There was once a post-impressionist exhibition at the Liberal Club,
and a certain young man who shall be nameless was placed in charge of
it. He was a perfectly sane young man and he knew that many of the
"art specimens" hung on such occasions were flagrant frauds. Sketch
after sketch, study after study, was sent in to him as master of
ceremonies until, in his own words, he became so "fed up with
post-impressionism that he could not stand another daub of the stuff!"
The worm turned eventually, and he vowed to teach those "artists" a
short, sweet lesson. He knew nothing about painting, being a writer by
trade, but he had the run of several studios and could collect paint
as he willed. After fortifying himself with a sufficiency of Dutch
courage, he set up a canvas and painted a picture. It had no subject,
no lines, no scheme, no integral idea. It was just a squareful of
paint--and it held every shade and variety of paint that he could lay
his hands on. He says that he took a wicked satisfaction in smearing
the colours upon that desecrated canvas.
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