His disgust with the futurist
artists who had submitted their works for exhibition was one element
to nerve his arm and fire his resentful spirit--another was the
stimulus he had, in sheer desperation, wooed so recklessly. When the
thing was done it was something for angels and devils alike to tremble
before. It meant nothing, of course, but, like many inscrutable and
unfathomable things, it terrified by its sheer blank, chaotic madness.
He hung it in the exhibition. And it was--yes, it was--the hit of the
occasion. This is not a fairy tale--not even fiction. The story was
told me by the culprit--or was it genius?--himself.
And then people began to talk about it and speculate on what its real,
inner meaning might be. They said it was a "mood picture," a "study in
soul-tones" and a lot more like that. They even asked the guilty man
what he thought of it. When he coldly responded that he thought it
"looked like the devil" they told him that, of course he would say so:
he had no soul for art.
Now, he had signed this horror, but (let me quote him): "I had signed
it in a post-impressionist style, so no one on the earth could read
the name.
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