In this exhibit the only thrills or “artiste emotions”—such as one demands of art—were very minor notes and immediately they were felt—thump! (Register amazement and then anger.) You come across something good: its neighbors and surroundings deaden its appeal. Thus, Massonovich’s _Moon-Dark_—poet’s magic! But alas! it is the only landscape in the exhibit. Next to it is Oliver D. Grover’s Italian platitude, near it a Redfield—“blast” his “school” of landscapes, please, someone! Peyraud, Stacey, Butler—oh, what emptiness! The Inness Room cuts into the exhibit separating two rooms from the rest of the galleries. Passing through it one is reminded of the Inness tradition—how it has been ignored! Or at least how his spirit has been ignored. Monet, Renoir, Manet, and some other modern French are hanging elsewhere in the Institute; and then there is Whistler; and again recall Inness; Massonovich, on you rests the perpetuation, not of “American Landscape” but of that spirit we shall always be searching for in landscapes, if landscapes we must have. One parting remark about landscapes. Hayley Lever comes in for some praise and much scolding. He has a good color sense, but strength and virility in composition seem to be lacking. Recall what Jerome Blum has done and you will understand why this half-way person ought to be jolted. And the portraits. One of Katherine Dudley’s decorative-German-poster-“Every Week” cover-design-women, is now the property of the “Friends”—“American Art as it was in the early part of the twentieth century”. Yes, indeed, to represent it clearly to posterity you must include at least one of the numerous society dilettantes. However, Gordon Stevenson, Blows, Henri, and Davey as portrait painters are worth watching. And the rest of the show? Most of the exhibitors have been represented for years. Their pictures are all so familiar. Many of the paintings have appeared year after year. Birge Harrison has a rather atmospheric beach scene; Beal, Albright, Dougherty, Hassam, Sargent, Mary Cassatt, Symons, Ballin, Weir, Schofield. All are familiar and recognised in the Market Place. These people are standing still. I imagine they are old: grey without magnificence. And being haunted by the truth of that lingering statement that there is no such thing as an old _artist_—why, dare we say that they are _not_ artists? Sculptor? There is none. American Art?—To the Annual Exhibit, Ladies and Gentlemen, for a definite demonstration! “The Critic.” Photography