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226 CONTEMPORARY ART Cezanne was a master. In London no one had heard of them, so it was decided out of hand that they were immoral aliens fit only to be thrown on the nearest bonfire. C6zanne was a butcher, Gauguin a farceur, Van Gogh a lunatic : that is what particularly disagreeable the critics said, and the public said " Heehaw." They reminded one of a pack of Victorian curates to whom the theory of natural selection had been too suddenly broken. Two years later Roger Fry and I collected and arranged at the Grafton Galleries an exhibition of contemporary French art Matisse, Picasso, Maillol, etc. Every one abroad had recognized these men as interesting artists of varying merit ; no one doubted that the movement they represented was sig- nificant and of promise. Only the English critics had learnt nothing. They never do ; they only teach. Here was something going on under their noses that might well turn out to be as important as the early fifteenth- century movement in Tuscany, and they went on directing the attention of their pupils to the work of Alfred Stevens. Here was the art of the East of China, Persia, and Turkestan being revealed to us by European scholars, and they went on messing about with English choir-stalls and sanctuary- rings.

CONTEMPORARY ART 227 Our critics and teachers provided, and continue to provide, an artistic education com- parable with the historical education provided by our board-schools. People who have been brought up to believe that the history of England is the history of Europe that it is a tale of unbroken victory, leadership, and power feel, when they hear of the ascendancy of France or of the House of Austria or of the till the comparative insignificance of England dawn of the eighteenth century, angry first and then incredulous. So they give themselves the least possible chance of hearing such unpalatable nonsense by living snugly in the slums and suburbs, where, persuaded that they have nothing to learn from damned foreigners, they continue to entertain each other with scraps of local and personal gossip. That is what our art criticism sounds like to cultivated people from abroad. A few months ago an extraordinarily fine Renoir, a recognized masterpiece of modern art, was hung in the National Gallery. Any young painter who may have seen and profited by it need not thank those directors of public taste, the critics. It was passed by in silence or with a nod by the bulk of our paid experts, who were much more pleased by a particularly poor but very large Puvis, which possibly reminded them in some obscure way of a pre-

226 CONTEMPORARY ART<br />

Cezanne was a master. In London no one had<br />

heard of them, so it was decided out of hand<br />

that they were immoral aliens fit only to be<br />

thrown on the nearest bonfire. C6zanne was<br />

a butcher, Gauguin a farceur, Van Gogh a<br />

lunatic : that is what<br />

particularly disagreeable<br />

the critics said, and the public said " Heehaw."<br />

They reminded one of a pack of<br />

Victorian curates to whom the theory of<br />

natural selection had been too suddenly<br />

broken. Two years later Roger Fry and I<br />

collected and arranged at the Grafton Galleries<br />

an exhibition of contemporary French art<br />

Matisse, Picasso, Maillol, etc. Every one<br />

abroad had recognized these men as interesting<br />

artists of varying merit ; no one doubted<br />

that the movement they represented was sig-<br />

nificant and of promise. Only the English<br />

critics had learnt nothing. They never do ;<br />

they only teach. Here was something going<br />

on under their noses that might well turn<br />

out to be as important as the early fifteenth-<br />

century movement in Tuscany, and they<br />

went on directing the attention of their<br />

pupils<br />

to the work of Alfred Stevens. Here<br />

was the art of the East of China, Persia,<br />

and Turkestan being revealed to us by<br />

European scholars, and they went on messing<br />

about with English choir-stalls and sanctuary-<br />

rings.

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