IO
THE BLIND MAN
From a
April 12, 1917.
Dear Blind Man:—
Fine for yon!
You are, I hope, to be an instrument for
the accomplishment of an important and
much-needed work in America; namely,
the fostering and encouragement of a truly
native art. An art which will be at once
the result of a highly vitalized age, of a rest
less artistic spirit, and of a sudden realiza
tion,—on the part of our artists—of Amer
ica’s high destiny in the future of the world.
Such an art must very closely embody the
spirit of our time, however morbid, how
ever hurried, however disorganiezd, how
ever nerve-racking that time may be.
A bas,—you should say—with any and
every school of art that represents another
day, another spirit, another time. No art
can live that is not an integral part of its
time. Put Botticelli in a studio on Fifth
Avenue; put Corot in a garret in Washing
ton Square; put Fragonard in a barn in
Harlem, and their work would be worth
less, sterile, of no lasting purpose, or power
friend.
of evocation; because it would fail abso
lutely to symbolize and synthesize the spirit
of our .age. Their work would merely be
something promoted, not by our life, not
by the vitalized forces of our time, but
something promoted only by the flat, dead
and profitless spirit of a bygone time.
So, if you can help to stimulate and de
velop an American art which shall truly
represent our age, even if the age is one of
telephones, submarines, aeroplanes, caba
rets, cocktails, taxicabs, divorce courts,
wars, tangos, dollar signs; or one of des
perate strivings after new sensations and
experiences, you will have done well. The
future dwellers upon earth will then be
able to look back to our day, and, with truth
and conviction say: “Yes, they had an art,
back in New York, in the days following
the Great War, an art that was a vitalized
part of their life; that mirrored accurately
their time, with all of its complexities,
graces, horrors, pleasures, agonies, uncer
tainties and blessings.”
Admiringly yours,
Frank Crowninshield.
MEDUSA
Sinister right—dexter left—superior hypocrecy
Spirits without light and Don Quixotes
Arts starboard, red and green port
without vessel.
Why change men into animal foeti.
My tongue becomes a road of snow
Circles are formed around me
In bath robe
Exterior events
Napoleon
Modern ideas
Profound artists reunited in canon
who deceive
Artists of speech
Who have only one hole for mouth and anus
I am the lover of the world
The lover of unknown persons
I am looking for a Sun.
F. PICABIA.
April, 1917.