ADVE:NTURES OF THE MIND 32.

The Casefor

Abstract ArtBy CLEMENT GREENBERG

Many people say that the kind of art our age producesis one of the major symptoms of what's wrong withthe age. The disintegration and, finally, the dis-

appearance of recognizable images in painting and sculpture,like the obscurity in advanced Hterature, are supposed to re-flect a disintegration of values in society itself. Some people gofurther and say that abstract, nonrepresentational art is patho-logical art, crazy art, and that those who practice it and thosewho admire and buy it are either sick or silly. The kindestcritics are those who say it's all a joke, a hoax and a fad, andthat modernist art in general, or abstract art in particular, willsoon pass. This sort of thing is heard or read pretty constantly,but in some years more often than others.

There seems to be a certain rhythm in the advance inpopularity of modernist art. and a certain rhythm in thecounterattacks which try to stem it. More or less the same

works or arguments are used in all the polemics, but the tar-gets usually change. Once it was the Impressionists who werea scandal, next it was Van Gogh and Cezanne, then it wasMatisse, then it was cubism and Picasso, after that Mondriaan,and now it is Jackson Pollock. The fact that Pollock was anAmerican shows in a backhanded way how important Amer-ican art has lately become.

Some of the same people who attack modernist art in gen-eral, or abstract art in particular, happen also to complainthat our age has lost those habits of disinterested contempla-tion and that capacity for enjoying things as ends in them-selves and for their own sake, which former ages are supposedto have cultivated. This idea has been advanced often enoughto convert it into a ciiche. I hate to give assent to a cliche, forit is almost always an oversimplification, but I have to makean exception in this case. CONTINUED ON PAGE 69

About the AuthorModern art has few dcTcnders more eloquent than

Clement Grccnbcrg. A painter himselfand a critic, hehas written voluminously on art Tor The NationHariisan Review and Commentary, and has servedon the editorial staffs ot the last two periodicals. Atpresent he is acting as consultant on contemporary

art to the famed New York art and antique firm ofFrench and Company. In 1958-59 he conducted aseminar in art criticism at Princeton University. Theauthor of books on Miro and Matisse, he is currentlyat work on a study of the late American painter,Jackson Pollock. Photograph by Philippe Halsman

August I, \95i)

answer. And somethhig purposeful andgrave and hearty came to her. and shestood tall and ready to meet Thad's re-action. She went outside to meet him asshe always did.

It was not Thad. A woman was whip-ping the team with the reins, and herskirts were flung crazily in tlie wind andlhe rush of the wagon. It was Billie NanKetchum. Lucy cried out and wavedher arms, forgetting herself. Billie Nanshouldn't be driving that way; she wasdeep with cliild.

The team came up like a barrelingflame, their ehesis frothing, nostrils widewith an anguish that matched the set ofBillie Nan's face. Lucy ran up andstopped Billie Nan from falling off thebox. She helped her to the ground andinto the house. The team stamped, andthe wagon moved. Lucy ran out. Thewagon turned to the tank. She did notwait to see if the horses drank too muchwater. She ran inside and quieted BillieNan on the bed.

Billie Nan fought, and then as the rideand the wind slowly dropped its furyfrom her, she fell into a waking trance.She stared at the ceiling and spoke. "Icain't, I carn't, I cain't no more. Nobody'scome by in a week. I cain't no more."

Lucy looked down at her. Billie Nan'sface was tight and her iips were blistered.She was only twenty-one, I wo yearsyounger than Lucy. Biliie Nan lifted ahand and pushed at her hair. "I'm uglyand ['m gonna die. I got me a child, butI'm gonna die. I'm gonna die out thereall by mysef,"

Luey looked down at her. In BillieNan"s eyes she saw the wild cry of thewind.

Lucy made broth and fed Billie Nan.She went out and made sure the teamwas grounded. Sometimes, unle-ss a teamhad the discipline of a rope, the windspooked it and it would run itself over theplain until the blood boiled, and then lheteam would stand quietly until it dropped,with the fluids in the horses white andsticky as grease.

Lucy built up the poor fire with mes-quite wood that Thad hauled from afarto make sure she always had the cheer ofa good blaze. It was one of the good com-panions, as was the hanging kerosenelamp. Thad was good to her in that way,too—a lot of women had to use greasecandles stuck in the top of old containers.

The sun was sinking far off. The windsehumed around the house. A coyote wascrying. Lucy opened the door and lis-tened; the coyole was far off. She would

not have to take down the rifle or shot-gun and stalk him, or stand around thechickens or pigs to make sure a wolf didnot come in and wantonly kill.

She had a feeling about what she mustdo. A kind of magic had been performedon her this afternoon, and now she wascool and detached about it. She felt thatshe had been tricked, bul it was of thekind a woman could alTord. A womanneeded pretty things, and one of themwas her conception of herself. No matlerwhat a man would say, a salesman likeMr. Ward could stop the wind from spin-ning and stop the world from turningover on its side. She felt assured andrested.

She went to Billie Nan and said. "Die?Why, Billie Nan, Fiow could you say sucha thing? You, the prettiest girl all around?I declare, you make me mad when yousay such a thing. Now you just take thismirror. . . . No, you take il—hear? Eversee a mirror more elegant? Why, now,Billie Nan, that mirror can tell the truthabout you. But first we have to do a fewlittie things. Now I'm goin' to take yourhair down. And see this hyar comb?—isn't it the bestest comb you ever didsee? Why, Billie Nan, you just don't haveno conception about how pretty youare "

A team and wagon were churning overthe plain. Somewhere it must have passedBillie Nan's, as the girl drove back homewith a light in her eyes that had seemedto make Lucy's gifts the best thing shehad ever done. Lucy's hair was back inthe bun, because Billie Nan had the rib-bon, and Lucy had taken the paint fromher face. Without the beautiful mirrorand the comb she didn't have spirit forfixing up. And Billie Nan had the paintand powder, so Lucy did not want Thadto see her onee in a way that he wouldnot see her again until the day theybrought in a good crop of cotton. Shesurely would not want to make him feeldisappointed when she wasn't able lo beas pretty again.

She waited as she usually did, and thistime It was Thad. He drove up, artd theylooked at each other, which was the wayit always was. Then he bedded the teamand looked around. When he got in thehouse, she had the kerosene lamp burn-ing, even though some distant light wasleft on the plain. The light was sinkinginto the grass, a brilliant thing going intothe ground itself.

Thad said, "I saw Billie Nan. You giveher some things."

"She was takin' bad," said Lucy. "Shewastakin' pretty bad, and she's carryin'."

Thad sat at the table and peered at her,"Billie Nan seemed pretty happy. Aboutas happy as Cve ever seen her."

Lucy was glad. But she knew that thatwas not the end of it.

"Reckon some drummer been here,"said Thad without moving. The kerosenelamp swung a little over his head as thenight winds vibrated the solid little house.

"This afternoon," said Lucy. "Camebefore Billie Nan." She looked at him,his long rangy form, the broken knuckleslying on the table, the squinted eyes thathad looked long into sun and blizzardand dust. The deep lines in his face werelike erosion on the soil, and the lightdeep in his eyes was impenetrable.

Lost of US are willing tosupport our Government. It 'ssupporting the other govern-ments that rankles.

JACK HERBERT

He said with the deceptive softness,"You give her all you bought?"

Lucy nodded.Thad got up. It was a slow, powerful

unwinding and had purpose in it. Hepicked up the money box and opened itand closed it again.

••Thad?"'•Just you don't worry your mind," he

said. He opened the door and went out.She hesitated, followed him and saw himsaddling the horse. He led the horsearound and said, "That drummer—hewent toward town. Didn't pass him onmy way in.''

"Thad?"He grounded the reins and passed her

into the house and took down the longrifle. He fondled it a little and then wentby her and swung into the saddle.

-Thad!"••Don't you worry your heart none,"

he said, and spurred, and the horse leaf>edinto the rising moon.

Her head was bent hours later when hereturned. A false calm had burned aroundher, and now she felt like ashes. Thadhated drummers, and he had said hewould kill one that swift-talked him outof his money; he had worked so hard for

the little amount of money that had beenin the box.

She heard the sound of the horse. Thewind carried it to her and away and backagain. The wind caught on the sod stripsof tlie house and shouted at her down thechimney. The fire was wan, and Ihe kero-sene lamp was swinging.

It seemed a long time until the dooropened and closed and the latch fell.She opened her eyes, but held them onthe dimming fire. She heard Thad sit onthe creaking chair. She heard the soundof something placed on the table.

"Lucy?"She did not reply."Lucy?"She could not tell from his voice what

had happened—whether he had caughtup to that drummer and killed him andwas sorry, or had not caught up to himand was sorry. It was a voice that wassorry about many things, and she did notknow what they were.

•'Look on the table, Lucy."She shivered, but at last she turned and

looked. The rifle was not there. Insteadthere was a small lacquered box. Shewalked quietly toward it. She sat acrossfrom Thad, not touching the box.

"What is it?" she asked."Something I done traded for."Her eyes came up, black and deep.

••Traded ?"

His face was inscrutable. "We have usa shotgun. No use to have more."

"Your rifle?""Jus' lift the kever on that box," he

said. "Now you jus' do that,"Her hand went out, trembling. Her

finger tips lifted the cover. Instantly asprinkling of music traveled the walls ofthe room and in a moment fell into thesprings of her heart.

"A music box!'" she cried."Now you kin jus' wind that up and

get all the music you want," he said.But she was listening to the music. She

spread out within herself, and she re-membered dances and the river when itrose into swift, beautiful life above therocks and sand and went by singing, andshe remembered organs and pianos andviolins; and she rose, bedazzled, andsmiled and spread her skirts and dancedaround the room gracefully with supple-ness in her young limbs—and Thadwatched, waiting.

"I love you!" she cried.He watched her, and after a while a

smile creased the deep lines of his facebecause he no longer saw the wild windsof the plains in her eyes.

T h e Case for Abstract Ar t (Continued from

While I strongly doubt that disinterestedcontemplation was as unalloyed or aspopular in ages past as is supposed, I dotend to agree that we could do with moreof it in this time, and especially in thiscountry.

I think a poor life is lived by any onewho doesn't regularly take time out tostand and gaze, or sit and listen, or touch,or smell, or brood, without any furtherend in mind, simply for the satisfactiongotten from that which is gazed at, lis-tened to, touched, smelled, or broodedupon. We all know, however, that the cli-mate of western life, and particularly ofAmerican life, is not conducive to thiskind of thing; we are all too busy makinga living. This is another cliche, of course.And still a third cliche says that weshould learn from Oriental society howto give more of ourselves to the life ofthe spirit, to contemplation and medita-tion, and to the appreciation of what is

satisfying or beautiful in its own soleright. This last is not only a cliche but afallacy, since most Orientals are evenmore preoccupied than we are with mak-ing a living. I hope that I myself am notmaking a gross and reductive simplifica-tion when I say that so much of Orientalcontemplative and aesthetic disciplinestrikes me as a technique for keeping one'seyes averted from ugliness and misery.

Every civilization and every traditionof culture seem to possess capacities forself-cure and self-correction thtit go intooperation automatically, unbidden. If thegiven tradition goes too far in one direc-tion it will usually try to right itself bygoing equally far in the opposite one.There is no question but that our westerncivilization, especially in its Americanvariant, devotes more mental energy thanany ofiher to the production of materialthings and services; and that, more thanany other, it puts stress on interested.

purposeful activity in general. This is re-flected in our art, which, as has been fre-quently observed, puts such great em-phasis on movement and developmentand resolution, on beginnings, middlesand endings—that is, on dynamics. Com-pare western music with any other kind,or look at western literature, for thatmatter, with its relatively great concernwith plot and over-all structure and itsrelatively small concern with tropes anjdfigures and ornamental elaborations;think of how slow-moving Chinese andJapanese poetry Is by comparison withours, and how much it delights in staticsituations; and how uncertain the narra-tional logic of nonwestern fiction tendsto be. Think of how encrusted and con-voluted Arabic poetry is by contrast evenwith our most euphuistic lyrical verse.And as for nonwestern music, does it notaknost always strike us as more monot-onous than ours?

Well, how does western art compensatefor, corriict, or at least qualify its em-phasis on the dynamic—an emphasis thaimay or may not be excessive? And howdoes western life itself compensate for,correct, or at least qualify its obsessionwith material production and purposefulactivity? I shall not here attempt to an-swer the latter question. But in the realmof art an answer is beginning lo emergeof its own accord, and the shape of partof that answer is abstract art.

Abstract decoration is almost univer-sal, and Chinese and Japanese calligraphyis quasi-abstract—abstract to the extentthat few Occidentals c;in read the charac-ters of Chmese or Japanese writing. Butonly in the West, and only in the lastfifty years, have such things as abstractpictures and freestanding pieces of ab-stract sculpture appeared. What makes thebig difference between these and abstractdecoration is that thev are, exactly, nic-

T H E S A T U H IJ A Y E V E N I N O I' O S T

lures and rivcsiiindiiie sculplure—soloworks of an mcaiil lo be looked al forllicir own sake wiih full :it lent ion, and noias the adjuncts, ineidcnliil aspects or sol-lings of things other Ihan themselves.Tbese abslracl pictures and pieces ofsculpture eballenge our capacity for dis-interested coniempbtion in a way ihal ismore eoncenlrjled jnd. 1 diire say, moreconscious thiin anything else I know of inart. Music is an csscniiiilly abslracl art,bul c\en at ils most niretied and abslraet,and whether it's Baeb's or the middle-period of Schonberg"s music, it does notoffer this challenge in quilc ihe same wayor dega-e. Music tends from a beginningthrough a middle lowiird an ending. Wewait to sec how it "comes out"—which iswhat we also do with literature. Of coursethe total experience of literature andmusic is completely dismterested, but itbecomes tbat only al a further remove.While undergoing the experience, we arecaught up and expectant as well as de-tached—disinterested iind at the sametime interested in a way resembling thatin which we are interested in how thingstum out in real life. I exaggerate to makemy point—aesthetic experience has to bedisinterested, and when it is genuine italways is, even when bad works of an areinvolved—but the distinctions I've madeand those I've stilt to tnake are validnevertheless.

With representational painting it issomething like wbat it is with literature.Tbis has been said before, many timesbefore, but usually in order to criticizerepresentational painting in whal 1 thinkis a wrongbeaded when not downrightsilly way. What I mean when 1 say, inthis context, that representational paint-ing is like literature, is that it lends lo in-volve us in the interested as well as ibedisinterested by presentmg us with theimages of things thai are inconceivableoutside time and action. This goes evenfor landscapes and flower pieces and stilllifes. It is not simply that we sometimestend to confuse the attractiveness of thethings represented in a picture with thequality of the picture itself. And it is notonly that attractiveness as such has noth-ing to do with the abiding success of awork of art. What is more fundamental isthat the meaning—as distinct from theattractiveness—of what is representedbecomes truly inseparable from the rep-resentation itself. That Rembrandt con-fined impasto—tbick paint, that is—to hishighlights, and that, In bis later portraitsespecially, these coincide with the ridgesof the noses of bis subjects is importantto the artistic effect of these portraits.And that the effectiveness of the im-pasto, as impasto^—as an abstract ele-ment of technique^—coincides with itseffectiveness as a means of showing justhow a nose looks under a certain kind oflight is also genuinely important. Andthat the lifelike delineation of the nosecontributes to the evocation of tbe per-sonality of the individual to whom thenose belongs is likewise important. Andthe manner and degree of insight intothat individual's personality which Rem-brandt exhibits in his portrait is impor-tant too. None of these factors can be, orought to be, separated from ibe legiti-mate effect of ihe ponrait as a picturepure and simple.

xSut once we have to do with personali-ties and iifelikeness we have to do withthings from which we cannot keep as se-cure a distance for the sake of disinterest-edness as we can, say, from abstractdecoration. As it happens the wholetendency of our western painting, up un-til the later stages of impressionism, wasto make distance and detacbmeni on thepart of the spectator as insecure as possi-ble. It laid more of a stress than any other

iriidition on creating a sculpturclike, orphotogniphic, illusion of the third di-mension, on thrusting images at the eyewith a Iifelikeness that brought them iisclose as possible to their originals. Be-cause of their sculptural vividness, west-ern paintings tend to be far less quiet,f;ir more agitated and active—in sliort,far more explicitly dynamic—than mostnonwestern painlinys do. And they in-voke ihe spectator lo a much greaterextent in ihe practical and actual aspectsof the things they depict and represent.

We begin lo wonder what we Ihink ofthe people shown in Rembrandt's por-traits, OS people; whether or not wewould like lo walk through ihe terrainshown in a Corot landscape; about ihelife stories of the burghers we see in aSteen painting; we react m a less thandisinlerested way lo Ihe attractiveness ofthe models, real or ideal, of the person-ages in a Renaissance painting. And oncewe begin to do thts we begin to partici-pate in the work of art in a so-to-speakpractical way. In itself this participationmay not be improper, but it does becomeso when tt begins to shut out all otherfactoi-s. This it has done and docs all toooften. Even though the connoisseurs haveusually been able in the long run to pre-fer the picture of ;i dwarf by Velasquez tothat of a pretiy uirl by Howard Chan-dler Christy, the enjoyment of pictorialand sculptural art in our society hastended, on every other level than that ofprofessional connoisseurship lo be ex-cessively "literary." and to center toomuch on merely technical feats of copy-ing.

But, as I've said. ever>' tradition of cul-ture tends to tr>' to correct one extremeby going to its opposite. And when ourwestern tradition of painting came up allast with reservations about its forthrightnaturalism, these quickly took the formof an equally forthright antinaturalism.These reservations started with late im-pressionism and have now culminated inabstract art. 1 don't at all wish to be un-derstood as saying that it all happened be-cause some artist or artists decided it waslime to curb the excesses of realisticpainting, and that the main historicalsignificance of abstract art lies in its func-tion as an antidote to these. Nor do I

wish to be understood as assuming thatreahstic or naturalistic art inherentlyneeds, or ever needed, such a thing as ariantidote. The motivations, conscious andunconscious, of the Hrst modernist art-isls. and of pre-senl modernists as well,were and are quite different. Impression-ism ilseir started as iin effort to pushnaturalism further than ever before. Andall through the history of art—noi oniy inrecent times—consequences have escapedintentions.

It is on a different and more impersonaland far more general level of meaningand history Ihat our culture has gener-ated abstract art as an antidote. On thatlevel this seemingly new kind of art hasemerged as an epitome of almost every-thing that disinterested contemplationrequires, and as both a challenge and areproof to a society that exaggerates, notthe necessity, but ihe intrinsic value ofpurposeful and interested activity. Ab-stract art comes on Ihis level as a relief,an archexample of something that doesnot have to mean, or be useful for, any-thing other than itself. And it seems fit-ting, too. that abstract art should at pres-ent flourish most in this country. IfAmerican society is indeed given over asno other society has been to purposefulactivity and material production, then itis right that it should be reminded, in ex-treme terms, of the essential nature ofdistnteresled activity.

Abstract art does this in very literaland also in very imaginative ways. First,it does not exhibit the illusion or sem-blance of things we are already familiarwith in real life; it gives us no imaginaryspace through which to walk with themind's eye; no imaginary objects to de-sire or not desire; no imaginary peopleto like or dislike. We are left alone withshapes and colors. These may or may notremind us of real things; but if they do,they usually do so incidentally or acci-dentally—on our own responsibility as itwere; and the genuine enjoyment of anabstract picture does not ordinarily de-pend on such resemblances.

Second, pictorial art in its highest defi-nition is static; it tries to overcome move-ment in space or time. This is not to saythat tbe eye does not wander over apainted surface and thus travel in both

space and time. Wlicn a picture presentsus with an illusion of real space, there isall the more inducement for the eye to dosuch wandering. But ideally the whole ofa picture should be taken in at a glance;its unity should be immediately evident,and the supreme quality ofa picture, thehighest measure of its power to move andcontrol the visual imagination, should re-side in its unity. And this is something tobe grasped only in an indivisible instantof time. No expectancy is involved in thetrue and pertinent experience of a paint-ing; a picture, I repeat, does not "comeout" the way a story, or a poem, or apiece of music does. It's all there at once,like a sudden revelation. This "at-onceness" an abstract picture usuallydrives home to us with greater singlenessand clarity than a representational paint-ing does. And to apprehend this "at-onceness" demands a freedom of mindand untrammeiedn^s of eye that con-stitute "at-oneeness" rn their own right.Those who have grown capable of ex-periencing tbis know what I mean. Youiire summoned and gathered into onepoint in the continuum of duration. Thepicture does this to you, willy-nilly, re-gardless of whatever else is on your mind;a mere glance at it creates the attitude re-quired for its appreciation, like a stim-ulus that elicits an automatic response.You become all attention, which meansthat you become for the moment selflessand in a sense entirely identified with theobject of your attention.

Ihe "at-onccness" which a picture or apiece of sculpture enforces on you is not,however, single or isolated. It can be re-peated in a succession of instants, in eachone remaining an "at-onceness"—an in-stant all by itself. For the cultivated eyethe picture repeats its instantaneous unitylike a mouth repeating a single word.

This pinpointing of the attention, thiscomplete liberation and concentration ofit, offers what is largely a new experienceto most people in our sort of society. Andit is, 1 think, a hunger for this particularkind of experience that helps account forthe growing popularity of abstract art inthis country; for the way it is taking overin the art schools, the galleries and themuseums. The fact that fad and fashionare also involved does not invalidate whatI say. I know that abstract art of thelatest variety—that originating withpainters like Pollock and GeorgesMathieu—has got associated with pro-gressive jazz and its cultists. But what ofit? That Wagner's music became asso-ciated with German ultranationaljsm,and that Wagner was Hitler's favoritecomposer, still doesn't detract from itssheer quality as music. That the presentvogue for certain types of folk musicstarted back in the l930's among theCommunists doesn't make our liking forthat music any the less genuine, or takeanything away from folk music itself.Nor does the fact that so much gibberishgets talked and written about abstractart compromise it. just as the gibberishin which art criticism in general abounds,and abounds increasingly, doesn't com-promise art in general.

One point, however, I want to n-akeglaringly clear. Abstract art is not a spe-cial kind of art; no hard and fast lineseparates it from representational art; itis only the latest phase in tbe develop-ment of western art as a whole, and al-most every "technical" device of abstractpainting is already to be found in the re-alistic painting that preceded it. Nor is ita superior kind of art. I still know ofnothing in abstract painting, aside per-haps from some of the near-abstractcubist works that Picasso. Braque andLeger executed between 1910 and 1914,which matches {Continued on Page 72)

T l l t l S A T U R D A Y E V E N t N O P O S T

iConimufit jr«m P,ivc 701 the highestachievements of the old masters. Abslraetpainting ni;iy be a purer, more quintessen-tial form of pictorial art than the repre-sentational kind, but this docs not of itselfconfer quality upon an abstract picture.The ratio ofbad abstract painting to goodisactulilly much greater than the ratio ofbad to good representational painting.Nonetheless, ihe veo' best painting, themajor painting, of our age is almost ex-clusively abstract. Only on the middleand lower levels of quality, cn the levelsbelow the lirst-rate—whieh is, of course,where most of the art that gets pro-duced places itself—only then; is thebetter painting preponderantly represen-tational.

On Ihe plane of culture in general, thespecial, unique value cf abstract art, 1repeat, lies in the high degree of detachedcontemplativeness that its appreciationrequires. Contcmplativenes.s is demandedin greater or lesser degree for the appre-ciation of every kind of art, bul abstractart tends to present this requirement inquintessential form, at its purest, leastdiluted, most immediate. If abstract art—as does happen nowadays—should chanceto be the first kind of pictorial art weleam lo appreciate, the chances are thatwhen we go ic other kinds of pictorialart—to the old masters, say, and I hopewe all do go to the old masters eventu-ally—we shall find ourselves all the bet-ter able to enjoy them. That is, we shallbe able to experience them with less in-

trusion of irrelevancics and thereforemore fully and more intensely,

The old mastei-s stand or fall, their pic-tures succeed or fail, on the same ultimatebasis as do those cf Mondriaan cr anyether abstract artist. The abstract fcrtiialunily of a picture by Titian is more im-portant to its quality than what ihatpicture images. To return tc what I saidaboul Rembrandt's portraits, ihe what-ness of what is imaged is not unimpor-tant—far from it—and cannct be sepa-rated really from the formal qualitiesthat result i rom the way it is imaged. Butit is a fact, in my experience, ihat repre-sentaticnal paintings are essentially andmost fully appreciated when the identi-ties of what they represent are onlysecondarily present to our consciousness.Baudelaire Said he could discern the qual-ity of a painting by Delacroix when hewas still too far away from it to make cutthe images it ccntained, when it was siillonly a blur of colors. I think it was reallyon this kind of evidence that critics andconnoisseurs, though they were almostalways unaware cf it, discriminated be-tween the gccd and the bad in the past.Put to it, they more cr less unconsciouslydismissed from their minds the connota-tions cf Rubens' nudes when assess-ing and experiencing the final worthof his art. They may have remainedaware of the pinkness as a nude pinkncss,but it was a pinkness and a nudity de-void cf most of their usual associations.

Abstract paintings do not confront us

with such problems. Or al least the fre-quenting of abstract art can train us torelegate them automatically tc theirproper place; and in doing this we refineour eyes fcr the appreciation of ncn-abslract art. That has been my own ex-perience. Thai it is still relatively rarecan be explained perhaps by the fact thatmost pecple continue to come tc paint-ing through academic art—the kind ofart they see in ads and in magazines—andwhen and if they discover abstract art itcomes as such an overwhelming experi-ence that they tend to forget everythingproduced before. This is to be deplored,but it does not negate Ihe value, actualor potential, cf abstract art as an intro-duction to the fine arts in general, and asan introduction, too, to habits of dis-interested contemplation. In this respectthe value of abstract art will, I hope,prove far greater in the future than it hasyet. Net only can it confirm, instead ofsubverting tradition, but it can teach us,by example, how valuable so much in lifecan be made without being invested withulterior meanings. How many people Iknow who have hung abstract pictures ontheir walls and found themselves gazingat them endlessly and then exclaiming, "Idon't knew what there is in that paint-ing, but I cun't take my eyes off it." Thiskind of bewilderment is salutary. It doesus good not lo be able to explain, eitherto ourselves cr tc ethers, what we enjoycr Icve; it expands cur capacity for ex-perience.

For readers who may wish to pursue thesubject further the following books arerecommended:

Green berg, ClemcDtMATISSE

Pocket BooksS ,50

Fry, RogerVISION AND DESIGN

Meridian$1,35

Hess, Thomas B.ABSTRACT PAINTING

Viking$7.50

Constable, W. G.THE PAINTER'S WORKSHOP

Oxford University Press$6.00

Heron, PatrickTHE CHANGrNG FORMS OF ART

MacmtUan$5.75

Venturi, LicnelloMODERN PAINTERS

Scribner$5.00

Venturi, LionelloIMPRESSIONISTS A N D SYMBOLISTS

ScribnerS5.00

Death Walk (Continued from Rage 36)

sandwich. This doctor had introducedhitnself, but his name slipped her mind.Fine secretary!

He was still talking. Luke Blaine,whose wife she would be in a mcnth crtwo, was inclined to pontificate in thissame way; the doctor looked, with hissmooth pink face, remarkably like Luke.

She smiled at him and gestured withher sandwich.

"I'm sorry—the noise ""Yes, of course." He raised his voice.

"What matters new is to get your fatherand you to hcspital,"

"Me? But I'm all right!"He was being very kind to her. She did

wish, though, that he would not insist ontreating her as a child. Now he inter-cepted her sandwich; she surrendered itwith reluctance and watched in disaft-proval while he jettisoned the gnawedremnant in the cardboard cylinder underhis seat. More waste—and she hadlearned tc detest waste.

His smile was indulgent. "When we'vebeen close to starvation, it's unwise tooverload. Soups for you, young lady. Abland diet fcr several days."

Ancther misapprehension. This was apuzzling world. They hadn't been starv-ing; Mike had fed them well. Slumpedmcodilyin her seat, she watched the backcfthe red head and longed for a plate of cat-meal porridge. Presently she slept. Wfien achange in mcticn reused her, reefs andstreets were wheeling under the wing.

The plane nuzzled a planked float.After the elbow room of the Maxada, thefloat was cluttered te the point of induc-ing claustrophobia—peepic everywhere,all strangers. An ambulance waited onthe dock abeve, its deors open. Linnsteod on the float, the doctor's hand so-licitous under her elbow, while ambu-lance attendants climbed into the plane.She would mount the gangway to theambulance presently, since her place waswith Morg; but the club had three mem-bers, and one was yet unaccounted for.

She cast about anxiously for the highred head and feund it. He slocd betweentheir pilet and a brovvn-unifermed po-liceman whe held his little grouse gun;they appeared tc be arguing. One of thetugboatmen had lent him a blue shirt toreplace the rag which had shredded offhim in the final tussle with the wilch-wocd. His hair flopped ever his fore-head, and he looked very grim and dour.

Two girls, one plump, dark andbreathless, were coming down from thewharf. The dark one wore the air of amatron who has shooed her children cffte a neighbor's, grabbed ceat and hand-bag and lit out all ef a scurry. From theway Dave Logan, their pilot, grinned ather, the plump girl would be his wife.

The other descended the gangway withunhurried grace. Linn itemized her. stub-bornly resisting the hand at her elbow.Tall. Well co-ordinated—she'd be a finedancer or skier. Nice legs, excellent fig-ure. Wore her clothes to perfection—tailored navy suit, blue pumps, light coatshrugged over her shoulders. Her facewas an exquisite oval, and she had lovelyred-gold hair.

The stretcher emerged from the floatplane's cabin. Mcrg's eyes were cpen.His stubbly face crinkled as the attend-ants jogged him tcward the gangway. Heattempted a wolf whistle and muttered tothe strawberry blende, "Hi, Angela!"

But this wasn't Ves Jones' shadyfriend. This was a girl called Alisen; apale blue envelope jammed in a cleftsapling at the top of the Maxada carriedher name. And that name spoken byMike Clendon now in gruff and wearygreeting confirmed Linn's guess.

Alison's cutlcek on life was gay; shewas neither dull nor stuffy, and tooknething and nebody too seriously. Still,with her hands on Mike's shoulders,standing needlessly close to him, sheseemed to be making an exceptien. Bythe look on her face as she gazed at him,Alison would be off tc pack at the mere

mention of Venezuela, snakes notwith-standing.

"Please, Miss Haisted. if ycu'll justccme alcng "

Certainly she would come along, forshe mustn't keep the ambulance waiting.The red-gcid head turned as she flappedpast, scufling in the tattered mcccasinsbeside the doctor. Green eyes spoke toher in generous pity, Why. you poor, mis-used, ouilandisii little creature!

Linn returned that glance coldly. Shehad fetched a soupgon of primordial na-ture out of the Maxada with her, doubt-less absorbed with owl broth and grizzlymeat. Her fingers itched for the hccdlumgun and a hollow-point high-speed.

Two loads, she decided vindictively.One fcr Alison and another for her furryfriend.

The Kinross Hospital was large for sosmall a town—one business street alongthe water front, a scattering ef housesunder the sidehills—but it served a con-siderable sector ef ihe British Columbiaupcoast. A man fetched badly hurt fromthe wilderness was no nevelty at KinressHespital.

Mike mooched down the hill in thedark, his feet rebellious. Freed cf heavybeets, they stepped high. They wishedalso to turn and carry him back to theroem where his love lay sleeping.

The brisk matron. Miss Primrose, hadallowed him to look in on Linn. She wasa good sccut, Primmie, competent andirreverent.

"Down for the count," she had toldhim. "When Number One towed her inshe was walking like a duck. Her feet arecut tc ribbons. She went to sleep eating."

"Did she happen to ask after me?" Heput the question greuchily; against coldreason and accepted fact, his heart hadganged up with his willful feet to fetchhim here.

"Well, noi exactly, Mike. But shewasn't entirely rational. Strain, shock—

you know, you've been through it your-self."

"Just what did she say, Primmie?""Only that if you should call she didn't

want to see you and that when her fianc^sprung her from this trap, she wouldleave your check at the hotel. I told youshe wasn't rational." She added brightly,soft-walking beside him dewn the corri-dor, "That was her fellow you almosttrampled cn the landing. He was flown infrom search headquarters at CameronRiver just before dark."

"That runt?""We can't all be monsters." Miss

Primrose paused at the stairhead; some-where a muted buzzer demanded atten-tion. "I thought he was a handsome lit-tle man Mike, you look draggedthrough a rathole. Doctor Russell is op-erating, but why don't you have NumberOne check you?"

"I'll have no dealings with that squaw,"Mike told her crankily, and she said tohim, smiling, "My, tny, the mood we'rein!"

He had seen Haisted just for a momentas they wheeled him into surgery. Heasked, "Hew about her dad, Primmie?What's the honest scoop?"

"Critical. But he'll squeak through.""Informed opinion?""My own^from experience. He swore

at me as we were cleaning him up. Calledme Bedpan Betty. That kind live." Shesighed, departing to answer the buzzer."He reminds me of your partner, Mike.Except for the eyes, that man could passfor Ves Jones."

Mike wandered on down the street to-ward the Golden Pheasant Cafi. Hehadn't eaten since the snack en the tug-boat a number of hours ago, but he wasnot hungry. No use hanging around thehespital, though, and after the sessionwith Alison he would as soon not riskbumping into her in the Kinross Hotel.The meeting on the float had been moregcod-by than hello, and the farewell was