Judge — August 2, 1919 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Ain’t Art Refined! By Susax Corxetia Coxxouty ONTRARY to custom, my C circles was not voluntary. Having paused on the stoop of the Library to escape the rain, | remained in status quo so long that a beautiful cop on the opposite step ceased to regard me favorably and © meditate apparently on the possibility of my with the bronze doors or the marble stair- ways. Then, presently he ‘suggested: “Hadn't you better step in out of the rain?” I might have debated it with any other man in New York, but when a metro- politan policeman murmurs, “Hadn't better—’ Mary’s meek little lamb becomes a wild beastie by comparison to me. Having received the needed im- petus, I kept stepping till I reached the picture gallery at the to Before me was an open doorway—obvi- ously one entered. A few people were about induction into art 1 you “trippers"—and a white- Drawn by Wacren ve Max “Where are you g "m going to the Empl , my dear ent Agen nD ly for a position as mistre haired man in the uniform of a custodian was flitting from picture to picture, passing the time of day with each. In “doing” an art gallery it is customary to pick out the most comfortable spot on the bench and gaze with half-closed eyes at each gem in turn—in y resting your feet in the new pumps and taking acat nap. If you’ve same one in tow whom you must impress, you carelessly sprinkle your conversation with “atmosphere,” “chiaroscurc composition,” “higl lights” and the like. I waited till the custodian h made his rounds and satisfied himself that all's well then began my own personally conducted tour. Wilkie, old dear, was represented by (1 scape with Group of ats,”” (2) Landscape with Group of Sy priest and (3) “Landscape with Group of Ladies. Vith true Scotch canniness, Mr. Wilk employed the same old landscape in each instance— like the traveling photographer with his eternal back- drop—and you paid your money and took your choice of goats, gypsies or ladies, one price for each. Joshua Reynolds's one best bet was a “Boy in a Red Dress.” Bu thinks 1, if Boy, why Dress; if Dress, why Boy? Probably an early portrait of Julian Eltinge, or —I'd a bother, I mean brother, but it’s the same thing—have him now, temporarily mislaid—who used to be put into checked aprons to pre- vent his running away To render the act null and void he had but to stick the apron tails into the fire and éally forth minus most of the blue checks, attracting considerable attention by the display of garments being worn by all our best Broad way stars in current attractions. Who knows but what Josh, too, was brother to such a one? Large on the horizon loomed Andrea del Sarto’s obit and the Angel.” Tobit wore a nifty straw- katy and his red flannel undies. Perhaps you think the two don’t gee, but knowing the unseasonable- ness of New York weather, I set ‘Tobe down as an apostle of pr paredness. He was in his stocking feet, but to give them the military air he'd turned ‘em down at the top and laced ‘em up again with string from the laundry package. He had donned a black middy— out of defiance to the Gotham blanchisseuses, or maybe it was white when he put it on that morn- ing. His waist was girded with the family bath towel (I bet it was the last clean one, too!), for he had come either from the ole swimmin’ hole or from doing the dishes, while in a careless, degage manner a nice cold, clammy fish rested upon his left hip. Clasping his hand, oh, so lovingly— Do I not know that loving clasp employed when lead- Land- s toa new comicbooks.com