[52]
]Jacob Epstein, after flouting the artistic conventions for at least ten years, is being taken to the heart of the public. The impossible is happening, and it is happening because of the war. The war has forced reality upon us; it has made us love beauty rather than prettiness, truth rather than make-believe, the soul of things rather than their appearances.
Epstein, I think, could never be said to be in revolt against any of the artistic tendencies of the time. He simply did not follow those tendencies or permit them to influence him. But three or four years ago, when I first met him, he had the appearance, the manner, and even the thoughts of one who is in revolt.
I remember discussing with him some very curious and, indeed, rather alarming designs of his which were being exhibited at a little gallery whose name I have forgotten. The designs were openly and widely described as “indecent”; to me they were not indecent: they were merely meaningless. I could see no idea behind them.
“They are not designs,” said Epstein, a little petulantly, I thought.
“Then what are they?” I asked. “What do you call them?”
“I am not aware that I call them anything.”
“But what do they mean?”
He smiled curiously and (we were sitting in the Café Royal) lit a cigarette.
“Ah! That is for you to find out. Surely you don’t expect an artist to explain himself?”
Of course he was perfectly right, and I was more than foolish to ask him these questions. But I flogged at it.