Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1916 (Heft 48))

mouth, slightly open, hair combed back from the forehead, half-closed eyes set somewhat
slanting, has a distinctly Oriental aspect and a curious haunting beauty of long lines and smooth
surfaces. Other heads of apparently the same period and of the same general type entirely
lack this quality of subtle charm. There are also the cruder carvings that subordinate all
human likeness to a savage convention, and there are the decorative pieces not meant for
decoration, probably, but rich in that vital conventionalization which is the ideal of the best
decorative art. Finally, there are the purely barbarous pieces which are little more than
brutal comments on life, and are not good material for exhibitions. The things come from the
middle West Coast countries of Africa, and nothing is known of their date or racial origin.
They will be shown through the month.
Forbes Watson in the “N. Y. Evening Post”:
“African Savage Art” is the sign at the street door of the Photo-Secession Gallery, 291
Fifth Avenue, which has opened its tenth season with an exhibition of statuary in wood by
African savages. The word art is in large letters, for this, according to the announcement, is
the first time in the history of exhibitions that “negro statuary” has been shown “as art.”
And yet it is strange, considering that nowadays nearly everything made by man, in one guise
or another, is shown “as art.”
In the case of these exhibits it was not necessary to explain that they are savage. Savage
indeed! The rank savor of savagery attacks the visitor the instant he enters the diminutive
room. This rude carving belongs to the black recesses of the jungle. Some examples are
hardly human, and are so powerfully expressive of gross brutality that the flesh quails. The
origin of these works is somewhat obscure. The gallery describes them as “the root of modern
art,” and this might be admitted in the same sense that the family of apes may be called the
root of modern man. But to whatever period they belong, and whoever created them, there
can be no doubt that they convey a sense of a race of beings infinitely alien to us.
Some of them at least do, for there is much variety in the work. An effort has been
made to show it in a setting of crude and violent color. One or two of the masks are compara-
tively highly developed in workmanship and design. But the most striking piece is a mask
which lies on a table in a corner, coarse, black, indescribably African. It recalls the haunting
sense which broods over Joseph Conrad’s story of the Congo, “Heart of Darkness,” the sense
of an earth vegetated to the point of suffocation, dank and barbaric. It is a nightmare not
soon to be forgotten. When the outer door is reached again no insistent signs are necessary to
inform you that you have seen savage art. The good, familiar daylight, the friendly white
faces on the street, come as a relief after this blackness.
Henry McBride in the “N. Y. Sun”:
The gray walls of the little gallery of the Photo-Secession now support carvings, strange
wooden carvings, queerer carvings than you will see anywhere else in town. Mr. Stieglitz is
on deck with sensational and sardonic theories that surmount the din of battles and shine
above the dust clouds arising from crumbling empires. His first lieutenant, Mr. Walkowitz,
is there also, less wan and pale than of yore, but more unutterably philosophic than ever. Mr.
Zorach, who is a primitive, very fond of painting his personal recollections of ancient Egyptian
history, now enters upon his sophomore year in this academy of arts and thrills. Several of the
new recruits had the look of being permanent additions to this society, although one of them, a
most clever young man, an Albanian refugee ’twas said, had rather too decided and forceful a
manner for a recruit. Being clever, no doubt he will soon subdue himself.
All of the dramatis personae are on the scene, you understand. They are all word perfect
in their parts and eager for the curtain. Hamlet, that is to say, Mr. Stieglitz, can hardly wait
until the big scene in the fifth act, where he jumps into the grave and defies Mr. K-ny-n C-x to
outweep him in grief for the corpse. The anticipatory emotion is so strong and so contagious
that you, even you, who have seen the rehearsals and know that it is only a play, are beginning
to wonder whether you are going to disgrace yourself by blubbering outright, when suddenly a
horrid doubt intrudes itself. Perhaps we had counted too naively upon Mr. K-ny-n C-x always
playing opposite roles to us. Mr. K-ny-n C-x likes ancient art of any sort. These are ancient
carvings that we are about to show you, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. K-ny-n C-x will like these
wooden images. He will not clash swords. He is, in fact, upon our side. Is it not wonderful?
And vexatious?

IS