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Banshee, whole no. 7, March 1945

Page 4

These works were duly unveiled at an art gallery on 57th Street in New York City. Behind the glorious two weeks was the heroism of those who went on starvation rations, brave souls who contributed their old clothes and postage stamp albums that this thing might be.

The exhibition, which I attended in the company of a few Futurians, was a nasty shock. In the first half-hour or so I realized that the whole thing, from Hannes' view, was pointless, in the light of his oft-repeated pronounciamento that he could not and never would paint to order, as doing this made him frustrated and nervous and he'd rather run an elevator anyway. The contradiction lay in the fact that in the event that the exhibition was a roaring success, he'd either have to paint to order from now until doomsday or else pocket the notices and reopen his shack in the Mojave.

To those who will claim that I am holding Bok to a foolish consistancy, I can only say that in my opinion it is not too much to insist on any man's integrity. And if we are to dispute about the realities of the situation, its work-aday aspects, then I can only point to the fact that such things have apparently never meant much to Hannes.

No noise I ever made could have spoken louder than the exhibition itself in demonstrating the essential shallowness of the Bok techniques and content. All knew what to expect. Surprise and display should have been missing elements, but they were felt only too strongly.

The body of the exhibition represented approximately two dozen pictures. A number, mostly small canvases, were old survivals of Bok's picture-book illustrating days. As a matter of fact they were illustrations. The technique was trite, stylized, glazed, easily recognizable as a type common to cheap books on children's toy counters in any five and dime. Their deliberately stilted lines froze them lifeless beyond the appreciation of all but the artless eyes of youngsters. In another technique were a half-dozen or so large, gaudy oils scattered about, interspersed between less glaring pictures. Studies in familiar grotesquerie, they bulked massively, glittering, full of brash, scorching colors, first cousin to the ripple finished calendar covers of the period 1920-30. These were the newest of the entire collection, painted on rough, dappled canvas, probably to give the effect of age and graven magnificence.

A third series, not more than two or three, bore a startling resemblance to the works of Maxfield Parrish. The resemblance might have been said to be more than just startling. It was Maxfield Parrish. Any of them might have been used as the back of a deck of playing cards or one of the puerile "classics" hanging in twenty million American homes. There were the same blue distances, the vast, tumbled masses of luridly-lit rock, the nymphs or suggestions of nymphs disporting in the cool, sapphire waters. Plainly, the bourgeois bedrock of the nation may be reassured. Parrish's technique will survive his death. It is played out, deadly, a romantic patch of decay on the whole canvas of art, but it will survive.

p4

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These works were duly unveiled at an art gallery on 57th Street in New York City. Behind the glorious two weeks was the heroism of those who went on starvation rations, brave souls who contributed their old clothes and postage stamp albums that this thing might be. The exhibition, which I attended in the company of a few Futurians, was a nasty shock. In the first half-hour or so I realized that the whole thing, from Hannes' view, was pointless, in the light of his oft-repeated pronounciamento that he could not and never would paint to order, as doing this made him frustrated and nervous and he'd rather run an elevator anyway. The contradiction lay in the fact that in the event that the exhibition was a roaring success, he'd either have to paint to order from now until doomsday or else pocket the notices and reopen his shack in the Mojave. To those who will claim that I am holding Bok to a foolish consistancy, I can only say that in my opinion it is not too much to insist on any man's integrity. And if we are to dispute about the realities of the situation, its work-aday aspects, then I can only point to the fact that such things have apparently never meant much to Hannes. No noise I ever made could have spoken louder than the exhibition itself in demonstrating the essential shallowness of the Bok techniques and content. All knew what to expect. Surprise and display should have been missing elements, but they were felt only too strongly. The body of the exhibition represented approximately two dozen pictures. A number, mostly small canvases, were old survivals of Bok's picture-book illustrating days. As a matter of fact they were illustrations. The technique was trite, stylized, glazed, easily recognizable as a type common to cheap books on children's toy counters in any five and dime. Their deliberately stilted lines froze them lifeless beyond the appreciation of all but the artless eyes of youngsters. In another technique were a half-dozen or so large, gaudy oils scattered about, interspersed between less glaring pictures. Studies in familiar grotesquerie, they bulked massively, glittering, full of brash, scorching colors, first cousin to the ripple finished calendar covers of the period 1920-30. These were the newest of the entire collection, painted on rough, dappled canvas, probably to give the effect of age and graven magnificence. A third series, not more than two or three, bore a startling resemblance to the works of Maxfield Parrish. The resemblance might have been said to be more than just startling. It was Maxfield Parrish. Any of them might have been used as the back of a deck of playing cards or one of the puerile "classics" hanging in twenty million American homes. There were the same blue distances, the vast, tumbled masses of luridly-lit rock, the nymphs or suggestions of nymphs disporting in the cool, sapphire waters. Plainly, the bourgeois bedrock of the nation may be reassured. Parrish's technique will survive his death. It is played out, deadly, a romantic patch of decay on the whole canvas of art, but it will survive. p4