That's good talk, was Bill Haywood's comment.
What does it all mean? Clara Barnes caught my attention again; it was obvious that she could catch no one else's.
It means what you are willing or able to put into it, nothing more, I affirmed.
Well, said Clara, yawning, I guess I can't put much into it. This is worse than a party I went to last week, given by a baritone of the Aborn Opera Company.
At this point, a little school-marm type of person, with a sharp nose and eye-glasses, rose and shrilly began to complain.
I am a mere lay woman. I don't know a thing about modern art. I've been trying to learn something for five years. In the effort, I have attended all the meetings of this kind that I could in Paris, New York, and London. There's always a lot of talk but nothing is ever clear. Now I'd like to know if there isn't some explanation of modern art, an explanation that a mere lay woman could understand.
There was a ripple of amused laughter among the young artists and a rapid exchange of glances, but not one of them rose. Instead, a rather massive female, utterly unknown to me, with as many rows of gold braid across her chest as a French academician, a porter at the Crédit Lyonnais, or a soldier in the army of the Prince of Monaco, stood on her feet.
What, exactly, would you like to know? she asked in a voice in which authority and confidence were equal elements.
I'd like to know everything, but I'd be satisfied with anything. What, for instance, is the meaning of that picture?
She pointed to Andrew Dasburg's The Absence of Edith Dale, a cubistic contribution to æsthetic production in several planes and the colours of red, yellow, and blue.