet audacious enough to question the genius of John Marin.

I have a kind of suspicion that long after sounding criticism has been forgotten, there will be in existence water colors by John Marin, which will continue to communicate a personal essence to those who enjoy the genius of Mr. Marin as expressed in the medium of water color.

Often this artist is careless, but in one of his latest water colors, showing some New York buildings, Mr. Marin appears to have awakened to the present-day clamor for clarity. The emotionalists, I am told, object to the idea of Mr. Marin's setting down, with something like coolness, his impressions of what he sees. But I find in this latest phase of Mr. Marin's work much to be thankful for. After so many years of emotional painting, and after such a vast production, it is not to be expected that a man can continue to rely too exclusively upon temperament.

There is in the life of every artist apparently a limit to his capacity for temporary expression; and to record more fully impressions that have back of them a long experience, requires increasing deliberation.

In the roomful of paintings by Mr. Marin which Mr. Stieglitz is showing with delightful informality the visitor can pass from those water colors of sixteen years ago, which incidentally were as clear as a bell, to the period when Mr. Marin seemed to push his instinct toward self-consciousness. He will perceive in still later work the beginning of what strikes me as a new departure. The emotionalists may object to this cooler Marin, and the theorists may proclaim the artist finished, but as Mr. Marin has always proved himself adamant to the objections of this and every other reviewer the probabilities are that he will continue to work out his destiny as an artist, and unless his future differs from his past everything that he does in working out his destiny will have an interest for those who look at pictures through their own eyes instead of through the pages of books and the dissertations of their theoretical artist pals.

## *Guy Eglington in the "American Art News," December 12, 1925:*

The exhibition of Marins which Stieglitz has arranged in his new gallery wears an informal air that is excellently in keeping with the nature of Marin's aquarrelles. There are pictures which demand to be hung on the wall and surveyed from a distance. There are others that demand to be taken in the hand and pleasure taken in every brushstroke. Yet others invite both surveyance and scrutiny. These may be on the wall, yet are not of it. They have and can have no set place. They are in some sort the flying column of art, demanding above all space and light and a minimum of encumbrance. Such are Marins, and it is typical of Stieglitz's sensitivity that he has given them a setting as fluid as his small and sometime plush-covered gallery allows. The gallery itself has undergone a change under his hand, the plush being covered with a light gauze which doubles its size and eases the breathing.

In the present exhibition none of the work of this year is shown, but instead a small retrospective show, going back a dozen years or more to the days when to be Marin was to be a delicate instrument recording fleeting color sensations, and building up to the breadth and sweep of last year's seascape. In between are the nervous years, the years in which touch grew ever more rapid, the shimmer of color ever more dazzling; the years which followed, in which rapidity gave place to intensity and violent reds affrighted the accustomed eye, the year of the Montross show; down to the last years, which saw the coming of a new stability and greater depth, in which sensation gave place to a striving for permanence and the passion for colors as ends in themselves abated. Almost every phase of Marin's development is there represented.

There have always been those who questioned whether Marin can truly be said to have developed in the last ten years. Looking at this show, there can hardly be any doubt as to the answer. Whether one call it growth or whether one call it mere change, the Marins of 1924 are not the same as the Marins of 1912. Some qualities have gone, others have taken their place. As to quality, one could probably choose from each year examples which would measure up. But one thing seems clear. Preoccupation with atmosphere, which makes some of Marin's earlier water colors now seem a trifle faded and old-fashioned has given place to a new interest in things, and not in their surfaces merely, but in their nature and content. And that, I take it, is growth.

One question mark remains, which this show does not answer. There was, in Marin's show of last season, evidence of yet further change in his approach than those I have yet recorded. One was conscious (especially in the studies of streets) of a new tendency to analysis. Marin had hitherto always attempted a broad synthesis, summing up in his later years tonal subtleties in one broad tone. But here every tone was split up into its component parts, the transition most carefully noted. The result was that many of the water colors wore an air of incompletion. The parts, that is, were complete, the whole not completely related. So sudden a reversal of approach cannot be without its cause and one questioned whether Marin might not be flirting with the idea of abandoning water color for oil. Here at least was something that looked like a start. But for the answer to that question we shall have to wait.

## *Ralph Flint in the "Christian Science Monitor," December 19, 1925:*

With the mounting interests of the approaching holidays augmenting the New Yorker's daily round, the galleries are apparently holding off from showing their important offerings until the trend of mondays things takes on a more normal aspect. The big Sargent exhibition at the Metropolitan is scheduled for the first week in January, and this important event will doubtless draw in its train numberless other attractions of special interest. For the moment, however, there is plenty to occupy

the student of the fine arts, no matter in what mood he may choose to approach the subject.

Alfred Stieglitz has bobbed up again at the Anderson Galleries with a special show of John Marin's water colors, and nowhere can one find a more provocative sample of modern art or a more earnest advocate. Mr. Stieglitz comes to his newest essay in modernism with an intensive but at the same time tempered enthusiasm, determined as much for his own sake as for the interests

of the public at large to see just where this
"original" really stands. To those who
long have been acquainted with Mr.
Marin's art the element of novelty can
no longer distress. Few among the mod-
ernists have persistently pursued such an
independent course as he. Coming upon
his work for the first time, the visitor might
easily take to his heels at the very strange-
ness of the artist's pictorial manner, finding
no substantial footing in an art form so
transcendental, and feeling nothing of the
artist's peculiarly poignant use of line and
color.

## UNLITERAL PAINTINGS

He sweeps his elements together with the
same disregard of conventions as the mod-
ern composer who strikes from his various
instruments new and unexpected dis-
sonances and progressions. When this
painter sets out to record his attitude to-
ward rocketing skyscrapers or coasting
schooners or stern and rockbound coast-
lines, he stresses not so much the way the
thing actually looks as the way he himself
responds to it pictorially. If the visitor
has never stopped to consider just what the
difference might be between a literal repre-

sentation of a schooner sailing down the
Maine coast and a water color drawing
based on the artist's mood and temper as
inspired by said scene, then he might just
as well give up trying to solve the Marin
riddle.

But if, having watched the trend of
modern art and having found something re-
freshing and stimulating within its complex
and contrary conditionings, then there is a
chance that these water colors will pro-
voke a real interest. Many moods and
manners are to be found among them, but
always showing the artist in strict pursuit
of his pictorial quarry. The large paint-
ing, rich in terra cotta reds and deep moss
greens, of lower Manhattan that was hon-
ored by reproduction in the famous Dial
portfolio of last year, seems on further ac-
quaintance a splendid thing; its striking
angularities and linear convergences pro-
claim a deep-seated purpose and a definite
vision, and its coloration is of a high order.
Mr. Marin is the outstanding member of
the Stieglitz group of modernists, and it is
most likely that a careful study of his work
will lead to a more direct understanding
and appreciation of what the whole modern
movement means.

## *Murdock Pemberton in the "New Yorker," December 19, 1925:*

Life being run on some sort of com-
pensatory relativity we found that the third
floor of the Anderson Galleries was directly
under the fourth floor. If there be no
equity in the scheme how else could we
on that fair morning, with a pair of burn-
ing tonsils, have wandered into Room 303?
Some of you may have gone through this
before but if you have, be patient and stand
aside while we throw our hat into the
air. It can only happen once, we suppose,
and we want to draw out the flavor as
long as we can. With a bow to Gilbert
Seldes, who owns the copyright, we have
discovered Alfred Stieglitz. Of course we
have known the legend, have read the docu-
ments and have even seen a man walking
among the misunderstood Seven Americans.
We never quite believed. But rushing in
to spend a few minutes viewing John
Marin, we stayed a couple of hours and
reluctantly dragged ourselves from the
room. And on our way to make a living
we kept saying to ourselves, "He can't be
true, he can't be true." Even now we are

a bit timid about going back, for fear he
will have vanished and we will learn it
was one of those things that come with
inflamed tonsils.

There he sits, the world's remaining
philosopher, amid the jumbled Marins, con-
tent to be honest with himself and gaze
upon the far off star. He has been father
to the great, he has seen them come and go,
and he knows no bitterness. Some of them
are still with him, Dove, Hartley, Demuth,
O'Keefe, Marin. They pile about him in
the little room. He will unlimber them
for you, if you wish, or let you find your
way around. Well, well, we rhapsodize;
but we meant to, in a way. There is al-
ways one kick to an art season and we
have had ours—Alfred Stieglitz and his
room 303. Go, if you are jaded, go if you
are naïve. We bet you will like it. Any-
way there are some hundred paintings by
one of the best this country has ever turned
out. After an early Season of lady-like
water colors, a view of Marin is welcome.

MRS. M'COMAS, from Los Angeles, Cal.; Waldo Pierce, from Paris, France, and Maurice Sterne, from Anticoли, Italy, arriving in town last week, asked me, as people arriving from anywhere always do, where there is something stirring to see, and to each I was able to make answer: "Go see the Marins in the Intimate Gallery in the Anderson building," and I believe I added special instructions to each of these people, who are as different the one from the others as may be, as to the best method of approach to Alfred Stieglitz, who is there with the Marins and who is thought by some to be formidable.

## Forbes Watson in the "World," December 20, 1925:

Those were the happy days, before the Philistines had been cowed into obedience and before so many theoretical artists had developed so many writing proselytes. I remember well one morning when Mr. Stieglitz and an unknowing Philistine were arguing about the first abstractions of Walkowitz. After Mr. Stieglitz had recited a short and moving psalm of praise about the spirit of the work the unknowing Philistine burst out with the remark that he could not see anything in the pictures and that if they were any good he would feel that he was a damned fool. And Mr. Stieglitz, rising benignly to the occasion, said with extraordinary sweetness, "Perhap you are a damned fool."

There is in the life of every artist apparently a limit to his capacity for temporal expression; and to record more fully impressions that have back of them a long experience, requires increasing deliberation.

## Guy Eglington in the "American Art News," December 12, 1925:

The exhibition of Marins which Stieglitz has arranged in his new gallery wears an informal air that is excellently in keeping with the nature of Marin's aquarrelles. There are pictures which demand to be hung on the wall and surveyed from a distance. There are others that demand to be taken in the hand and pleasure taken in every brushstroke. Yet others invite both surveyance and scrutiny. These may be on the wall, yet are not of it. They have and can have no set place. They are in some sort the flying column of art, demanding above all space and light and a minimum of encumbrance. Such are Marins, and it is typical of Stieglitz's sensibility that he has given them a setting as fluid as his small and sometime plush-covered gallery allows. The gallery itself has undergone a change under his hand, the plush being covered with a light gauze which doubles its size and eases the breathing.

In the present exhibition none of the work of this year is shown, but instead a small retrospective show, going back a dozen years or more to the days when to be Marin was to be a delicate instrument recording fleeting color sensations, and building up to the breadth and sweep of last year's seascape. In between are the nervous years, the years in which touch grew ever more rapid, the shimmer of color ever more dazzling; the years which followed, in which rapidity gave place to intensity and violent reds affrighted the unaccustomed eye, the year of the Montross show; down to the last years, which saw the coming of a new stability and greater depth, in which sensation gave place to a striving for permanence and the passion for colors as ends in themselves abated. Almost every phase of Marin's development is there represented.

## Ralph Flint in the "Christian Science Monitor," December 10, 1925:

With the mounting interests of the approaching holidays augmenting the New Yorker's daily round, the galleries are apparently holding off from showing their important offerings until the trend of mainstream things takes on a more normal aspect. The big Sargent exhibition at the Metropolitan is scheduled for the first week in January, and this important event will doubtless draw in its train numberless other attractions of special interest. For the moment, however, there is plenty to occupy

## UNLITERAL PAINTINGS

MRS. M'COMAS, from Los Angeles,
Cal.; Waldo Pierce, from Paris,
France, and Maurice Sterne, from Anticoli,
Italy, arriving in town last week, asked
me, as people arriving from anywhere al-
ways do, where there is something stirring
to see, and to each I was able to make an-
swer: "Go see the Marins in the Intimate
Gallery in the Anderson building," and I
believe I added special instructions to each
of these people, who are as different the
one from the others as may be, as to the
best method of approach to Alfred Stieglitz,
who is there with the Marins and who is
thought by some to be formidable.

I consider them all distinctly now in my
debt, not only for saving them the ig-
nominy of a misunderstanding with the
custodian of the Marins, but for putting
them all so promptly up to the question
which all must resolve individually sooner
or later—and the sooner the better, as den-
tists say—whether or no you consider
Marin great. It is a question, you see,
upon which hinges the quality of your own
intelligence, and it is therefore a matter of
importance for you to decide quickly to
which division of society you belong, the
lucid or the dense, for once you know, you
can arrange your life accordingly, with bet-
ter chances of success, such as you are. Per-
sonally, I decided long ago for myself,
"yes," so my reputation is at your mercy.
But pay no attention to me. Decide for
yourselves.

opinion, there is no one that matches him
in his own line of work either here or in
Europe, but water colors by anybody are
sensitive things and can be ruined or made
according as they are placed, so it is singu-
larly lucky for all concerned that the pres-
ent installation is happy. If you now do
not like the Marins it is your own fault.

Years ago Marin, as a care-free young
man painted land and sea scapes lyrically.
It must be wrong to intermingle terms
from the various arts, and once we finally
escape from the condition of life that pro-
duced, and still produces, cubism, we shall
no doubt find clear cut and more appro-
priate definitions, but just at present, when
the arts seem to be more indissolubly wed-
ded than the men and women of the period
are, it is all right to make parallels for
pictures in music. The young and lyrical
Marin, then, warbled a la Mozart. This
is after all nothing more than saying he
was poetical. He is older now with prob-
ably a sub-physical grievance against the
world and the heavy Maine surf breaking
upon a rock or even a mere pine tree
perched upon a cliff stirs him to passionate
remonstrance against—what? I’m sure I
don’t know. But the power of the human
utterance is unmistakable and it comes to
us in such freighted rhythms that there is
nothing left to us poor journalists—Marin
being still a poet—but to hail him as a
"later Beethoven." I have been laughed
at for linking the two names before this,
but I don’t mind being laughed at for what
is after all but a subterfuge in writing—
for the real thing, the deep thing that
makes Marin’s emotion eloquent, is a thing
that never can be described. It is there,
however, for those with power to feel.

## UNLITERAL PAINTINGS

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

489 PARK AVENUE AT FIFTY-NINTH STREET, NEW YORK

opens its door to the public on December Seventh with a
JOHN MARIN EXHIBITION

The Intimate Gallery will be used more particularly for the intimate study of Seven Americans: John Marin, Georgia O'Keeffe, Arthur G. Dove, Marsden Hartley, Paul Strand, Alfred Stieglitz, and Number Seven.

It will be in the Intimate Gallery only that the complete evolution and the more important examples of these American workers can be seen and studied.

Intimacy and Concentration, we believe, in this instance will breed a broader appreciation. This may lead to a wider distribution of the work.

The Intimate Gallery will be a Direct Point of Contact between Public and Artist. It is the Artists' Room. Alfred Stieglitz has volunteered his services. He will direct the Spirit of the Room.

Every picture will be clearly marked with its price. No effort will be made to sell anything to any one. Prices will be kept as low as possible. Rent is the only overhead charge.

The Intimate Gallery is not a business nor is it a "Social" Function. The Intimate Gallery competes with no one nor with anything.

The Gallery will be open daily, Sundays excepted, from 10 A.M. till 6 P.M.

Exhibition I —JOHN MARIN.

Exhibition II —ARTHUR G. DOVE, January, 1926.

Exhibition III—GEORGIA O'Keeffe, February.

Exhibition IV—MARSDEN HARTLEY, March.

Other exhibitions to be announced.

*All the not overtired will be welcome*

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Second Exhibition—January 11 to February 6—

ARTHUR G. DOVE EXHIBITION

The Intimate Gallery is used more particularly for the intimate study of Seven Americans: John Marin, Georgia O'Keeffe, Arthur G. Dove, Marsden Hartley, Paul Strand, Alfred Stieglitz, and Number Seven.

It is in the Intimate Gallery only that the complete evolution and the more important examples of these American workers can be seen and studied.

Intimacy and Concentration, we believe, in this instance will lead to a broader appreciation and to a wider distribution of the work.

The Intimate Gallery is a Direct Point of Contact between Public and Artist. It is the Artists' Room. Alfred Stieglitz has volunteered his services and is its directing Spirit.

Every picture is clearly marked with its price. No effort will be made to sell anything to any one. Prices in this exhibition range from $25 to $300. Rent is the only overhead charge.

Exhibition I —JOHN MARIN, December 7, 1925-January 11, 1926.

Exhibition II —ARTHUR G. DOVE, January 11-February 7.

Exhibition III—GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, February 7-March 11.

Exhibition IV—MARSDEN HARTLEY, March 11-April 7.

All the not overtired are welcome

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Third Exhibition — February 11 to March 11 —
FIFTY RECENT PAINTINGS BY GEORGIA O'KEEFFE

The Intimate Gallery is an American Room. It is now used
more particularly for the intimate study of Seven Americans:
John Marin, Georgia O'Keeffe, Arthur G. Dove, Marsden Hartley,
Paul Strand, Alfred Stieglitz, and Number Seven.

Intimacy and Concentration, we believe, in this instance will
lead to a broader appreciation.

The Intimate Gallery is a Direct Point of Contact between
Public and Artist. It is the Artists' Room. It is a Room with but
One Standard. Alfred Stieglitz has volunteered his services and is
its directing Spirit.

Every picture is clearly marked with its price. No effort will
be made to sell anything to any one. Rent is the only overhead charge.

The Intimate Gallery is not a business nor is it a "Social" Func-
tion. The Intimate Gallery competes with no one nor with anything.

The Gallery will be open daily, Sundays excepted, from 10 A.M.
till 6 P.M. Sundays, from 2 P.M. till 5 P.M.

Exhibition III—GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, February 11-March 11.

*All but Time-killers are welcome*

GEORGIA O'KEEFFE
PAINTINGS, 1926

The Intimate Gallery: Room 303

JANUARY 11—FEBRUARY 27
1927

THE ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING
489 PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK

FLOWERS AND FLAMES. AND COLOUR. COLOUR AS COLOUR, NOT AS VOLUME, OR LIGHT, — ONLY AS COLOUR. THE LAST MAD THROB OF RED JUST AS IT TURNS GREEN, THE ULTIMATE SHRIEK OF ORANGE CALLING UPON ALL THE BLUES OF HEAVEN FOR RELIEF OR FOR SUPPORT; THESE GEORGIA O'KEEFFE IS ABLE TO USE. IN HER CANVASES EACH COLOUR ALMOST REGAINS THE FUN IT MUST HAVE FELT WITHIN ITSELF, ON FORMING THE FIRST RAIN-BOW.

CHARLES DEMUTH

LIST OF PAINTINGS

THE SHELTON, NEW YORK NO. I
THE SHELTON, NEW YORK NO. II
THE SHELTON, NEW YORK NO. III
THE SHELTON, NEW YORK NO. IV
STREET, NEW YORK NO. I
STREET, NEW YORK NO. II
EAST RIVER FROM THE SHELTON NO. I
EAST RIVER FROM THE SHELTON NO. II
EAST RIVER FROM THE SHELTON NO. III
THE DARK IRIS NO. I
THE DARK IRIS NO. II
THE DARK IRIS NO. III
WHITE CALLA LILY NO. I
WHITE CALLA LILY NO. II
WHITE CALLA LILY NO. III
YELLOW CALLA LILY NO. I
YELLOW CALLA LILY NO. II
BLACK PETUNIA & WHITE MORNING-GLORY I
BLACK PETUNIA & WHITE MORNING-GLORY II
BLACK PETUNIA & WHITE MORNING-GLORY III
RED CANNA NO. I
RED CANNA NO. II
BLACK PANSY & FORGET-ME-NOTS
L. K.—WHITE CALLA & ROSES
FLOWERS FROM GEORGE
THE SEA SHELL & OLD SHINGLE NOS. 1-7
LIGHT BLUE SEA—MAINE
THE SEA-SHELL NOS. 1-6
THE SIDE OF THE BARN, NO. I
THE SIDE OF THE BARN, NO. II
THE OLD MAPLE, LAKE GEORGE
THE RED MAPLE, LAKE GEORGE
THE WHITE BIRCH, LAKE GEORGE
ABSTRACTION NO. I
ABSTRACTION NO. II
ABSTRACTION NO. III

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Fourth Exhibition — April 5 to May 2—
RECENT PAINTINGS BY CHARLES DEMUTH

The Intimate Gallery is not a Business nor is it a "Social" Func-
tion. The Intimate Gallery competes with no one nor with anything.

Exhibition III—GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, February 11-April 3.

Exhibition IV—CHARLES DEMUTH, April 5-May 2.

Marsden Hartley Exhibition to be announced.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Fifth Exhibition — November 9, 1926 to — ?

RECENT DEVELOPMENTS BY JOHN MARIN

The Intimate Gallery is not a Business nor is it a "Social" Function. The Intimate Gallery competes with no one nor with anything.

The Gallery will be open daily, Sundays excepted, from 10 A.M. till 6 P.M. Sundays from 2 till 5 P.M.

Hours of Silence: — Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, 10-12 A.M.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Sixth Exhibition — January 11 to February 27, 1927

FORTY NEW PAINTINGS BY GEORGIA O'KEEFFE

Every Picture is purchasable. No effort will be made to sell
anything to any one. Rent is the only overhead charge.

Exhibition IV —CHARLES DEMUTH, April 5-May 2.

Exhibition V —JOHN MARIN, November 9, 1926-January 9, 1927.

A PAINTER'S COMMENT

At the outset, let us either meet or else let us part over the proposition, that to
us Art, like Life, is not for amusement, but for serious quest; that any painting 1)
spiritually, is not worth the paint, unless it be a creative vision and a contemporary
expression, somehow, of the artist's and spectator's attitude towards some supreme
question; that painting 2) sensually, to us is paint meaning color, and line meaning
form.

Assuming that we agree—or anyway—I submit that Georgia O'Keeffe is the
foremost woman painter. She conceives a new problem, or perhaps, she rekindles
with a modern spark the fires of a long forgotten worship.

Although the field of Art, like that of Mind, is unlimited, we had not yet seen
woman in art finding herself.

And now O'Keeffe steps forth as artist—priestess of Eternal Woman,—I may
say, as imaginative biologist of all creation—form on Earth; extending, perhaps,
by way of analogies, the classical conception of Life—the Dionysian cult—beyond
the confines of the human body.

All nature seen as organic living flesh-form transposed into line and color sur-
face throbbing with pulse line quivering with intense inner life color rigorously re-
stricted with corresponding significance.

Color, not of dramatic duochrome contrast, nor triads denoting mysterious
complex of musician or poet, but single color essentially felt, or at most, scales of
related colors; one color to one line, one color and one line to one thought, one
thought to one painting, a hundred paintings to a hundred different versions of
one Idea.

The Hellenic problem of form under the modern microscope, not the Rem-
brandt-Beethoven psychology of space.

The human form and face as motifs avoided yet presented in every flower,
tree, pebble, cloud, wall, hill, wave, thing. Surface-modelling now emulates vital
process, expresses biological emotion.

The brainy male brute of action owns the stage of historical cultures and his
male instincts have shaped their responses to supreme questions, in art—while the
Feminine Principle has only occasionally stepped out from its retreat behind the
scenes, to lighten up an age, a race—mental suns long since dormant way East or
South.

In this our period of woman's ascendancy we behold O'Keeffe's work flower-
ing forth like a manifestation of that feminine causative principle, a painter's vision
new, fascinating, virgin American.

OSCAR BLUEMNER

EXHIBITION 1927 OF GEORGIA O'KEEFFE
THE INTIMATE GALLERY—ROOM 303
ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING
489 PARK AVE., NEW YORK, N. Y.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Seventh Exhibition—March 7 to April 3, 1927

TWENTY SCULPTURES BY GASTON LACHAISE

Exhibition VI —GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, January 11-February 27.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

GASTON LACHAISE
SCULPTURES

MARCH 7—APRIL 3
1927

GASTON LACHAISE APPEARS IN THIS, HIS THIRD ONE-MAN EXHIBITION, AS GUEST OF THE INTIMATE GALLERY, ROOM 303. HIS FIRST AND SECOND ONE-MAN EXHIBITIONS WERE HELD IN THE BOURGEOIS GALLERY, 1918 AND 1920.

LIST OF SCULPTURES

1 TORSO (ALABASTER)

2 RELIEF (MARBLE)

3 MASK

4 STATUETTE

5 PORTRAIT—MRS. O'DONNELL ISELIN

6 STATUETTE

7 STATUETTE

8 STATUETTE

9 PORTRAIT—MRS. ERNEST FIENE

10 PORTRAIT—EDWARD NAGLE

11 PORTRAIT—J. SIBLEY WATSON, JR.

12 SEAGULL (BRONZE)

13 MONTAGNE

14 STATUETTE

15 SLEEPING SEAGULL (ALABASTER)

16 PORTRAIT—GEORGIA O'KEEFFE

17 MARBLE FIGURE

18 PORTRAIT—E. E. CUMMINGS (PLASTER)

19 STATUETTE (BRONZE)

20 PORTRAIT STATUETTE

LOANED

3 BY MR. ARTHUR F. EGNER

4 BY MR. PAUL STRAND

5 BY MR. O'DONNELL ISELIN

6 BY MR. GEORGE BIDDLE

7 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

8 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

9 BY MR. ERNEST FIENE

10 BY MR. EDWARD NAGLE

11 BY MRS. J. SIBLEY WATSON, JR.

12 BY MESSRS. MELLOR, MEIGS & HOWE
ARCHITECTS

16 BY MR. ALFRED STIEGLITZ

17 BY MR. ATKINSON ALLEN

20 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

GASTON LACHAISE
SCULPTURES

MARCH 7—APRIL 3
1927

LIST OF SCULPTURES

1 TORSO (ALABASTER)

2 RELIEF (MARBLE)

3 MASK

4 STATUETTE

6 STATUETTE

7 STATUETTE

8 STATUETTE

9 PORTRAIT—MRS. ERNEST FIENE

10 PORTRAIT—EDWARD NAGLE

12 SEAGULL (BRONZE)

13 MONTAGNE

14 STATUETTE

16 PORTRAIT—GEORGIA O'KEEFFE

17 MARBLE FIGURE

19 STATUETTE (BRONZE)

20 PORTRAIT STATUETTE

LOANED

3 BY MR. ARTHUR F. EGNER

4 BY MR. PAUL STRAND

5 BY MR. O'DONNELL ISELIN

6 BY MR. GEORGE BIDDLE

7 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

8 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

9 BY MR. ERNEST FIENE

10 BY MR. EDWARD NAGLE

16 BY MR. ALFRED STIEGLITZ

17 BY MR. ATKINSON ALLEN

20 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

GASTON LACHAISE
SCULPTURES

MARCH 7—APRIL 3
1927

LIST OF SCULPTURES

1 TORSO (ALABASTER)

2 RELIEF (MARBLE)

3 MASK

4 STATUETTE

6 STATUETTE

7 STATUETTE

8 STATUETTE

9 PORTRAIT—MRS. ERNEST FIENE

10 PORTRAIT—EDWARD NAGLE

12 SEAGULL (BRONZE)

13 MONTAGNE

14 STATUETTE

16 PORTRAIT—GEORGIA O'KEEFFE

17 MARBLE FIGURE

19 STATUETTE (BRONZE)

20 PORTRAIT STATUETTE

LOANED

3 BY MR. ARTHUR F. EGNER

4 BY MR. PAUL STRAND

5 BY MR. O'DONNELL ISELIN

6 BY MR. GEORGE BIDDLE

7 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

8 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

9 BY MR. ERNEST FIENE

10 BY MR. EDWARD NAGLE

16 BY MR. ALFRED STIEGLITZ

17 BY MR. ATKINSON ALLEN

20 BY MRS. GASTON LACHAISE

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Eighth Exhibition—November 9 to December 11, 1927

FORTY NEW WATER-COLORS BY JOHN MARIN

The Intimate Gallery is dedicated primarily to an Idea and is
an American Room. It is used more particularly for the intimate
study of Seven Americans: John Marin, Georgia O'Keeffe, Arthur
G. Dove, Marsden Hartley, Paul Strand, Alfred Stieglitz, and
Number Seven (six + X).

The Intimate Gallery is a Direct Point of Contact between
Public and Artist. It is the Artist's Room. It is a Room with but
One Standard. Alfred Stieglitz has volunteered his services and is
its directing Spirit.

Exhibition III —GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, February 11-April 3.

Exhibition VII —GASTON LACHAISE, March 9-April 14.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

Stonington

Deer Isle

Aug. 21/27

My dear Stieglitz

Again Deer Isle

Me—here at Deer Isle

A place of lovely spots
and bad spots—The bad spots
are seen first—Now if I had
the time and the work energy
to a degree something might happen
Some day I will—there's always
that some day—I try to know
myself to understand somewhat
this Cuss myself this Cuss Marin
and as to why he does these things
that he has these visions—these
incomplete visions—this intangible
something that slips through his
fingers when he almost has it
that he cannot do as others do
that he cannot walk the prescribed
line that his work is not under-
stood and seen by others when how
can it be when it is not fully
realized by he himself and—
never will be—that his work looks
crazy—that it is crazy
This year to me seems to be a year
of—tumble downs—more
than Ever—If I put down
things hap hazard—without meaning
to myself I'd say good—I am crazy—
and let it go at that—but this
Seemingly crazy stroke is put down
with deliberate—mulish—wilfulness
I find myself constantly juggling
with things playing one thing against
another—and then when I get through
they look so much like—Marin
they act like Marin—cannot
I ever get away from this fellow
Marin—or shall I throw this all

Room 303—the Intimate Gallery of Seven (6 + X)
Americans—opens its third season with an Exhi-
bition of thirty-eight new water colors by John
Marin—water colors painted during 1926. In
spite of Marin's established and ever increasing
prestige as probably the world's foremost water color-
ist, there remains a "Marin Situation". To throw
some light on the real Spirit of Marin I am taking the
liberty of publishing herewith the last letter I received
from him. His letters—there are not many—are
as living and as beautiful as his water colors. Marin's
permission to print this letter has not been asked. The
taste to publish a private letter during the writer's life
may be questioned. But I do not see why Marin must
die before those interested in him should have a
chance at a glimpse of the real Marin through one of
his letters. In fighting all these years for Marin I am
continually reminded by many of his most ardent well
wishers, as well as others, that Marin can not come into
his own until he is dead. Amusedly, I add that in this
case not only will the artist have to be dead—but his
friend too—before he (Marin) will be permitted to
come into his particular "Own". Here is Marin's
letter.

ALFRED STIEGLITZ

*Note.* The work referred to in Marin's letter is that of the Summer, 1927, which will be shown in due time.

done—created—made
by some ones—not myself—but—
seen for myself by myself
like—"I know a bank where
the wild thyme blows—where oxslips and
the nodding violet grows"
this spot—this place of mine
a Village—where clustered about
you can see if you look—dreamhouses
of a purity of whiteness
of a loveliness of proportion
of a sparingness of sensitive detail
rising up out of the greenest of grass
sward—The spirit of the traditional
mistress must be about—for placed
in most wonderful arrangement
are flowers such flowers
} such arrangement
Yes come with me to
Wiscasset Maine & too to Thomaston
Maine—and I'll show you—
I'll be mad I am mad
I'll be jealous I am jealous
Ah now I have it—I have lived
before—an hundred years ago I lived
I created these houses
You poor fool
Not much like your present
Creations
oh well
still carry on—it cannot be helped
Your—cannot be helped that he is as he
is—friend
Marin
I raise my cup and drink to you two
a carrying on—to you O Keeffe
to you O Keeffe to you Stieglitz

overboard and say—Damn it all
I like this fellow Marin—Can't help
myself—But I'll tell you I
cuss—him—a plenty
So I've got to spoil more paper
I dont know any body who loves their Visions
more than I do—but not to abso-
lutely get them down that's what
makes me speak of—Spoiling paper
As I drive a good deal
I am conscious of the road
the wonderful everlasting road a lead-
ing onward a dipping a rising
a leading up over the hill to the
sea beyond—to nail that—to
express that—to find the means
to clutch—so that there it is
thats what torments me—to show
with startling conviction
So I make the attempt
Others may make and get
but dont you see—it isnt my
road—It isnt my—over to the Sea—
and here it is
there are moments when I am unbelievably
in love with myself
but
there are moments when I unbelievably
hate myself—for being myself
Curiously twisted creature
prejudiced—as Hell
unprejudiced as Hell
narrow—as they make em
next minute
broad minded
Hating Everything foreign—to a degree
with the opposite coming in time & time
A shouting Spread Eagled American
A drooping wet winged sort of a nameless fowl
the next—but
take it easy—whoa there—pull up
Ill lead you to a Spot
Ill show you a something

LIST OF MARIN'S WATER COLORS

EXHIBITION—1927

<table>
  <tbody>
    <tr>
      <td>1-9</td>
      <td>MOVEMENTS—BOAT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>10-15</td>
      <td>PERTAINING TO STONINGTON HARBOR, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>16</td>
      <td>SEA MOVEMENT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>17</td>
      <td>WHITE HORSES—SEA MOVEMENT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>18</td>
      <td>MARK ISLAND LIGHT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>19</td>
      <td>THOSE CAMDEN MOUNTAINS AS SEEN FROM SUNSET, DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>20</td>
      <td>FIR TREE—DEER ISLE COAST, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>21</td>
      <td>MARIN ISLAND, NO. 1, SMALL POINT, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>22</td>
      <td>MARIN ISLAND, NO. 2, SMALL POINT, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>23</td>
      <td>SMALL POINT, MAINE, LOOKING SEAWARD—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>24</td>
      <td>THE PINE TREE, SMALL POINT, MAINE—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>25-33</td>
      <td>MT. CHOCORUA, WHITE MOUNTAINS, N. H.—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>34</td>
      <td>MOUNTAINS AT NORTH CONWAY, N. H.—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>35</td>
      <td>A NEW HAMPSHIRE LAKE AND MOUNTAINS—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>36</td>
      <td>RELATED TO TELEPHONE BUILDING, DOWNTOWN, NEW YORK—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>37</td>
      <td>RELATED TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE, DOWNTOWN, N. Y.—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
    <tr>
      <td>38</td>
      <td>RELATED TO DOWNTOWN, NEW YORK—SERIES 1926</td>
    </tr>
  </tbody>
</table>

Start Scan Send

Stonington

Deer Isle

Aug. 21/27

My dear Stieglitz

Again Deer Isle

Me—here at Deer Isle

A place of lovely spots

and bad spots—The bad spots

are seen first—Now if I had

the time and the work energy

that some day—I try to know

myself to understand somewhat

fingers when he almost has it

realized by he himself and—

crazy—that it is crazy

of—tumble downs—more

than Ever—If I put down

they look so much like—Marin

they act like Marin—cannot

ALFRED STIEGLITZ

done—created—made
by some ones—not myself—but
seen for myself by myself
like—"I know a bank where
the wild thyme blows—where oxslipps and
the nodding violet grows?"
this spot—this place of mine
a Village—where clustered about
you can see if you look—dreamhouses
of a purity of whiteness
of a loveliness of proportion
of a sparingness of sensitive detail
rising up out of the greenest of grass
sward—The spirit of the traditional
mistress must be about—for placed
in most wonderful arrangement
are flowers—such flowers
are flowers—such arrangement
Yes come with me to
Wiscasset Maine & too to Thomaston
Maine—and I'll show you—
I'll be mad
I am mad
I am jealous
Ah now I have it—I have lived
before—an hundred years ago I lived
I created these houses
You poor fool
Not much like your present
Creations
oh well
still carry on—it cannot be helped
Your—cannot be helped that he is as he
is—friend
Marin
I raise my cup and drink to you two
a carrying on—to you O Keeffe
Stieglitz

overboard and say—Damn it all
I like this fellow Marin—Can't help
myself—But I'll tell you I
cuss—him—a plenty—
So I've got to spoil more paper
I dont know any body who loves their Visions
more than I do—but not to abso-
lutely get them down that's what
makes me of—Spoiling paper
As I drive a good deal
I am conscious of the road
the wonderful everlasting road a lead-
ing onward a dipping a rising
a leading up over the hill to the
sea beyond—to nail that—to
express that—to find the means
to clutch—so that there it is
thats what torments me—to show
with startling conviction
So I make the attempt
Others may make and get
but dont you see—it isn't my
road—It isn't my—over to the Sea—
and here it is
there are moments when I am unbelievably
in love with myself
but
there are moments when I unbelievably
hate myself—for being myself
Curiously twisted creature
prejudiced—as Hell
unprejudiced as Hell
narrow—as they make em
next minute
broad minded
Hating Everything foreign—to a degree
with the opposite coming in time & time
A shouting Spread Eagled American
A drooping wet winged sort of a nameless fowl
the next—but
take it easy—whoa there—pull up
I'll lead you to a Spot
I'll show you a something

Start Scan Send

overboard and say—Damn it all
I like this fellow Marin—Can't help
myself—But I'll tell you I
cuss—him—a plenty
So I've got to spoil more paper.
I don't know any body who loves their Visions
more than I do—but I adjo-
lutely get them down—this what
makes me speak of—As I drive a good deal
I am conscious of the road
the wonderful everlasting road a lead-
ing a outward a dipping a rising
a leading up over the hill to the
s e a beyond—to mail that—to
express that—to find the means
to clutch—so that there it is
that's what torments me—to show
with startling conviction
So I make the attempt
Others may make and get
but don't you see—it isn't my
r o a d —It isn't my—over to the Sea—
and here it is
there are moments when I am unbelievably
in love with myself
but
there are moments when I unbelievably
hate myself—for being myself
prejudiced—as Hell
unprejudiced as Hell
narrow—as they make em
next minute
broad minded
Hating Everything foreign—to a degree
with the opposite coming in time & time
A shouting Spread Eagled American
A dropping wet winged sort of a nanless fowl
the next
but
take it easy—when there—pull up
III show you a something

1-9 MOVEMENTS—BOAT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926

10-15 PERTAINING TO STONINGTON HARBOR, MAINE—SERIES 1926

16 SEA MOVEMENT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926

17 WHITE HORSES—SEA MOVEMENT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926

18 MARK ISLAND LIGHT OFF DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926

19 THOSE CAMDEN MOUNTAINS AS SEEN FROM SUNSET, DEER ISLE, MAINE—SERIES 1926

20 FIR TREE—DEER ISLE COAST, MAINE—SERIES 1926

21 MARIN ISLAND, NO. 1, SMALL POINT, MAINE—SERIES 1926

22 MARIN ISLAND, NO. 2, SMALL POINT, MAINE—SERIES 1926

23 SMALL POINT, MAINE, LOOKING SEAWARD—SERIES 1926

24 THE PINE TREE, SMALL POINT, MAINE—SERIES 1926

25-33 MT. CHOCORUA, WHITE MOUNTAINS, N. H.—SERIES 1926

34 MOUNTAINS AT NORTH CONWAY, N. H.—SERIES 1926

35 A NEW HAMPSHIRE LAKE AND MOUNTAINS—SERIES 1926

36 RELATED TO TELEPHONE BUILDING, DOWNTOWN, NEW YORK—SERIES 1926

37 RELATED TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE, DOWNTOWN, N. Y.—SERIES 1926

38 RELATED TO DOWNTOWN, NEW YORK—SERIES 1926

Stonington

Deer Isle

Aug. 21/27

My dear Stieglitz

ALFRED STIEGLITZ

overboard and say—
Damn it all
I like this fellow Marin—
Can't help
myself—
But I'll tell you I
cuss—
him—a plenty—

So I've got to spoil more paper
I don't know any body who loves their Visions
more than I do—but not to abso-
lutely get them down that's what
makes me speak of—
Spoiling paper

As I drive a good deal
I am conscious of the road
the wonderful everlasting road a lead-
ing onward a dipping a rising
a leading up over the hill to the
sea beyond—to nail that—to
express that—to find the means
to clutch—so that there it is
that's what torments me—to show
with startling conviction
So I make the attempt
Others may make and get
but don't you see—it isn't my
road—
It isn't my—over to the Sea—
and here it is

but
take it easy—who there—

done—
created—
made
by some ones—
not myself—but—
seen for myself by myself

like—
"I know a bank where
the wild thyme blows—where oxslips and
the nodding violet grows"

are flowers
such flowers
such arrangement
Yes come with me to
Wiscasset Maine & too to Thomaston
Maine—and I'll show you—

still carry on—it cannot be helped
Your—cannot be helped that he is as he
is—
friend

Marin
I raise my cup and drink to you two
a carrying on—to you O Keeffe
to you Stieglitz

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Ninth Exhibition—December 12 to January 11, 1928

TWENTY NEW PAINTINGS BY ARTHUR G. DOVE

Exhibition III —GEORGIA O'Keeffe, February 11-April 3.

Exhibition VI —GEORGIA O'Keeffe, January 11-February 27.

Exhibition VIII—JOHN MARIN, November 9-December 11.

Hours of Silence: —*Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, 10-12 A.M.*

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

IX

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

ARTHUR G. DOVE
PAINTINGS, 1927

DECEMBER 12—JANUARY 11
1927-1928

AN IDEA

WHY NOT MAKE THINGS LOOK LIKE NATURE?
BECAUSE I DO NOT CONSIDER THAT IMPORTANT
AND IT IS MY NATURE TO MAKE THEM THIS
WAY. TO ME IT IS PERFECTLY NATURAL. THEY
EXIST IN THEMSELVES, AS AN OBJECT DOES IN
NATURE.

THE MUSIC THINGS WERE DONE TO SPEED
THE LINE UP TO THE PACE AT WHICH WE LIVE
TO-DAY. THE LINE IS THE RESULT OF REDUCING
DIMENSION FROM THE SOLID TO THE PLANE
THEN TO THE POINT. A MOVING POINT COULD
FOLLOW A WATERFALL AND DANCE. WE HAVE
THE SCIENTIFIC PROOF THAT THE EYE SEES
EVERYTHING BEST AT ONE POINT.

I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE WIND AND WATER
AND SAND AS A MOTIF AND WORK WITH
THEM, BUT IT HAS TO BE SIMPLIFIED IN MOST
CASES TO COLOR AND FORCE LINES AND SUB-
STANCES, JUST AS MUSIC HAS DONE WITH SOUND.

THE CHOICE OF MOTIF HAS BEEN DEPARTED
FROM IN SOME OF THE PAINTINGS TO EXPRESS
SENTIMENTAL HUMOR AND A STRAINED CON-
DITION.

THE FORCE LINES OF A TREE SEEM TO ME
TO BE MORE IMPORTANT THAN ITS MONU-
MENTAL BULK. WHEN MARINERS SAY "THE
WIND HAS WEIGHT", A LINE SEEMS TO EXPRESS
THAT BETTER THAN BULK.

THE COLORS IN THE PAINTING "RUNNING
RIVER" WERE CHOSEN LOOKING DOWN INTO A
STREAM. THE RED AND YELLOW FROM THE
WET STONES AND THE GREEN FROM MOSS WITH
BLACK AND WHITE. THE LINE WAS A MOVING
POINT REDUCING THE MOVING VOLUME TO ONE
DIMENSION. FROM THEN ON IT IS EXPRESSED
IN TERMS OF COLOR AS MUSIC IS IN TERMS OF
SOUND.

AS THE POINT MOVES IT BECOMES A LINE,
AS THE LINE MOVES IT BECOMES A PLANE, AS
THE PLANE MOVES, IT BECOMES A SOLID, AS
THE SOLID MOVES, IT BECOMES LIFE AND AS
LIFE MOVES, IT BECOMES THE PRESENT.

ARTHUR G. DOVE

LIST OF PAINTINGS

1 I'LL BUILD A STAIRWAY TO PARADISE—
   GERSCHWIN

2 RHAPSODY IN BLUE, PART I—GER SCHWIN

3 RHAPSODY IN BLUE, PART II—GER SCHWIN

4 ORANGE GROVE IN CALIFORNIA—IRVING
BERLIN

5 RHYTHM RAG

6 IMPROVISION

7 HUNTINGTON HARBOR—I

8 HUNTINGTON HARBOR—II

9 HAND SEWING MACHINE

10 HORSES PLOWING ON A HILL

11 JUST PAINTING

12 CLOUDS

13 THE PARK

14 YOURS TRULY

15 RUNNING RIVER

16 MARS & BLUE HILLSIDE

17 OUTBOARD MOTOR

18 TUG BOAT

19 SOMETHING IN BROWN, CARMINE & BLUE

DECEMBER 12-JANUARY 11
1927-1928

AN IDEA

ARTHUR G. DOVE

LIST OF PAINTINGS

2 RHAPSODY IN BLUE, PART I—GERSCHWIN

3 RHAPSODY IN BLUE, PART II—GERSCHWIN

5 RHYTHM RAG

6 IMPROVISION

7 HUNTINGTON HARBOR—I

8 HUNTINGTON HARBOR—II

9 HAND SEWING MACHINE

10 HORSES PLOWING ON A HILL

11 JUST PAINTING

12 CLOUDS

13 THE PARK

14 YOURS TRULY

15 RUNNING RIVER

16 MARS & BLUE HILLSIDE

17 OUTBOARD MOTOR

18 TUG BOAT

AN IDEA

THE MUSIC THINGS WERE DONE TO SPEED
THE LINE UP TO THE PACE AT WHICH WE LIVE
TODAY. THE LINE IS THE RESULT OF REDUCING
DIMENSION FROM THE SOLID TO THE PLANE
THEN TO THE POINT. A MOVING POINT COULD
FOLLOW A WATERFALL AND DANCE. WE HAVE
THE SCIENTIFIC PROOF THAT THE EYE SEES
EVERYTHING BEST AT ONE POINT.

ARTHUR G. DOVE

LIST OF PAINTINGS

1 I'LL BUILD A STAIRWAY TO PARADISE—
GER SCHWIN

5 RHYTHM RAG

6 IMPROVISION

7 HUNTINGTON HARBOR—I

8 HUNTINGTON HARBOR—II

9 HAND SEWING MACHINE

10 HORSES PLOWING ON A HILL

11 JUST PAINTING

12 CLOUDS

13 THE PARK

14 YOURS TRULY

15 RUNNING RIVER

16 MARS & BLUE HILLSIDE

17 OUTBOARD MOTOR

18 TUG BOAT

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Tenth Exhibition—January 9 to February 27, 1928

Exhibition IX —ARTHUR G. DOVE, Dec. 12, 1927-Jan. 7, 1928.

O'KEEFFE AND MATISSE*

Miss O'Keeffe is perhaps the most original painter in America today. The present show of her recent work leaves one wondering as to what new aspects of life she will make her own. I do not wish to dwell on her paintings as separate canvases, although in The Wave, and the sun blazing behind The Shelton, and in what is nominally one of her flower-interiors, as well as in several more abstract designs, she has produced pictures upon whose excellence one might well linger for a while. The point is that all these paintings come from a central stem; and it is because the stem is so well grounded in the earth and the plant itself so lusty, that it keeps on producing new shoots and efflorescences, now through the medium of apples, pears, egg-plants, now through leaves and stalks, now in high buildings and sky-scapes, all intensified by abstraction into symbols of quite different significance.

Miss O'Keeffe has not discovered a new truth of optics, like Monet, nor invented a new method of æsthetic organization, like the Cubists; and while she paints with a formal skill which combines both objective representation and abstraction, it is not by this nor by her brilliant variations in color that her work is original. What distinguishes Miss O'Keeffe is the fact that she has discovered a beautiful language, with unsuspected melodies and rhythms, and has created in this language a new set of symbols; by these means she has opened up a whole area of human consciousness which has never, so far as I am aware, been so completely revealed in either literature or in graphic art. Unlike the painters who have taken refuge in abstract art to hide their inner barrenness, Miss O'Keeffe has something to communicate; and the human significance of her pictures is enriched rather than contracted by the symbols and the formal figures she employs.

In thinking of Miss O'Keeffe, my mind drifts back inevitably to another distinguished American artist, Albert Pinkham Ryder. He, too, in his landscapes and in his more deliberately symbolic pictures, sought to use the objective fact as a means of projecting a more interior and less articulate world; but, like Blake and Redon, his mind ran most easily in the groove of literary myths, and in his paintings of Time Riding Around a Racetrack or the Witches in Macbeth or Jonah and the Whale, he was dependent upon irrelevant suggestions for his theme, conveying by literary allusion feelings for which he had no direct language. Miss O'Keeffe has found her symbols without the aid of literary accessories; hers is a direct expression upon the plane of painting, and not an illustration by means of painting of ideas that have been verbally formulated. Indeed, Miss O'Keeffe's world cannot be verbally formulated; for it touches primarily on the experiences of love and passion. Whitman said that the best was that which must be left unsaid, and anyone who has reflected upon his passionate experiences is always a little appalled at the fact that they become so inarticulate in actual life, or so evasive, so skittishly evasive, when they seize hold of the poet.

* Reprint from The New Republic, March 2, 1927.

The premonitions of love, its pre-nuptial state as it were, are the constant themes of poetry; but in literature love and passion retain something of the desire of the moth for the star; when we become conscious of them in other terms, we are faced either by the empty swaggering of a Swinburne or a Wilde, whose personal history gives one reason to doubt if they had anything more than a literary background for their emotions, or by the all too literal allusions of a Rochester. The fact is that words strike love stone-cold; what it is, is something much too deep in the blood for words to ejaculate; and when driven to such an indirect medium, the result is not the original quality of passion or sexual intimacy at all, but obscenity—which is but the ashes from an extinguished fire.

What is true of love holds for other emotions and feelings: if their warm impalpability is to be extracted from consciousness, they must be transformed by painting into their own special symbols, and not first done into a verbal medium; a blasted tree may convey more human anguish than the most scarified and tear-stained face, labeled Antigone. Perceiving this fact, and creating images that are as palpable as flesh and as austere as a geometric figure, Miss O'Keeffe has created a noble instrument of expression, which speaks clearly to all who have undergone the same experiences or been affected by the same perceptions. She has beautified the sense of what it is to be a woman; she has revealed the intimacies of love's juncture with the purity and the absence of shame that lovers feel in their meeting; she has brought what was inarticulate and troubled and confused into the realm of conscious beauty, where it may be recalled and enjoyed with a new intensity; she has, in sum, found a language for experiences that are otherwise too intimate to be shared. To do this steadily in fresh forms, and to express by new expedients in design—as in the filling of a large canvas with the corolla of a flower—her moods and meanings: these are the signs of a high aesthetic gift. A minor painter might achieve this once; and would perhaps carve a prosperous career by doing it over and over again; Miss O'Keeffe, on the contrary, has apparently inexhaustible depths to draw upon, and each new exhibition adds richness and variety to her central themes. Her place is secure.

> If this be madness, and upon me proved,
> I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Miss O'Keeffe's paintings and the recent retrospective show of Matisse remind one that the pure artist is always more deeply in touch with life, even with life considered merely in the dress of our own day, than the conventional artist who does the accepted thing. Superficially speaking, it would seem that commercial illustrators are of all people the ones most closely in touch with "life": do they not have to meet business men, face actual problems in advertising, produce marketable goods? Far from it: there is a complete lack of living relationship in their magazine covers and subway ads: the girl whose skin you love to touch tells nothing about our own day. Such drawings are a complete blank; if an Elie Faure were to ex-

amine them five hundred years hence, the only inference he could
draw would be that our civilization lacked an æsthetic sense.

Miss O'Keeffe's paintings, on the other hand, would tell much
about the departure of Victorian prudery and the ingrowing con-
sciousness of sex, in resistance to a hard external environment; were
Sherwood Anderson's novels destroyed, were every vulgar mani-
festation in the newspapers forgotten, were the papers of the
Freudian psychologists burned, her pictures would still be a witness;
for, apart from their proper beauty and significance, they reveal and
refocus many of the dominant aspects of our time. It is the same
with Matisse. He began his career as a conventional painter of
"studies"; gradually, two things developed in his work: a clarity
of structure, a feeling for what we were executing in other forms
with the aid of equations and mechanical drawings, and, side by
side with this, a certain lush sensual quality, conveyed partly by
color and partly by sleek oriental women and soft upholstery. Is
not this the essence of our contemporary spiritual dilemma? There
is war between our vital needs and our mechanical routine. Look-
ing at Matisse's pictures, I remembered a factory I had recently in-
spected, in which the machinery was here and there furtively plas-
tered with pictures of variously naked hussies, cut out from con-
temporary magazines of "art." There was the exact equivalent in
"life." Is not the conflict, indeed, pretty obvious everywhere? The
artist, unconsciously perhaps, attempts to transmute it into beauty;
but the divorce is a critical one, and the passage to beauty not easy.
Matisse succeeds best, I think, in his still-lifes, where color and
form are orchestrally handled in superb, intricate, vibrant designs.

LEWIS MUMFORD.

JULY 21, 1927.

DEAR MISS O'Keeffe:

I went to the Brooklyn Museum to see your paintings. These
other things confirm almost exactly the feeling I had about the four
I saw at Lake George, although I refrained from expressing a
measured opinion on so few.

I shall try to convey (as well as words of mine can convey any-
thing so intricate as my reactions to another artist's record of him-
self) what your work, so far as I have seen it means to me.

My heart finds in your pictures a deep satisfaction. I am con-
vinced that this comes from (among other elements which perhaps
I cannot yet snare in words) a fearless clarity of vision—from
what I might call perfect purity of purpose. You have wide move-
ments of color-forms which give me a sense of that peace-in-intensity
which I have sought in my own life and work.

The absence of all emotional fumbling is so very comforting to
one like myself who knows that in life we all fumble sometimes, but
who also knows that fumbling has no place in completed art. Your
spirit is passionate-cool, strong-gentle, seeking-disciplined. This
amazing psychic balance comes from a courageous self-acceptance,
without which no real and lasting art is possible. With this to
stand on, you have dared, and loved, to paint what seem to me the
organs of the spiritual universe. I think of your pictures as I write
this, of the white birch, for instance. There is thus in your work
a fine virility in the widest and truest sense of that term.

I spare you a string of superlative and meaningless adjectives. I
do not use them about any painting—from Giotto's to my own.
The thing I want to say is that you do what is your own, and that
I believe that your own is significant to painting and to our time.

I have turned the above over in my mind rather carefully and am
ready to say it to others besides yourself. . . .

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Eleventh Exhibition—February 28 to March 27, 1928

TWENTY-EIGHT NEW PAINTINGS
BY OSCAR BLUEMNER

Exhibition X —GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, Jan. 9-Feb. 27, 1928.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

Exhibition X —GEORGIA O'Keeffe, Jan. 9-Feb. 27, 1928.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Twelfth Exhibition — March 27 to April 17, 1928

PASTEL PORTRAITS AND PENCIL DRAWINGS
BY PEGGY BACON

Exhibition X —GEORGIA O'Keeffe, Jan. 9-Feb. 27.

Exhibition XI —OSCAR BLUEMNER, Feb. 28-March 27.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

PEGGY BACON

"Yet we have heard discoursing of carpets, with the air d'un mouton qui rêve, fellows who should not and could not be entrusted with the management of their own moustaches. Every one knows that a large floor may have a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a covering of small,—yet this is not all the knowledge in the world."

If Peggy Bacon were a critic she would belong to the same school of criticism as the person who wrote the preceding lines. "D'un mouton qui rêve," and what follows covers certain characters; lightly and completely. She, in her portraits in pastelle, covers lightly all the material which is considered related to the giving of the subject,—but, how completely! A completeness is attained bordering on ruin; after she has passed there is very little left to say, there is very little left to do. Lightness is seldom understood and never forgiven!—I do not think these portraits will be generally acclaimed for this reason. For this same reason John Marin is considered a water-colourist first,— after that a painter. Things tedious, over long, or, over large and slightly Freudian, at the moment, have a much better chance of being acclaimed great. "Ulysses" by Joyce, "à la Recherche du Temps Perdu," the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, or, the flowers of Georgia O'Keeffe are not what I'm thinking about.

There have been no portraits, (except Miss Stettheimer's), for some years,—quite a long time. These by Peggy Bacon and those may again start expression through that medium. The six or seven, now being shown, will have a place in our history of painting;—as paintings, portraits, they could

hang in a collection of portraits with success; even though the painters represented happened to be,—well say: Cranach, Breughel, Sharaku.

It may be said that these canvases are all portraits of Peggy Bacon's state of mind,—and with some truth; a quality relating them still closer to the great portraits of the past. In portraiture likeness is only the start, with this start the painter must in some way record his times, his own response to them,—oh, a lot of things. Mr. Louis Bouché, Mr. Charles Sheeler, in this exhibition are great portraits,—they express certain things in forms of this own America, using a likeness as a means not as an end.

All this work comes only out of the American scene, it could come from no other. All of it is covered; glazed with our own wit. One feels in it something very funny, very sharp and bright, and always an after touch of the pathetic. I think Peggy Bacon finds comedy and tragedy both qualities to be smiled at.

CHARLES DEMUTH.

PEGGY BACON

It may be said that these canvases are all portraits of Peggy Bacon's state of mind,—and with some truth; a quality relating them still closer to the great portraits of the past. In portraiture likeness is only the start, with this start the painter must in some way record his times, his own response to them,— oh, a lot of things. Mr. Louis Bouché, Mr. Charles Sheeler, in this exhibition are great portraits,—they express certain things in forms of this own America, using a likeness as a means not as an end.

CHARLES DEMUTH.

PEGGY BACON

CHARLES DEMUTH.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Thirteenth Exhibition — April 19 to May 11, 1928

RECENT PAINTINGS BY FRANCIS PICABIA

The Intimate Gallery is a Direct Point of Contact between
Public and Artist. It is the Artist's Room. It is a Room with but
One Standard. Alfred Stieglitz has volunteered his services and is
its guiding Spirit.

Exhibition X —GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, Jan. 9-Feb. 27.

Exhibition XII —PEGGY BACON, March 27-April 17.

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

THIS EXHIBITION OF THE MOST RECENT WORK OF FRANCIS PICABIA, PARIS, TAKES PLACE AT THE INITIATIVE OF MARCEL DUCHAMP. PICABIA IS GUEST-EXHIBITOR OF ROOM 303. SINCE HIS ONE-MAN SHOWS AT "291", HELD IN JANUARY, 1913, AND MARCH, 1915, PICABIA HAS HAD NO ONE-MAN SHOW IN AMERICA.

FRANCIS PICABIA

To my mind Picabia has caught and imprisoned in his pictures all the best things in life—spontaneous gaiety, happiness, a fearlessly clear insight into things, the spirit of adventure, of change and of the unexpected that is in the essence of all things that are alive.

He has the courage to express life as he feels it, in complete disregard of all formulas, and he has the courage to change as all life changes. Nothing alive ever stays still; why should a painter invent a formula for himself and then sit down and expect it to last him forever?

Picabia's spirit is completely free, and when a man ceases to be the slave of material things all matter becomes his slave. In his pictures one feels a complete mastery over both materials and ideas—he is not limited in any way. He has gained the power to use any shape, colour or thought in the universe to express his dreams. He is not modern, academic, futurist, cubist or any other "ist", he is beyond classes or schools, and no one who is not hopelessly blinded by pre-conceived formulas or theories about what "Art" should or should not be can fail to feel a sense of joy at the transparent clarity and the fearlessness of thought in Picabia's pictures, and the fact that they are so intensely alive.

The world is tired of theories, tired of schools and tired of formulas. It is so refreshing to find oneself in the presence of something that brings a keen sense of joy without explanations or arguments, something that convinces by its very presence, like the sunshine, a blue sky, or just a beautiful day.

MERAUD MICHAEL GUINNESS

FRANCIS PICABIA

MERAUD MICHAEL GUINNESS

FRANCIS PICABIA

MERAUD MICHAEL GUINNESS

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Fourteenth Exhibition — Nov. 14 to Dec. 31, 1928

FIFTY NEW PAINTINGS BY JOHN MARIN

The Intimate Gallery is a Direct Point of Contact between Public and Artist. It is the Artist's Room. It is a Room with but One Standard. Alfred Stieglitz has volunteered his services and is its guardian Spirit.

The Gallery will be open daily, Sundays excepted, from 10 A.M. till 6 P.M. Sundays from 3 till 5 P.M.

Exhibition XIII—FRANCIS PICABIA, April 19-May 11.

## THE RECENT PAINTINGS OF JOHN MARIN

It was four years since I had seen the work of John Marin, the painter in water colours, and one recent day when several others and myself were to pick up Marin at his house in Jersey to go further on to a dinner and later to Elizabeth to see Micky Walker show his punch in the armory there, Marin said, as we were about to start, "would you like to see some of the new pictures before we go"? "Most certainly," I said, "you know, Marin, what I think of your work", and we went up stairs to the studio, and the thick sheets of paper were brought forth one after another, and arranged sequentially in a working frame.

I had seen casual pictures in Room 303, or the Intimate Gallery, and I said to myself then, Marin is going deeper, there is even a solemnity coming forth, a gravity of wash, a new plastic intensity, a kind of sharper dimensional breadth of emotion is taking place, a new sureness of touch, a different emotional fulness.

Most painters in this medium always consider the fact that water is the main source of strength, and you find artists like Whistler, Sargent, and MacKnight even, who have had special ability in this form of expression are frequently occupied with the wash as merely liquid substance, and you will find that Winslow Homer and John Marin have found that there is a substance to be achieved in spite of this idea.

Marin never trifles with water colour. He is never concerned with its limitations though he knows them all too admirably.

He knows there is also a striking type of vigour and solidity to be achieved, and these most recent works of his prove that Marin has discovered like Carlos Chavez the best of the newest composers of modern music, that if two notes will express the idea, it is better to discard a third, or if one note will express the same, it is more intelligent to leave out the second.

A rigid economic sense marks the work of Marin in these new compositions. He introduces wherever necessary, inevitable touches of realism to indicate the idea, and avoids all extraneous modulations that border on mere descriptiveness. He produces by chaste movement and harmony the requisite completeness of sensation. He is all for having his punctuations right, he is all for the well defined, simply constructed sentence, so to say.

Marin's local scene is by choice, New England, or more specifically, Maine and New Hampshire, or, still more specifically the sea and the mountains. It would be superficial to say that he knows the sea best, because he is not a historian of the sea, he is not in this sense the historian of anything.

Marin is not a teller of tales, in no sense as in the manner of Burchfield the Ohio Water-colourist whose chief virtue is his gift for story, and he is therefore one of the few American painters who is not primarily an illustrator, and it is so easy in water-colour painting to become one. Marin is not a "sketch-artist" as I am determined to call those who have the sometimes valuable faculty of producing the appearance of place the moment they sit down to it. It is this very gift that accounts for the vagidity of so much general painting both in Europe and America. It is not even a passion to portray, that obsesses the touring painter, it is not the lighter gift of copying which was so much the quality in the water-colour painting of Sargent, whose faculty in this field knew no bounds, the search for "theatre" in a simple scene, and in whose pictures so much of real esthetic profundity is lacking.

Marin has no wish to tell an anecdote, no life's little ironies, such as besets Mr. Burchfield in all that he does, and no one will ever be able to say that this

artist is engrossed in his medium. He is not thinking of the inner depth, as the Chinese always were, he is carried away with his narrative idea, and this is legitimate enough.

Marin attaches by virtue of his spiritual intentions to the Chinese principles as has been evidenced long ago in the work of his past. Marin cares first and last for the wash, and how to get the maximum expression out of it. And it must not be forgotten that he began life as an architectural draughtsman, and that his earlier etchings of the Madeleine and like subjects in Paris show that if he was not perhaps as dramatically graphic as Meryon was with his Paris, he at least knows the meaning of architectural construction, and applies the principle to every wash he lays down.

He is vitally concerned with the single movement, the ultimate rhythm that will state the esthetic premise clearly, reasonably, and with inevitable dignity.

Marin's wave is a wave, his house is a house, his sail is a sail, his tree is a tree, his rock a rock. He has even sacrificed, I have come to remark, a superabundance of dainty tones that characterizes his earlier pictures, his Tyrol series to recall.

He seems to confine himself almost to the iridescent neutralities of tone because he finds an even deeper sense of plastic strength in them, and one sees that as the years advance Marin is absorbed in hues and tonalities that lean somewhat poignantly toward sombreness, in no sense melancholic in their quality however, a marked desire to keep more to the essentials of structure than to degrees of superficial flamboyance.

And the pictures have come to look more like mineralogical fragments in a geological collection with their textures of tarnished metal, facets of crystal, achrous substances, and by this very selectiveness have come to look still more like nature, because they represent natural substances more naturally.

The earth has body, the sea has body, the sail has strength, the island remains fixed in the sea, and the houses are set on their islands where generations of islanders have lived, moved, and had their peculiar beings.

When Marin goes to the mountains, he knows with the instinct of a naturalist, his timbers, and the solid masses of his mountains, he senses their intellectual "granite-ness", he is not interested or absorbed in any way with mere topography. He has seen and felt his masses more than once, and if he could not completely satisfy the mind of an Agassiz, a Linnaeus, or an Audubon, it would naturally be because their purpose was strictly scientific, and yet he would not fail to please them considerably, because like the Chinese he is informed of the botany and the geology that typifies his scene, the ultimate "nature" of the subject he intends to render, before he begins. He is thoroughly "au courant" with his prescribed landscape, and how many painters who practice painting daily can boast as much?

Marin has experienced his subjects with depth, insight and feeling, he has painted them a thousand times, before he has painted them once, he has a universal comprehension of his essential detail, and it is this acute sense of selection in Marin, apart from his deeper researches in the power of a wash, that makes the new work of this artist, to one like myself, who had not seen his progress from year to year, seem like a prodigious ascension in revelatory achievement.

Marin is very much farther up in the language of the medium than anyone I know or have ever heard of.

I should like to see, for purposes of historical value, an exhibition of water-colour from Turner on to Marin. It would unfold marvellous surprise I am certain. I should like to see the flamboyant and watery Turner juxtaposed with

Marin, with Whistler, who has come to be almost a kind of Chaminade in the world of modern painting, with Sargent the excellent illustrator, with MacKnight, Burchfield, Homer, with the earlier Marin, and to begin the exhibit, I should like to see a room filled with Poussin, Claude, Barye, Delacroix, Daumier, and Cézanne, as a beginning offset, and I should ask for a room of earlier Chinese. I am sure Marin himself would like to see it, and I am still surer than Marin himself would be bold enough to admit, that he would find himself thoroughly at home among the great, very much at the expense of those Anglo-Saxon names that head the list in water-colour accomplishment, as given above.

John Marin is behind no one in his comprehension and accomplishment in his medium. He will unquestionably rank ninety-nine and nine tenths in his understanding of the given language he has all his life wished to speak. He has brought his medium to very genuine heights, has pushed it further than any modern I can possibly think of. He has allied himself with the Chinese, the greatest masters of all in water-colour expression, and he has added a deep full resonant American note to the American painting of the present, and of the future.

MARSDEN HARTLEY.

LIST OF MARIN WATER COLORS

EXHIBITION—1928

SERIES 1927—DEER ISLE, MAINE

<table><tbody><tr><td>MOVEMENT—NO.'S</td><td>I-3—BOAT</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO.'S 4-9—BOAT AND SEA</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO.'S 10-13—BOATS AND PERTAINING THERETO</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO.'S 14-23—THE SEA AND PERTAINING THERETO</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 24 —PERTAINING TO DEER ISLE—THE ROAD</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 25 —PERTAINING TO DEER ISLE—THE TREE</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 26 —PERTAINING TO DEER ISLE—THE MUSHROOM</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 27 —PERTAINING TO DEER ISLE—THE HARBOR I</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 28 —PERTAINING TO DEER ISLE— " " II</td></tr></tbody></table>

SERIES 1927—WHITE MOUNTAIN COUNTRY

<table><tbody><tr><td>SUMMER</td><td>—NO. 29 —DIXVILLE NOTCH NO. I</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 30 —DIXVILLE NOTCH NO. 2</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 31 —THE RAPIDS</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 32 —FRANCONIA RANGE—MOUNTAIN PEAKS</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 33 —FRANCONIA RANGE—RAIN AND MIST</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 34 —FRANCONIA RANGE—MOUNTAIN AND FIR TREES</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 35 —FRANCONIA RANGE—FRANCONIA NOTCH AND ECHO LAKE</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 36 —FRANCONIA RANGE—THE MOUNTAIN NO. I</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 37 —FRANCONIA RANGE— " " NO. 2</td></tr><tr><td>"</td><td>—NO. 38 —FRANCONIA RANGE— " " NO. 3</td></tr></tbody></table>

<table><tbody><tr><td>AUTUMN</td><td>—NO. 39 —FRANCONIA RANGE—AUTUMN CLOTHING<br>" " —NO. 40 —FRANCONIA RANGE—TAR PEAKS<br>" " —NO. 41 —FRANCONIA RANGE—MOUNTAIN PEAKS<br>" " —NO. 42 —FRANCONIA RANGE—FRANCONIA NOTCH AND ECHO LAKE NO. I<br>" " —NO. 43 —FRANCONIA RANGE—FRANCONIA NOTCH AND ECHO LAKE NO. 2<br>" " —NO. 44 —FRANCONIA RANGE—THE MOUNTAIN NO. I<br>" " —NO. 45 —FRANCONIA RANGE—THE MOUNTAIN NO. 2<br>" " —NO. 46 —PRESIDENTIAL RANGE<br>" " {WASHINGTON<br>ADAMS<br>JEFFERSON<br>" " —NO. 47 —VERMONT COUNTRY—AUTUMN</td></tr></tbody></table>

Stonington, Me.

Aug. 26/28

Mr. ***
Managing Editor ****

DEAR SIR:

Me and Lindberg were born some twenty three years
— more or less — ago — only — Me — was born some thirty
three years — more or less — before that time — that's
one of the reasons why I put — Me — ahead of Lindberg

Me and Lindberg have brought forth storms of
"abuse and vilification" in our separate Endeavors only Lindy
— he had the advantage — He could ride the storm of —
Kisses — whereas — Me — I had to remain at — dirt level —
and take em. —

We both — eventually received from the — foolish —
bunches of medals of sort

I don't know what Lindy did with his — this I know —
mine so cluttered up the place — that my wife chucked them up
in the attic

Here's where I leave Lindy —

Let him — rassel — with his own biog.

I have immortalized by my presence
The Phil. Academy of Fine Arts
The Art Students League of N.Y.
& the Delecluse Academy of Paris

As for famous Events in my life

Theres the time when as a kid I once twice or thrice played —

Hookey — was Caught spanked & put to bed
then there's the time — once as a man

I met a man he coming up hill

I going — down hill
he said — How -i-ya —
I said — How-i-ya —

Oh yes

The doors have Swung wide open
to me by my friend

Alfred Stieglitz
and occasionally — with his say so
by Montross and Daniel —

Alfred Stieglitz still persists in the *Swung door*
the only thing with this swinging business though
is that others creep in — Theres those frenchy

fellows Picasso and Matisse

Then there's O'Keeffe Dove and
Hartley — well we'll let these latter stay but it
will have to be seen to

My greatest collection

The Dark Room Collection is in the Lincoln Storage

Some few are scattered about among
the violently happy possessors being my Friend Alfred
Stieglitz — he has quite a few — I really believe he
thinks them good.

Then Mr. Howald of N.Y. & Columbus Ohio
Mr. Phillips of Washington D.C.
Mr. Goodwin seems to have
a predilection for Lower N.Y.

One occupies a — Spot — in the Metropolitan
given — as he had a plenty by
Mr. Albert Gallatin of N.Y.

— then of course there's the famous one —
I painted especially for the French Gov't

My Ancestors were of the best —

English Ale — Dutch bitters — Irish Gin —
French Vermouth and plain Scotch

My Ancestors came over in a boat hired
especially for the occasion as the — Mayflower —
oh we considered it —

overcrowded

now then
Please don't take me away
from my — Mirror again
and

most sincerely

John Marin

IMMORTALITY RIGHT ON YOUR OWN DOORSTEP

By MURDOCK PEMBERTON

We had been wondering what was the matter with the art season in New York. Then, as we went down the elevator of the Anderson Galleries, more or less fatigued by a show of the dear young ones on the top floor, we glanced at the modest announcement that Marin was showing in the Intimate Gallery on the third floor. We went in and all our cares dropped away.

Now that a famous foreign art critic* has pronounced Marin worthwhile and a genius, the great American public will approach him with less fear; but as this new body of admirers is delivered to him en bloc, he may have trouble in moving it around with him. Marin travels at a rate that sometimes bewilders Americans.

There is nothing new to be said about Marin. We can only record that here is a new show of a man who has tasted his immortality while he lived, and in a measure has enjoyed some of the fruits of being a recognized artist. Unfortunately, he has not realized as he should the full benefits of the recognition. Collectors are few, and even the best of them are conscious of the scorn of their neighbors and are prone to look upon a painting as an oil stock rather than as something to be desired for itself. Nevertheless, under Stieglitz, Marin has managed to attain some economic independence, and to be free to work as he pleased rather than divide his time making pictures of tomato soup.

You will have to go elsewhere for interpretations of the inner meanings of the current exhibition, and for the general fog of mysticism that is attached to genius. We were never one to make two symbols grow where only one has grown before. We can stand before the picture of a boat and think of it only as a boat on a green sea, sailing before a blue sky. Therein we find enough satisfaction for several weeks of art gazing elsewhere, and are content to leave the mechanics and the explanations to the royal recondites of our craft. We can also stand in front of the green hills of the Franconia range (the catalogue number is 37) and believe we are in those green hills; or before any of the forty-seven pictures in the show and feel grateful that we were born in a country that produced a Marin.

We know of no painter whom you can take in as large doses as you can Marin. A roomful does not tire you. Fifty pictures by any other man, hung together, would first show up the weak spots and then the many little holes where the artist tried to seek new outlets and to get away from himself.

With Marin it is always a turning-in, a going-back to the source of inspiration, a re-doing of the familiar movement or mood. And while in each picture there is something new, it is still Marin and still essentially composed of those elements that make him great.

Not since Van Gogh has there been any genius so inexhaustible and so profligate. As the madman of Arles drew in the sun and splayed it out again through his burning eyes and nervous fingers, so does John Marin draw in Whitman's America, gross, rough, uncouth, and spin out again a fine web of its soul. This is what this country ought to be, you say; this unearthly fragile, brutally beautiful, serene, and tumultuous thing.

From all this you will gather that we like Marin. His show will be on until the first of the year and there will be the usual patter and turmoil that goes with every exhibition—the woman who has a child of four that can do better, the famous collector who is willing to pay six thousand for a water color, until someone laughs.**

* Julius Meier-Graefe.

**From THE NEW YORKER, November 24, 1928.

*EXTRACT FROM: A FEW CONCLUSIONS ON AMERICAN
ART BY JULIUS MEIER-GRAEFE

I was looking in America for something else. Much that I saw, outside the studios and the collections, stimulated me, keying up my nerves and senses, and awaking a new response. I almost imagined that I had found another climate, for I did not get tired, slept only a few hours, and could not wait for morning to be on the street again—seeing and searching. The people, an intermingling of black, yellow, and white, who were united into one mass solely by their industry and organized speed, differed from ours. Should they not produce something correspondingly different in art?

I felt that I had found it with Alfred Stieglitz on the topmost floor of a sky-scraper. Stieglitz is something of a treuer Ekkehard, a mentor of the new American artists. In striving to aid his protégés whose work he seeks to disseminate, he is not afraid to speak his mind to the rich. In a small room at the Anderson Galleries in New York he exhibits the painters whom he admires, as well as his own work at times.

I am indebted to Stieglitz for acquainting me with the water-colours of John Marin. Marin can pass to-day as the representative of art in America. He is a landscape painter, a water-colourist exclusively, and has made this technique the medium of his steady upward development. Departing from an impressionism which was as objective as possible, he has advanced, step by step, to a progressively freer structural presentation, and to-day his pages give us fascinating insight into nature. They are not segments chosen more or less at random, but generalized complexes of light, atmosphere, and vegetation. At first the observer only confronts a mixture of pleasing colour and spots which appear to be arbitrarily distributed. The artist in his stimulation provides an impulse which leads to the interpretation of the chaos. To be sure the landscape is not completely realized; but it emerges gradually, and this process of "growing" satisfies us more strongly than any static condition. Our eye paints. We do not come upon a definite lake lying in a definite spot, but find a flash of water among green trees. The drawing, which recalls the economic setting of a modern stage, is aided by the genesis of the succinct strokes. The stroke was formerly a tree, with branches and leaves. Nothing of this remains but the coloured volume, or the reflection of the volume. A hundred years ago a landscape would never have resulted from such a mélange, for at that time the eye needed more robust assistance. The Impressionists and their successors have taught us to interpret the spots. As we have become sparing, and as we grasp the equivalences more readily, the artist is entitled and obliged to reckon with this economy, which is particularly adapted to fluid water-colour.

*From VANITY FAIR, November, 1928. Reprinted with permission of VANITY FAIR.

FOREWORD

This exhibition of Marsden Hartley's paintings of the past four years might be prefaced by my conviction that Hartley is one of the three or four important painters of our generation—the generation which began to work about 1900 and will have said its say about 1950. I might add that his canvases seem to me among the few that will survive and become increasingly significant for the generation in this country that follows him. But that conviction, however true, is unimportant. For nothing seems to me more futile than the game that critics so often play, of pretending that they are not only themselves but posterity as well. We, who look at paintings more often and perhaps more searchingly than others do, have established the somewhat ludicrous practise of staging premature Judgment Days for fear that we shall not be on hand when the graves of dead reputations open. We erect our private pantheons where immortality is conferred in advance, clank our keys in each others faces, and ask for public approbation like rival vergers holding out an itching palm for tourists' tips.

"Man lebt nur einmal" as the German song says. And paintings exist not to be appraised for the next century, nor to be ticketed with their aesthetic odds in the race for immortality, nor to be ranged like annointed saints in the hierarchy of some private heaven, but to be used, to be absorbed by the world for which they were painted. Certain pictures are nourishment to me as food and love are. And unless my aesthetic taste brings that direct absorption, a sustenance as immediately experienced, looking at paintings becomes for me little more than a pedant's pastime.

Hartley's paintings have nourished me from our first meeting, when I stood with him 25 years ago in a Maine township on Hatch's hill. After a two days' September rain, the first northwest blow lashed the lapis bowl of Kezar Lake with whitecaps, tore holes of turquoise in the sky and sent ultramarine cloud shadows cascading down the golden bulk of Speckled Mountain and the rocky crown of Baldface, until one wanted to shout into the wind, and exult in the glory of this world.

Being essentially oriental in my sensibilities, the visual glory of this world has always been reflected for me in the richest possible admixture of color and pattern and the forms on which the two are interwoven—Buddhist frescoes of Chinese Turkestan, Indian and Persian miniatures, the gilded, fretted plaster and tiled minarets of Méknes and Marrakech, the untrammelled structure of Russian churches, Limoges enamels, the Byzantine mosaics at Mon Reale, the fabrics of princes, peasants and savages everywhere. The columns of Karnak that retain their pattern of bright hieroglyphics seem to me finer than those which time has wiped clean. I regret that so much Greek statuary has survived only as blank marble instead of being touched with the additional breath of life that color still gives to the head of Queen Nephre-te-té. I have always marvelled at the anemia of the American eye. To me there is no more final symbol of our typical sensibilities than those tourists who annually parade steamer decks in smoked glasses for their first view of the bay of Naples. Most American painters seem to have been born with smoked glasses on their noses. When they achieve color, it is, even when beautifully balanced, a bit watery; exquisite if you will, but thin; as perfect as you please, but without richness, sonority or passion. Such richness of color as is occasionally accomplished seems laboriously attained by men who have willed to see it, clambering out of their native grayness and muddiness with stilts cut from the woodpile in Cézanne's barn.

What stranger, after surveying most modern, American paintings, would realize that this is the one country in the world where every October its northern hills trickle cadmium yellow and orange, trees gleam like amber or dragons' fangs against the malachite of spruce and cedar, turning whole mountain ranges into patterns more violent and rich than any storied window or fabled carpet? Hartley has a color sense unique in America, so symphonic and sonorous it was a few years after he started to paint. During the summers of green monotony he hibernated in his cabin; when pattern began to flame and color to gleam in late September he was at his outpost. Long before Van Gogh was even a name here, Hartley began similar technical experiments with the organization of pigment in order to make his color even more vibrant, but never with the Impressionist's preoccupation of aping sunlight. When he first touched pastel, any green or ruddy apple in a saucer made other pastels seem, for a moment, so much tinted talcum powder. Nor did he ever make the mistake of many revoltees, turning from historic chiaroscuro and Turner tonalities, of assuming that color was pure only when it was bright. His late November landscapes when McKeene's hill was faded magenta of bare forest with here and there pale birches like candles about to flicker out, are as resplendent as any rendering of Speckled burning bright. And the sombre trio of deserted farms, that seem so black to the first casual glance, are no less richly orchestrated.

But Hartley has nourished me, and all his other admirers, even more fundamentally. He lifted my eyes to the hills and from them, thru my most tormented years, came peace. I have written elsewhere, "The painter records objects not to give them a different kind of importance than they already have in the world of experience, but because he can, by intensifying their sensuous qualities, heighten the meaning which they already possess as symbols of man's sense of his own destiny." To conceive our destiny and reconcile ourselves to its meaning, is the prime business of living. Any art is significant that can create the symbols of that meaning and that reconciliation. I can think of no one, except certain Chinese landscape painters, who has expressed with more finality of form and color than Hartley, the meaning of mountains, or so completely revealed the forces that draw our feet to them, lift up our hearts and free our minds in their sight.

For that reason it is a particular satisfaction to me that Marsden, after deserting Speckled Mountain and Baldface in Maine, has found Mont St. Victoire near Marseilles, and that he is living there alone in a provincial farmhouse as he once lived during more lonely winters in his Maine shack with only a mongrel and a phonograph to ease his vigil. For Hartley paints mountains because he wants to live with them, because they reconcile him to life as they once did during the agony of his youth. He has achieved that transference of self, that identification of the artist with an object, which to me is the one quality that can make painting a vital form of communication between the artist and his fellows. These mountain paintings as well as his earlier ones, have a universal, or if you prefer, an abstract quality, which lift them above any description of scenery as such. In the Deserted Farms we could find our ultimate despair and because it was so completely expressed, our own answer to it. What other function has tragic art from Euripides' to Eugene O'Neill's? These new paintings of Mont St. Victoire free whatever power of exultation in life we possess as directly as the voices of Beethoven's Hymn to Joy.

In the interval between Maine and Aix-en Provence, Hartley did, like Alice thru the Looking Glass, seem to disappear for a while down Kandinsky's kaleidoscope and be lost among its colored fragments. Fortunately he has come thru

the other end. He has painted canvases, like one or two in this exhibition, that might be sub-titled "Hommages à Cézanne". But his color is not a deduction from any theorem of the Master of Aix; it is a direct intensification of his innate sensibility that blazed forth 20 years ago. It glows now with an almost gem-like flame that never grows hard. And the forms are his own, as well, having the limpid and ponderous finality of any material, whether metal or earth, that has been fused in a fiery crucible.

But more significant than any weighing of the precise aesthetic avoirdupois of these pictures is the fact that Hartley is again living at the foot of his mountain. The world is so full of painters constantly dropping off trains or walking down gangplanks and packing up a bit of tactile value in their old kit bag; with the result that almost every one of their efforts might bear the inscription "I too have read Cézanne's letters to Emile Bernard." This same mountain towered over Cézanne during most of his life at Aix. But the patterns that Hartley has made of it are far less a re-embroidering of that master's mantel than countless canvases annually turned out in New England fishing villages and farmsteads.

I believe that I know why. In 1908, I stepped out of a train after a night's journey from Paris, fifty miles or so east of Aix, took my bicycle out of the baggage-car, and coasted down a four mile descent to the harbor-front of Cassis on the Mediterranean. In those fifteen minutes I experienced a new world. The sky overhead seemed incredibly dense, almost tangible, as if hollowed out of some strange blue stone. In the gold green of vineyards and orange trees, sharply defined against rust red earth, in the pink granite headlands and stucco houses, the vermillion tiled roofs that gleamed thru silver olive trees, and the sea that had the translucence of a gem—I beheld a world, made of an infinite mosaic of small pieces, that was nevertheless a massive and solid whole, not to be found under any other southern sun. Each bit of it stood clearly revealed, burnished and beaten into definition by invisible hammer strokes of sunlight. I divined what a summer of scumbling with paint later proved: that all our northern preoccupation with tone was unable to reproduce this countryside even on the plane of facsimile. Any attempt to apply the technique of the Impresionists out of Chevreuil became as patently futile as coating a statue with glue and then throwing confetti at it. A painter, by the very nature of the light of Provence, sooner or later is forced almost to carve it out like a maker of intaglios, to set in his planes of color like a worker in cloissonée and then find a method of fusing them as in an enamel. From that moment I have always believed, all authorities to the contrary, that Cézanne's method was determined less by anything in the history of art, than by his native sunlight striking his native soil which could breed other masters as it does its different flowers. That sun, in the light of these canvases, is native to Hartley as it was to another northerner, Van Gogh. If American collectors are able to appreciate the fact, Hartley's next years at Aix can be as decisive and epoch making as Van Gogh's sojourn at Arles.

In any case we have reason to rejoice. Hartley after ten years of journeying has found his mountain again.

Sursum corda,

LEE SIMONSON

ONE HUNDRED PAINTINGS IN OIL, WATER-COLOR, SILVER-POINT, AND PENCIL: STILL-LIFE, LANDSCAPE—MOUNTAINS—TREES—ETC.—BY MARSDEN HARTLEY, PAINTED IN PARIS AND AIX-EN-PROVENCE—FRANCE—1924-1927.

27

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Fifteenth Exhibition — Jan. 1 to Jan. 31, 1929

ONE HUNDRED NEW PAINTINGS
BY MARSDEN HARTLEY

Exhibition XIV —JOHN MARIN, November 14-December 29.

29

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Sixteenth Exhibition — Feb. 4 to March 16, 1929

Exhibition XV —MARSDEN HARTLEY, Jan. 1-Jan. 31, 1929.

31

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Seventeenth Exhibition—March 19 to April 7, 1929

FORTY NEW PHOTOGRAPHS BY PAUL STRAND

Exhibition XVI—GEORGIA O'Keeffe, Feb. 4-March 17.

PAUL STRAND
NEW PHOTOGRAPHS

MARCH 19—APRIL 7
1929

OMITTING AN INQUIRY INTO WHETHER A PHOTOGRAPH MAY OR MAY NOT BE A WORK OF ART, A PREVALENT PROBLEM AMONG ESTHETICIANS, I AM IMPELLED TO TELL OF MY REACTIONS TO THE RARE PHOTOGRAPHS OF PAUL STRAND.

PAUL STRAND'S WORK IS NEVER SENTIMENTAL EITHER IN CHOICE OF SUBJECT-MATTER OR SUBJECTIVELY. IT IS PRECISE, CLEAR, FUNDAMENTAL.

HIS GROUP OF PHOTOGRAPHS OF MACHINES UNCOVER ASPECTS OF THINGS WHICH RANGE FROM SORDID AND OBTUSE BRUTALITY TO COLD, POLISHED AND CRUEL CULTURE. ANOTHER GROUP OF PHOTOGRAPHS—FRAGMENTS OF DRIFTWOOD, ROTTED TREES AND, PARTICULARLY, THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF STONES AND ROCKS REVEAL WITH TRUE GRANDEUR THE PERSISTENT LIFE WITHIN THESE BITS OF THE UNIVERSE.

THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF FLOWERS GRANT THE BEHOLDER OF THEM AN INTIMACY WITH THOSE FLOWERS STRICTLY WITHOUT THE INTRODUCTION OF EITHER THE SUPERFICIAL OR THE EQUIVOCAL. EACH PHOTOGRAPH IS A GRATIFICATION TO THE EYE THAT, CONSTANTLY, MEETS WITH THE COMPLETE APPROBATION OF THE INNER EYE.

PAUL STRAND'S PHOTOGRAPHS ARE POWERFUL, PERSONAL, SPIRITUAL, DECISIVELY AMERICAN CONTRIBUTIONS, WITHIN THE MAELSTROM OF AMERICAN MATERIALISM WHICH PROJECT FAR BEYOND MERE MECHANICAL EXACTITUDE.

GASTON LACHAISE.

LIST OF PHOTOGRAPHS

ROCK—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1925

ROCK—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1925

UPROOTED TREES—COLORADO, 1926

UPROOTED TREES—COLORADO, 1926

UPROOTED TREES—COLORADO, 1926

CAVE DWELLING—MESA VERDE, COL., 1926

CLIFF DWELLING—FRIJOLES CANYON, COL., 1926

GROWING FUNGUS—CENTER LOVELL, MAINE, 1927

FERN IN RAIN—CENTER LOVELL, MAINE, 1927

MULLEN IN RAIN—CENTER LOVELL, MAINE, 1927

WILD IRIS—CENTER LOVELL, MAINE, 1927

COBWEB IN RAIN—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1927

GARDEN IRIS—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1927

MOSS AND ROOTS—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1927

FUNGUS—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1927

WOOD, SNAILS, SEAWEED—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

DRIFTWOOD—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

TREE ROOTS—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

BEACH GRASS—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

FERN—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

MULLEN AFTER RAIN—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

ROCK—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

ROCK—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

ROCK—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

GARDEN IRIS—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

FALLEN TREES—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

TREES—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

TREES—GEORGETOWN, MAINE, 1928

33

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Seventeenth Exhibition—April 9 to April 28, 1929

TWENTY-TWO NEW PAINTINGS BY
ARTHUR G. DOVE

Exhibition VIII —JOHN MARIN, November 9-December 11.

Exhibition XIII —FRANCIS PICABIA, April 19-March 11.

Exhibition XVI —GEORGIA O'Keeffe, Feb. 4-March 17.

Exhibition XVII—PAUL STRAND, March 19-April 7.

NOTES BY ARTHUR G. DOVE

Dec. 19—Anybody should be able to feel a certain state and express it in terms of paint or music. I do not mean feeling a certain way about something, that is taking an object or subject and liking certain things about it and setting down those things.

But, for instance, to feel the power of the ground or sea, and to play or paint it with that in mind, letting spirit hold what you do together rather than continuous objective form, gaining in tangibility and actuality as the plane leaves the ground, to fly in a medium more rare and working with the imagination that has been built up from reality rather than building back to it.

To create a feeling for the idea rather than to go back to the "nest" each time to find whether or not the wings were sufficient.

The offspring of the idea to be in mind rather than its parentage.

Dec. 14—The line still holds and the contrasting sizes. Actual size all the time, and as much as you need of any size, so that all the things you feel are quite real, and actual, and all the feelings can be contrasted much the same as waves roll on a shore and wash back against each other. It certainly can be drawn through as fine as that. And as I said before things can be of the same size and of different sizes at the same time. That is certainly true and covers both vision and feelings.

There is no right or wrong in aesthetics, there is only that thing of finding something that seems more true than the last something that you or some one else found that seemed quite true. There being no possibility of an absolute true, we approach it by dividing the distance.

Dec. 27—Perhaps one might take two or three motifs, we will say in a blunt way for example to express ruggedness.

One Motif: Prussian blue black; raw sienna with a touch of light gray, and transparent brown mixed with burnt sienna and a bit of white.

The line motif to be the lines in a lump of coal.
Two Motif: Raw sienna with a touch of white; silver, burnt brown wood color dark.

The line motif to be the line in the grain of wood.
Three Motif: Silver and ultramarine ash.

Pure straight line.

This would seem to be enough to work with and let these forms as organized motifs go through each other, take care of themselves rather than to represent a stump or tree or some rock about the title of which everyone would be certain that "Ruggedness" was correct.

Jan. 12—Just now I am trying to put a line around, in, and through an idea. After that, or at the same time, to thoroughly grasp or sense the light condition in which that idea exists. The rest is just trying to make everything you put down say the same thing in different ways as hard as possible, and with order, or disorder, if necessary, to make the sensation completely realized.

MARCH 5TH—PERHAPS ART IS JUST TAKING OUT WHAT YOU DON'T LIKE AND PUTTING IN WHAT YOU DO.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ABSTRACTION.

IT IS EXTRACTION, GRAVITATION TOWARD A CERTAIN DIRECTION, AND MINDING YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

IF THE EXTRACT BE CLEAR ENOUGH ITS VALUE WILL
EXIST.

IT IS NEARER TO MUSIC, NOT THE MUSIC OF THE EARS, JUST THE MUSIC OF THE EYES.

IT SHOULD NECESSITATE NO EFFORT TO UNDERSTAND.

JUST TO LOOK, AND, IF LOOKING GIVES VISION, ENJOYMENT SHOULD OCCUR AS THE EYES LOOK.

NOTES BY ARTHUR G. DOVE

Pure straight line.

XVIX

THE
INTIMATE
GALLERY

ROOM 303

ANDERSON GALLERIES BUILDING

announces its Nineteenth Exhibition—April 29 to May 18, 1929

FIVE NEW PAINTINGS BY CHARLES DEMUTH

Exhibition I —JOHN MARIN, Dec. 7, 1925-Jan. 11, 1926.

Exhibition V —JOHN MARIN, Nov. 9, 1926-Jan. 9, 1927.

Exhibition X —GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, January 9-February 27.

Exhibition XI —OSCAR BLUEMNER, February 28-March 27.

Exhibition XVI —GEORGIA O'KEEFFE, February 4-March 17.

Exhibition XVII —PAUL STRAND, March 19-April 7.

Exhibition XVIII—ARTHUR G. DOVE, April 9-April 28.

CHARLES DEMUTH

FIVE PAINTINGS

APRIL 29—MAY 18

1929

LIST OF PAINTINGS

PROVINCETOWN—1918

LONGHI ON BROADWAY—1927

“I SAW THE FIGURE 5 IN GOLD”
—WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS—1927

DESIGN FOR A BROADWAY POSTER
(UNFINISHED)—1929

CABBAGE & RHUBARB—1929

THE CHARLES W. KRAUSHAAR GALLERY
IS AGENT FOR MR. DEMUTH'S
WATERCOLORS

CHARLES DEMUTH

FIVE PAINTINGS

APRIL 29—MAY 18

1929

LIST OF PAINTINGS

PROVINCETOWN—1918

LONGHI ON BROADWAY—1927

CABBAGE & RHUBARB—1929

CHARLES DEMUTH

FIVE PAINTINGS

APRIL 29—MAY 18

1929

LIST OF PAINTINGS

PROVINCETOWN—1918

LONGHI ON BROADWAY—1927

CABBAGE & RHUBARB—1929

CHARLES DEMUTH

FIVE PAINTINGS

APRIL 29—MAY 18

1929

LIST OF PAINTINGS

PROVINCETOWN—1918

LONGHI ON BROADWAY—1927

CABBAGE & RHUBARB—1929