Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1909 (Heft 27))

is to find the harmony as it is universally under-
stood. Even Mr. Caffin, however, seems to
have been a little staggered by these departures.
He frankly confesses that the “ dripping applica-
tion of the color” may or may not have been
intentional on Mr. Maurer’s part. We go
further and confess our utter ignorance as to
what is meant at all by “a dripping application
of color,” and we are not entirely unfamiliar
with technical processes in the matter of paint-
ing. “Mr. Maurer,” further says the author
of the preface, “has been led to discover other
colors in his paint box than blacks, and drabs,
and whites.” But then one does not have to be
a prophet, nor even the son of a prophet, to get
that far.
Even in the dear dead days beyond recall,
Mr. Maurer occasionally made us aware that
other pigments existed. Now, however, he
blazes away with a whole battery of pure pig-
ment, painting tree trunks bright vermilion,
and other things with equally inappropriate
Mr. Harrington writes in the N.
Those who wish to have a shock from colors
will find it in the galleries of the Photo-Secession,
where fifteen oil sketches by Mr. Alfred Maurer
blaze out of the pale green-gray burlap on the
walls. Mr. Maurer once painted in a delicate
tonal way and had a soul of mauve and gray.
Now he screams in primary colors. The
sketches seem to buzz, and one of them suggests
a yellow hornet escaping from purple flypaper.
All form seems to be lost in straining for light
that almost blinds and for color that cries aloud.
All the paintings are symphonies and some are
Wagnerian ones improvised from collapsible
tubes and scored with the stick end of a brush.

tones, such as never were on land or sea, and
with an idiotic jumbling of forms would make
us believe the new vision causes him thus to
see, or feel, or appreciate, or whatever terms
he chooses to apply, nature. In the name of the
prophet—figs! To take this seriously is to
write oneself down an ass. There is no health,
sanity, intelligence, beauty or harmony in the
performances, and they are not worth the space
we have already given them. It is to laugh!
But the mirth is mingled with pity, regret,
disappointment, at the blind subjugation of an
ordinarily intelligent mind to so foolish and
transient a fad. Imitation at best is always to
be deplored; but when one so entirely barters
one’s individuality, the gods themselves weep
at the act. Mr. Maurer had much better come
home. He is pursuing a will o’ the wisp,
maybe some beckoning sea siren. He’d best
beware, for she will drag him down into water
which, beneath the smooth exterior, reeks of
pollution and will bear no analysis.
T. Herald, April 5, 1909 :
Power and a sincerity are suggested in the
high pitched color schemes, and one of these
days there may be many to worship at a new
shrine. Artists are already going in groups to
the little top floor gallery to take a look at these
effects, which leave Mr. Sorolla, a painter of
sunlight, in deep shade.
Mr. John Marin, in the same gallery, shows
twenty-five water-colors, many of which have
a tone that is inviting, while all have an origi-
nality that will draw to them the attention of
those who would see something in the medium
which departs radically from the conventions.

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