Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1913 (Heft 41))

cession Galleries, without trying to understand or explain them from any point of view save
that of art. As art they are quite expressive, occasionally tender and beautiful, and occasionally
ugly because the artist uses a thumping-all-over emphasis that weakens his effect. His laborers
with big muscles seemed to us, in many instances, almost puffy, because of the high lights every-
where, and the lack of nervous life in the line. One of his little dancers, too, dances the way
ever so many of the mediocre modern dancers do, without really moving. The pose is just a
formula and the arms stuck out stiffly and waving at the wrist are an external symbol of some-
thing not felt. Another little dancer, however, bent far back with uplifted arm, is full of
energy and real movement. We liked the father and mother embracing, with the child clam-
bering and clamoring at their feet. Not because it tells so plain a story of family affection, but
because the expression is so simple and genuine. And we liked, best of all, certain delicate
little portraits, sensitive and full of character, which needed an artist in more than name to
collect their charm. Mr. Walkowitz is an artist without question, and has the courage of his
convictions, but his convictions lead him into no distressing bypaths — just along the highway
taken by the endless procession of those who seek to express their ideal in terms of art. No
two footprints are alike, and no one has told us where the highway leads, but, luckily for the
human race, it is much traveled in every generation.
Royal Cortissoz in the “N. Y. Tribune” under the title That Meso-
potamian Word “Individuality”:
One of the commonest pleas of the young artist is for recognition of “what he is trying
for.” Sometimes, not always, he is willing to admit that he has not fully achieved his aim.
But in any case he is sure of his justification. He may not be a master yet, but in“what he is
trying for” there is something worth while; that much we must take as a matter of course. The
truth is that there may be nothing of the smallest interest in the obscure contents of his work, but
he cannot be brought to realize this; for the thing that he is talking about is his individual idea
or attitude, and, of course, anybody's “individuality” is an affair of entrancing interest to the
world at large. Some such reflections as these flow inevitably from certain recent developments
in art. Time was when the “individuality” of the student received no more than a little good-
natured notice from his master, who knew that the time would come when it would be worth
while, or quite useless, to take it seriously. But nowadays all this is changed. Individuality is,
like the traditional Mesopotamia, a fine, mouth-filling word, and its talismanic powers are perpe-
tually invoked. Over and over again exhibitions are made on this hypothesis. We wonder why?
There is, for example, a collection of drawings and paintings by Mr. A. Walkowitz to be
seen at the Photo-Secession Gallery. His, we surmise, is one of these modern individualities,
resolved to be articulate, but hardly qualified to arrest us with a sense of true and vitalized art.
He has one gift. Mr. Walkowitz's individuality, we take it, is to be found in a certain power
of expression. He can give weight to a body. He can give us, vaguely, a hint of life in the
eyes of one of his figures, or in a gesture. If, some of these days, he develops and strengthens
his resources he ought to be able to paint pictures full of interesting movement. But in taking
this view of the matter we are giving the utmost possible significance to work that is at present
trifling enough in character. It is not an incredibly difficult thing for a good many people in
this world, not all of them professional artists, to make a fairly expressive sketch. It is not
obvious that Mr. Walkowitz can to-day do more than that, and, what is more, his studies give
but doubtful promise, for the reason that they disclose no feeling for beauty. We miss this
important element both in his form and in his line. In short, this artist appears to have reached
only the threshold of a career, to be doing work that is essentially amateurish and unimportant.
His individuality, what he is trying for, may be very interesting to him. To the detached
observer there is, in his exhibition, nothing interesting whatever.
Henry Tyrrell in the “Evening World.”
Since the weird Walkowitz show is on at the Photo-Secession loft, No. 291 Fifth avenue,
the little gallery has been crowded, more than once. (Three visitors and Mr. Stieglitz are