“Con Men of Canvas.”

There were no impressionists to paint a mutton chop and a guitar inextricably interwoven with a nude ear and a lighthouse, and labelled “The Wreck of the Spanish Armada.” There were no Surrealists to throw an egg at a bun-hat and call it “Spring in a Pickle Factory,” or “Lady in Pink.” There were no confusionists or contortionists or other “con men” of canvas, and poor saps like you and me, who like their art “straight,” were able to study pictures without going through all the motions of a steeple-jack playing itchycoo. Ultra-modern art might be art or artichokes; nobody knows which——not even the artist.

But, unfortunately, we of the outer isles are so far flung that the cryptic crescendos of the crazed creators of pigmented puzzles have mainly missed us. Mild attempts have been made to admit us to the inner intricacies of the Higher Futility but we are too uncultivated. We are so primitive that we

“Scarred veterans, who have braved a dozen campaigns, cry for the stretcher-bearers.”

can't be persuaded that a plate of mashed carrots is “Andalusian Shepherds Playing Ping-Pong.” We are despicable desciples of decadency who insist on the kind of pictures that we would recognise as pictures, even without their frames.