Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1914 (Heft 47))

291
What does “291” mean to me?—The thrills received from Matisse, from
Picasso, from Brancusi? The Rabelaisian delights of Walkowitz, the glorious
topsy-turvydom of Marin or the glowing sincerity of Steichen? In vain
do I try to convince myself that all this is “291 ”—quite in vain—“291”
is Stieglitz.
I can see you rage as you read this, dear Stieglitz. I can see that wonder-
ful hirsute adornment of yours rise as if under the machiavellian hand of
De Zayas—but you are quite helpless, you cannot apply the blue pencil—-
the Censor has never yet been admitted to “291.”
Yes, Stieglitz, in spite of your “art stuff*” you are It. In spite of your
endless drool you are the magnet of Life.
I wish that I were able to repay you for the countless times you have
so lavishly poured courage into my soul, enthusiasm into my living, and clarity
into my thinking;—for the countless times I have come to you a hopeless
incoherent mass, my courage like so much wet tissue paper, my mind fringed
by the seeming uselessness of things, and left you an optimistic, determined
and directed Endeavor.
I owe you much, Stieglitz, perhaps more than do your Satellites, for
they, at least have seen the Light—they know that Rembrandt, Leonardo,
Raphael, Velasquez and the other old fogies are weak, flabby and hopelessly
defunct; they know that the Metropolitan Museum is but a morgue and as
such should be relegated to its proper place under ground—but I, oh Stieglitz,
am still groping in darkness—my eyes are still unopened—and when you are
not looking, I creep back to that same Morgue, and find there, as I have at
“291 ”, the glory you radiate.
Stieglitz—I salute you.
Belle Greene

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