ehension of the average observer,
but obscenity is not art--great art is never obscene. The blacks and
whites that I saw in Munich at this particular show were not clever,
only bestial. I only wish that German art of the last decade had not
gone over, bag and baggage, to the side of vulgar license. Certainly
Matthew Arnold could say of it, as he once said of Paris, that the
great goddess Lubricity reigned in state.

In the Moderne Galerie--I am still in Munich--I was reassured; I saw
Israels, Gauguin, Van Gogh--what masters!--Truebner, Hodler, Zuegel, Von
Uhde, Max Slevogt--a fine view of Frankfort--and some children at the
seashore by my favourite, Max Liebermann. Then there were Langhammer
and Reumaini, the clever Max Mayrshofer, Bechler of the snow scenes,
Obwald, Tooby, Leibl, Marees, and a very strongly conceived and
soundly modelled nude by the Munich artist, Ernest Liebermann, one of
the most gifted of the younger men and no relation of Meister Max of
the same name. Local art in Vienna did not give me a thrill. I
attended a retrospective exhibition of two half-forgotten
mediocrities, Carl Rahl and Josef Hasslwander, and also the autumn
exhibition in the Kuenstlerhaus. There, amid miles of glittering,
shiny, hot paint, I found the best manipulator of paint to be a man
bearing the slightly American name of John Quincy Adams, whose
residence is given in the catalogue as Vienna. He has studied John
Sargent to advantage and knows how to handle his medium, knows values,
an unknown art in Germany and Austria except to a few painters. The
glory of Vienna art is in her museums and in the private collections
of Prince Liechtenstein and Count Czernin.

Despite his patchwork of colour, Ignacio Zuloaga's exhibition at
Dresden (on the Pragerstrasse) gave me the modern thrill I missed both
at Vienna and Prague (though in the Bohemian city I saw some
remarkable engravings by the native engraver Wencelaus Hollar).
Several of the Zuloagas have been seen in New York when Archer M.
Huntington invited the Spanish artist to exhibit at the Hispanic
Museum. Not, however, his Lassitude, two half-nudes, nor his powerful
but unpleasant Bleeding Christ. What a giant Zuloaga seems when
matched against the insipidity and coarseness of modern German art.
The recent art of Arthur Kampf, who is a painter of more force than
distinction, a one-man show in Unter den Linden, Berlin, did not
impress me; nor did the third jury-free art show in Rudol