Painting and Sculpture of the San Francisco Art Association: Three Essays [Reprint 2020 ed.] 9780520349667

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PAINTING AND SCULPTURE THE SAN FRANCISCO ART ASSOCIATION

PAINTING AN D

SCULPTURE

THE SAN FRANCISCO ART ASSOCIATION

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles

1952

UNIVERSITY O F C A L I F O R N I A PRESS Berkeley and Los Angeles, California C A M B R I D G E UNIVERSITY PRESS London, England Copyright, 1952, by The Regents of the University of California Manufactured in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to the memory of Timothy L. Pflueger, former president and for many years a member of the Board of Directors of the San Francisco Art Association, who was also a pioneer in architecture and throughout his career a loyal friend of all artists.

CONTENTS Three Essays by ERLE LORAN California Artists of the San Francisco Art Association W E L D O N KEES

A Note on Climate and Culture

ERNEST MÜNDT

Three Aspects of Contemporary Art

Artists 1 2-3 4 5

ELLA ALLUISI

6

JEREMY ANDERSON

RUTH ARMER

7

J O H N BAXTER

VICTOR ARNAUTOFF

8-9

ELMER BISCHOFF

10-11

DORR BOTHWELL

KARL B A U M A N N

12

ESTHER BRUTON

56--57

ERNEST MUNDT

13

MARGARET BRUTON

58--59

ALEXANDER NEPOTE

14--15

EDWARD CORBETT

60--61

RICHARD O ' H A N L O N

16

RUTH CRAVATH

63

OTIS OLDFIELD

17

JAMES BUDD D I X O N

64--65

EMMY LOU PACKARD

18--19

CLAIRE FALKENSTEIN

66--67

DAVID PARK

20

MARY FULLER

68--69

MARGARET PETERSON

21

MARY D U M A S

70

BLANCHE PHILLIPS

22--23

WILLIAM A. G A W

71

HELEN PHILLIPS

24

HAL G O L D M A N

72

F R A N N REYNOLDS

25

JORGE G O Y A

73

WORTH RYDER

26--27

J O H N HALEY

74--75

Z Y G M U N D SAZEVICH

28--29

LEAH RINNE HAMILTON

76

GENEVE RIXFORD SARGENT

30--31

GEORGE HARRIS

77

JACQUES SCHNIER

32

ELLWOOD G R A H A M

78

PETER SHOEMAKER

33

ELAH HALE HAYS

79

LOUIS B. SIEGRIEST

34--35

J O H N LANGLEY H O W A R D

80-81

CLAY S P O H N

36--37

ROBERT B. H O W A R D

82--83

RALPH STACKPOLE

38--39

SARGENT J O H N S O N

84

MARIAN SIMPSON

40-41

ADALINE KENT

85

JULIETTE STEELE

42

KARL KASTEN

86--87

GEORGE STILLMAN

43

WALTER KUHLMAN

88

FLORENCE ALSTON SWIFT

44

FRANK LOBDELL

89

EDGAR TAYLOR

45

WARD LOCKWOOD

90

RAYMOND TOM

46--47

ERLE LORAN

91

CHARLES W A R D

48--49

ROBERT M C CHESNEY

92

JAMES WEEKS

50--51

JAMES M C C R A Y

93

G L E N N WESSELS

52

CAROLINE MARTIN

94--95

HAMILTON WOLF

53

JOSE M O Y A DEL PINO

96

BOB W I N S T O N

54--55

LEE MULLICAN

ERLE LORAN Californie Artists of the San Francisco Art Association

The San Francisco Art Association has a distinguished record for encouraging the development of modern art. The most courageous artists in our community have for many years turned their eyes to the experiments of the Paris art world rather than to New York and the American scene. This broad point of view is more than ever dominant today, when the new note in American painting shows a search for the values of pure painting so magnificently advanced by Picasso and Braque but now reaching beyond to new levels of expression that reject the objects of the literal world. Speculations have been offered to explain this devotion among northern California artists to the highest ideals of art, free from commercialism and provincialism. According to some, it is the very absence in San Francisco of adequate buyers and dealers in contemporary art that has made the artist so free. But that is a negative factor, and there seems to be little room

for doubt that the activities of the SFAA are mainly responsible for the creative spirit we have seen here. With a membership drawn from both artist and lay groups, the SFAA was organized in 1871 with a constitution that stated: "Its objects shall be the promotion of Painting, Sculpture and Fine Arts akin thereto, the diffusion of a cultivated taste for art in the community at large, and the establishment of an Academy or School of Design." The first school of design opened in 1874, but in 1893 the Mark Hopkins mansion on Nob Hill was established as the Mark Hopkins Institute, housing both the art gallery and art-school activities of the association. The great fire of 1906 destroyed the old mansion, but a new building "arose from its ashes" and was called the San Francisco Institute of Art. "Later, after the close of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in 1916, the Art Association undertook the responsibility of maintaining the San Francisco Museum of Art which was housed in the Palace of Fine Arts," according to Worth Ryder. At that time, the institute's name was changed to the California School of Fine Arts. In 1926 the Nob Hill property was sold and the school moved to its present location at Chestnut and Jones. The San Francisco Museum of Art, originally under the administration of the Art Association, was installed in the Civic Center in 1935, under the directorship of Dr. Grace L. McCann Morley. It has been a potent force for the encouragement of an advancing local art. Three annual exhibitions—Painting and Sculpture; Drawings and Prints; Watercolors, Pastels, and T e m p e r a — a r e held at the San Francisco Museum of Art and tend to maintain the spirit of unity that first existed between the museum and the SFAA. A constant flow of exhibitions of the best and latest developments in modern art, international in scope, has provided concrete stimulation for the creative ideals of our artists. Few communities outside New York, with its Museum of Modern Art, have kept both artist and public so well informed about contemporary art. Across the bay at the University of California, as early as 1930 the influence of Worth Ryder, then enthusiastically returning from Munich and the teachings of Hans Hofmann, was a signifi-

cant force in the new art that was coming to life here. The great Hofmann taught at Berkeley during the summers of 1930 and 1931; Vaclav Vytlacil came later, to Berkeley as well as to the Oakland College of Arts and Crafts, where Glenn Wessels had been spreading the same gospel. Lucien Labaudt is another San Francisco name to record in the history of local art. Lee Randolph, as director, and Spencer Macky, as dean, of the California School of Fine Arts, also made worthy contributions to the art community. Later, when Douglas MacAgy was director of the California School of Fine Arts, a quite new departure in abstract art was inaugurated. The teachings of Mark Rothko and Clyfford Still stimulated a revolt against what has sometimes been regarded as the intellectualism of the "Berkeley School/' and the annual exhibitions of painting have been anything but dull in recent years. One of the unique features of the SFAA is the Artists' Council, which nominates the yearly juries for the annual shows. The nominations are bound to rotate; and, with the final selection determined by the membership at large, it is probable that a fair distribution of prizes has occurred. Out-of-town juries are theoretically more detached, but here the judging is done by one's peers. The whole character of the Art Association's annuals, like the selections for this book, is a product of our jury system. The annuals themselves have come in for serious criticism as being too cumbersome and diversified to present any revealing picture of individual talent. However, nothing could replace them. One-man and three-man shows certainly reveal more about the individual artist but not so much about the community. Few of our artists could supply one-man shows every year; furthermore, there would hardly be gallery space for so many individual shows. For anyone eagerly interested in the activity of the whole area, the big annuals will always be significant. By no other means can comparisons be made,- by no other means can the changing trends in expression be followed so closely. For the artist, the value of frequent group shows is truly enormous. It is so easy to go off on a tangent when one has only his own work around him. To the self-critical artist who has dedi-

cated his entire life and being to the creative process, the comparison of his work with others working toward the same goals immediately shows him where he is faltering, where he may be forgetting his own professed ideals. Consequently the annuals provide the artist as well as the public with the most salutary as well as the most stimulating activity in today's difficult art world. In the specific categories or trends of art expression illustrated in this book, there is nothing to be found that is not in some way a part of the larger American and European development. To indicate the wide diversity of artistic idioms now being practiced, we can point to the inclusion here of a frank realism as indicated in plates 4, 5, 16, 22, 34, 38, 53, 63, 76, 77, 82. Yet few, if any, of these examples would meet the standards of hidebound conservatives. A completely detached outside observer could ask why that is true. First and last, the artists of the SFAA have rejected commercialism and mere skill as artistic factors. For example, certain greatly talented artists from Los Angeles have been rejected from our shows on the only conceivable grounds of too great virtuosity, but the conservatives would probably have ruled them out also as being too daring, too liberal in their regard for naturalness. But then, the standards of today's conservatives remain inscrutable to the reasonable and liberalminded artist and critic. Perhaps a word should be said here about the political stand now so erroneously and dangerously promulgated by the organized reactionaries in art. The argument that modern art is communistic is so patently false that one can only conclude it is intentionally vicious. No one in the art world could be stupid enough to be unaware that no modern or abstract art is tolerated by Communist governments. Indeed, only the kind of art being promoted by ultra conservatives is found in Communist Russia today, even as it was in Fascist Germany under Hitler. The modern movement in art is so clearly and magnificently the product of free and democratic governments that it must be proclaimed now and constantly. The SFAA has never and does not now rule out realism or conservatism in art, but it is simply a matter of fact that the majority

of high-ranking members work in abstract, semiabstract, or purely nonobjective idioms. For several years artists reproduced in plates 13, 18, 19, 30, 31, 32, 50, 51, 56, 57 have pursued a rather pure geometric form of nonflgurative art, and with notable distinction. Abstraction that is truly abstracted from subjects in nature has been seen from the hand of artists in plates 42, 45, 58, 59, 60, 61, 64, 68, 72, 74, 75, 84, to name but a few. The most daring and explosive form of nonobjective expressionism is one of the latest trends that have created a stir in the bay area. Artists seen in plates 8, 9, 14, 15, 17, 25, 43, 44, 86, 87, among others, still pursue this form, but they are as free from the danger of pursuing one specific avenue of expression as they are dynamic and unrestrained in what they have done. Generally there have been development and maturation in their work with a gain in power. Only the superficial aspects of freedom, such as the dripping and the gobs of paint, have been modified in favor of thoughtful pursuit of symbolic expressiveness. Surrealism has not been a strong influence here—certainly not among the artists represented in this b o o k — b u t during some periods of their work, artists in plates 10, 11, 62, 90 have played with surrealistic fantasy, rendered dominantly in rather geometric form and always primarily artistic and composed rather than photographic and compositionally irresponsible. Every artist works in an idiom that can be described and analyzed, but I have no wish here to fit each one into his category. In these days artists change so rapidly—sometimes from year to y e a r — t h a t a description would not necessarily be correct by the time it came into print. This situation may be indicative of the restlessness of our age, but it is historically one of the most exciting periods of artistic expression, whatever the cause. What remains clear and significant is that the fact of change, of search for new and exciting idioms, is of only secondary importance. The fundamental talent, the aesthetic sensitivity of the artist, is the permanent factor. An insensitive artist does not become sensitive through the adoption or invention of a new mode. Through the years and in spite of radical changes in style, most of our artists have remained quite recognizable. An artist of talent

represents a fixed quantity or source of potentialities. The searching and discovery in which he engages establishes him as a vital representative of the art of our time. Change should signify growth, and in this sense we can turn to pictures by most of the artists in our area and realize that they have been maturing and enriching their talents at the same time they were changing their idioms of expression. What is true in our recent Western painting, as in that of the younger advanced painters of Paris and elsewhere, is that abstraction does not represent a mere search for and perfection of structural, compositional power. Freedom from the tyranny of objects certainly produced some of the greatest inventions in the whole history of artistic forming. French cubism and abstraction have made a contribution to which every living artist should feel indebted. But further detachment from specific subjects has only made it clear that we are now seeking some kind of emotional meaning. Nor does mere self-expression seem to supply the answer. W e are looking for some new symbolic ideation that will satisfy our spiritual needs. The revived interest in primitive art makes it clear that the modern artist is looking for images and idols that will be somehow equivalent to those found in all primitive and religious art. It may be impossible to say what these images mean in most cases, and the artist need not inquire beyond finding satisfaction of purely intuitive and aesthetic needs. Modern intellectual man can rarely be content in belief in a personal God, but he is still possessed with the same unconscious needs that have produced so many thousands of religious systems and gods in the past. In letting his unconscious fantasy, his emotional needs have their fullest play, the artist will inevitably evolve a modern equivalent to primitive, religious art. The lack of specific and recognizable form provides the observer with a whole field of aesthetic pleasures that he may convert into imagined idols if he chooses. In this sense art represents not so much an escape from the ordinary world of appearances as a positive medium of expression for his more fundamental inner life of thought and fantasy.

WELDON

KEES

A Note on Climate and Culture

A beginning must be made somewhere—even in such clouded territory as the one in which my considerations exist—so let me begin by raising this question: Is the artist in the San Francisco region a different kind of creature than his counterpart in New York, Paris, Rome, or London? And if so, how did he get that way? I take it that something along this line might concern readers living in another part of the country and thus unfamiliar with the work being done here. And, having picked this question from a number of others I might as easily have raised, let me point out at once its inadequacy. To begin with, the "artist in the San Francisco region" as such is altogether too dim and illdefined a figure for scrutiny. The region makes room for the entire range of styles and attitudes that comprise twentiethcentury art multiplicity, with allegiances ranging from the tamest traditionalism to a recently evolved and extreme neo-Fauvism of a pronounced indigenous cast. What these artists do have in common is probably the most

equable climate in the entire country and the stimulation, or the chance for it, of one of the few beautiful cities left in the world. Unlike either contemporary New York or Paris, San Francisco and environs offer the possibility of at least a measure of serenity. The effect of these benisons on the arts, however, is not very readily discerned. More apparent is the presence of a vigorous and solidly entrenched craft tradition. Perhaps no other area— and in this context it extends south beyond Los Angeles—is so densely populated with architects, designers, ceramicists, interior decorators, landscape gardeners, and entrepreneurs of modern furniture. Their presence is a natural response to the needs of a society deeply preoccupied by "good living," by the surface appearance of existence. (On Sundays, off highways, in parking lots, in front of the clean angular houses, thousands of men, gripping Simoniz containers, polish their gleaming, swollen automobiles; their eyes glow; they seem as intent and devoted as lapidaries polishing old and precious stones.) But it scarcely follows that the presence of an entrenched craft tradition provides a salubrious climate for the artist. The artist is—or should be—concerned with a heightened sense of reality. He carries us beyond what we already know, intensifying and illuminating our deepest and most profound feelings. The craftsman, on the other hand, is interested in something else altogether: with the surface appearance of existence. He makes life more comfortable, pleasant, and engaging—or tries to. And his position in regard to art is revealed with sufficient clarity when he makes his appearance in the form of a modern architect who designs a house in which painting and sculpture have no place. (Some designers make room for a minuscule Klee on one wall; you have to look hard for it. It is usually a reproduction.) So much, for the moment, for craft. Now until quite recently, American artists, whether they lived in California, New York, or states in between, felt a sharp necessity to pigeonhole themselves into one enclosure or another; I refer to the American School and the School of French Taste. Some successfully managed to wedge themselves into both compartments—Marin is an example,- some with rather less effectiveness—Demuth is as

good an example as any. But usually the haunting obsession with place, common to most artists, became overwhelming. Paris or the Great Plains? Cubism or the Ashcan School? This appalling and stifling either/or dilemma has been alarmingly demonstrated by the lives of a considerable number of somewhat feebly adjusted and centerless artists—the immediate contemporary parallel in another field is the radical turned Catholic (or vice versa)—-who "studied in Paris" and came home to reject with the greatest possible vehemence his culture-besmeared past and to paint, often enough with a similar vehemence, "the American scene." More usually encountered was the avatar of French taste. Either by way of study abroad or through eager perusals of Cahiers d'Art, he soaked up the latest Parisian modes and submitted wholeheartedly to their example. He was often uneasy about the mere fact of being an American, thus continuing a long tradition of disquietude dating from colonial times, and he experienced a thrilling sense of awe in the presence of what he thought of as the towering aesthetic accomplishments current abroad. He was, in addition, an unswerving defender of the curious doctrine that the French are by nature more discerning of and hospitable to advanced trends than the inhabitants of any other spot on the globe. If I seem to be ranging far afield from considerations of art in the bay region, I must protest that my course, however circuitously traced, is gauged to enclose precisely such considerations. But in order to talk about a species, one needs first to look a bit at the culture that produced the genus. As I have pointed out, one of the central concerns of most artists is the heightened consciousness of place. From the time of Copley through that of Hawthorne, Whistler, Mary Cassatt, Henry James, and on to the present, it has been a particular matter of import to American writers and painters. Where should one go? Where is the best place to work? In what kind of culture will the maximum nourishment be found? San Francisco is not an art center in the usual sense of the term. Paris and New York are at present the only two such

strongholds—swarming with artists, art galleries, and with a flourishing commercial activity based on the sale of painting and sculpture. Though twentieth-century art is largely the product of an urban or, more specifically, a metropolitan sensibility, it has been rather belatedly realized that residence in either Paris or New York is not a major requisite for producing works of art. Indeed, the last ten years have seen a radical change in the way in which many American artists regard such matters. I think it is particularly noticeable among some of the artists in San Francisco, where there are occasional glimmerings of a triumph over the obsession with place, or at least a rejection of the old choices. There is a recognition that the Spaniards Miro and Picasso, with their contempt for the myth of French taste, and the German expressionists, who proceeded to ignore its existence, cut through to more open avenues than the one-way street of French taste. And there is an acceptance of the fact that the problems of art are more internal and central, and not to be solved by hints from Paris or from a residence abroad. Behind this attitude is no vestige of nationalism, parochialism, or regionalism. There is rather a willingness to accept help and influence from any source or place, whether it is South Africa, Munich, the South Seas, or across the street. The sentimentality of place has been abandoned; a phase has been lived through. And the person who today fancies Paris as a great aesthetic mother hen, hatching out all the art eggs, sums up a unique brand of parochialism: he has traded an area for the world. Yet the culture—and I refer to the world at large—in a sociological or anthropological sense, remains very sick indeed. With our obsessive regard for specialization—a regard that is ridiculously the common ground of those in business, in the arts, and in the professions—the shared understanding of a larger universe is a concept that generates the coldest light conceivable. The used-car salesman sells his used car, the painter applies pigment to canvas, the osteopath manipulates a bone, the scientist builds a bomb or probes at a cancerous growth, the statesman signs a treaty. It is only reasonable that such a culture should produce so many who "don't know much about art, but

know what they like," and who feel their skins crawl when exposed to any painting, poem, or musical composition that does not touch some nostalgic or commemorative source. And the relationship between the various branches of the arts, despite occasional well-meant attempts to bring them together, are in no less rickety shape. Surely one of the more disquieting aspects of our culture is the bland and unquestioning acceptance of the sickness. "I never read anything," says the painter. "I don't see what the painters today are up to," says the novelist. " N o t that I don't admire modern painting. Vlaminck, Rouault. . ." Even so, a culture such as ours m a y — a n d does—produce works of art; it may be sick, but it is not sterile. And quite a few so-called "healthy" cultures have produced health but no works of art worth mentioning. R. G. Collingwood, the British philosopher, ordinarily so acute, has written* that the artist must "forego both entertainment value and magical value" to become the conscience of society. But isn't this precisely the trap into which Tolstoy stumbled in his old age? On the contrary, should not the artist employ every means in his power, including his own uniqueness, to be entertainer, magician, prophet, and conscience of society—as well as a good deal else? History sometimes settles for less,- but the artist who consciously sets out to have experiences on behalf of large areas of the population, and to do only that, is not usually remembered for long. Collingwood has merely intellectualized the strategies of Kitsch. What a specific locale will produce in the long run depends on the presence of men of great talent and ability, who are not too hampered or badgered to work productively and well. The San Francisco area has already produced, I believe, a few such men of promise, whose work extends a tradition and creates one of its own, rising above concerns with craft and above concerns that are either nationalistic, regional, or nourished alone by French taste. If we are beyond the point of hoping for a healthy culture, we can at least entertain a hope for a few small islands, crannies, nooks, here and there, where an art that is mature, serious, and unprovincial can come into being. * "The Principles of A r t , " Oxford, 1938.

ERNEST M Ü N D T Three Aspects of Contemporary Art

In the complex fabric of contemporary art, three strands form the dominant pattern. One strand is spun from the traditions of nineteenth-century realism and impressionism,- the second derives from personal developments of romantic and postimpressionist attitudes; and the third emerges from new conceptions inspired perhaps by the symbolism of African and Indian art as well as by the visions of modern science. It is never quite fair, of course, to dissect the living tissue of art; and any good work of painting or sculpture defies such classifications by combining, with varying degrees of emphasis, many of their salient features. For the purpose of discussion, however, thought and language being constructed as they are, separation in terms of specific ideas, such as the three mentioned above, becomes unavoidable. Considering the stimulating landscape and the rich light of northern California, it seems natural that the representatives of the first group—artists depicting the physical realities of sea, town and mountain, and of course people—form the majority.

Their way of seeing and describing their subjects and the spectator's ways of appreciating their work are so well established that communication here poses no problems. What developments and changes exist in the modes of these artists, contrasted to those employed during the past century, point to a greater sharpness of observation and intensity of statement (plate 34). This heightened awareness observable in the West may be owing to the fact that the intimacy with new surroundings seems still young and fresh in this region if measured against the mellowing centuries of Europe, or even of the Hudson Valley. Compared with the easily accessible qualities of descriptive realism that readily assimilate great varieties of personal style, from the expressionist (plates 5, 73) and constructive (plates 71, 93) to the romantic (plates 52, 60, 79) and primitive (plate 90), the other two groups of art mentioned above—romanticism and symbolism—often offer difficulties of communication. Romanticism is a vague term. It is used, as I did above, to describe nineteenth-century paintings by such artists as West, Allston, Ryder, and of course Currier and Ives,-—but the term is used also in a broader sense to describe the attitude of persons who, unable to accept the current patterns of social values and behavior, retire into private worlds and, much in the Protestant tradition, despair of community and endeavor to save their own souls. A more contemporary name for this effort is self-realization. Thus both Edgar Allan Poe and Thomas Wolfe, to take examples from literature, come to mind as typical romanticists. Both these types of romantics are intent on fleeing from immediate reality. James Thrall Soby, in "Romantic Painting in America" (Museum of Modern Art, 1943), defines the common quality of these two types of romantics, when he speaks of "the temporary triumph of Emotion over Reason," and states that "the themes of Romantic art were high in emotional content, passionately expounded and regulated only by Instinct—the infallible litmus paper of the Romantics." This group of neoromantics has caused a great stir during the past few years. To the "well-adjusted citizen" their works have been a source of irritation. They are also the thorn in the flesh

of complacency, the bad conscience of a society too superficially optimistic about the benefits of progress. The protestations of this group of artists, frighteningly effective though they often are to the sensitive, suffer from one major flaw. As the neoromantic protestant denies the. possibility of communal relations, he also denies the importance of communication. Deeply enmeshed in his personal problems—which no doubt he often sees as symbolizing those of his fellow m e n — h e feels that any attempt on his part to clarify, to simplify, or to explain his protests in terms of common acceptance would prostitute his intentions. This attitude tends to l e a d — n a t u r a l l y or by d e s i g n — t o the abandonment of rational criteria, to a disregard for style and eventually technique,- instead, emotional intensity becomes the yardstick, and nonconformity a prerequisite for production. Yet despite this intransigence there is an idealism involved here that is reminiscent of Dostoevski's fable of the Inquisitor in which Christ appears to win the argument simply by not entering the discussion. All this should result in an extremely individualistic art; and, particularly in the work of some of the artists here represented, who have blended their romanticism with the generalizations of abstraction (plates 7, 10, 84, 91) or the personalisms of expressionist techniques (plates 29, 44, 78, 87), the emphasis might be expected to be on who makes a statement rather than on what is being said. Yet one of the most interesting results—for one person at l e a s t — o f an approach to art that denies cognition and depends on an excitement of blood and nerves is the appearance of common ground. At the end of the road to introspection, below the base of the superstructure of civilization, there is the unifying fact of undifferentiated biological existence (plates 9, 15, 49). The intimacy and privacy of these paintings add to the difficulty of participating in them. Unless the spectator knows the artist personally and takes a friend's interest in his self-revelation, there may seem to remain little but bewilderment when he is confronted with a statement that shows no discernible reference to an outsider's point of view. Taking a less personal point of

view, this spectator will be grateful, however, for the work of these romantics. They have applied a severe test to our traditional ways of conveying meaning through art, and they have found them wanting. Their seeming destructiveness thus turns into a positive contribution: like city planners, they have condemned unsafe structures, cleared away debris, and prepared the ground for rebuilding. Seen against the background of realism and romanticism, the work of the symbolists is distinguished by two qualities. These artists search for the meaning that lies hidden behind things seen and known, and they make efforts to state their insights in terms that are objective enough to meet their desire for communication. The visions of these artists, who limit their observations neither to the surface appearance of subject matter nor to the inner aspects of the self, but feel inspired to transcend these in their search for underlying forms and ideas, give hope that art will regain its function of realizing in visual terms and for the community the philosophy of a way of life. W e know that art has accomplished this during the past, losing its power of guidance only during the last hundred years under the impact of the mechanization of life, which was accompanied by a progressive desiccation of human intercourse. Symbols created through art and shared by members of a community have always been the means by which the individual has found the reassurance of togetherness and the purpose of living. Now consummate response to works of art involves the spectator on the level of both conscious and subconscious recognition and, as our response to musical rhythm illustrates, on the level of direct organic response. In order to fulfill its functions properly, a symbol must therefore consist of more than a recognizable thing or figure: it must convey also some essence of abstracted experience that reaches beyond description. It follows that the quality intuited by an artist that gives a symbol its power can become established only through the consensus of beholders who find themselves responding in a specific way to some shape, form, or organization that transcends naturalistic reality as well as the self-concern of the creator.

This definition leaves a wide choice of roads leading to symbolism. At one end of the map there are cerebrations reminiscent of geometry (plates 50, 96). The middle range encompasses reflections and abstractions of compound visual memories (plates 27, 37, 42). At the other end are intuitive insights into the processes of life, matter, and space approaching the insights of the mystics (plates 6, 41). The fact that the creative attitude involved here is a new one for modern times, without given pattern or coordination of effort, makes the variety profuse. This complexity of symbolic art tends to confound the gallerygoer who has been confronted during his lifetime with more isms than he can possibly be expected to assimilate. The emergence in this group of artists of an interest in objective meaning and significance should be taken, therefore, as an invitation for the layman to participate actively in the creation of contemporary art. A symbol cannot be produced by any artist by himself, much as he may contribute to its final formulation. A symbol is the visible abstraction of the way of life of people who live together,- it is they who, by exchanging their thoughts and feelings, create its essence. It is the people who experience, discuss, and criticize the canvases and sculptures they see who will decisively influence the artist, no matter how remotely and with how much delay, in the formulation of his work. This may seem to be a solitary opinion, but I believe it to be true despite all that has been said in recent years in defense of the uniqueness and independence of the creative personality. I believe that it is the beneficiary or the consumer of art who will finally decide whether art is illustration—often interesting—or private confession—sometimes necessary—or whether it shall be a revelation of meaning. Perhaps it is the revelation of meaning that we hope for when, tired of escapism and surfeited with sensation, we want a work of art to be what, with unnecessary nostalgia, we call a thing of beauty.

PLATES

J

Ella Alluisi (born, 1912, Houston, Texas) The Procession (tempera, 18 x 36 in.) 1948 Owned by Elizabeth Kent

Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Ruth Armer (born, 1896, San Francisco) 259 (oil, 2 4 x 3 0 in.) 1951 Owned by Mrs. Grey Wornum

Photograph, Bob Hollingsworth

Ruth A r m e r 244 (oil, 24 x 30 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Victor Arnautoff (born, 1896, South Russia) Self-Portrait (oil-tempera, 22 x 28 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

Karl Baumann (born, 1911, Leipzig, Germany) Seascape (oil, 16 x 20 in.) 1949 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Jeremy Anderson (born, 1921, Palo Alto, California) Untitled (plaster, 8 x 14 x 10 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

John Baxter (born, 1912, San Francisco) Phoenix (bronze, 4Vi in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Elmer Bischoff (born, 1916, O a k l a n d , California) Painting (oil, 42 x 60 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Elmer Bischoff Untitled (oil, 4 4 x 5 8 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

JQ

Dorr Bothwell (born, San Francisco) Mallorcan Keepsake (oil, 18 x 24 in.) 1951

Dorr Bothwell Early Spring, England (oil, 1872x22 in.) 1951

Esther Bruton (born, Alameda, California) Buffalo Dance (marble terrazzo, 29 x 42 in.) 1949

M a r g a r e t Bruton (born, Brooklyn, N e w York) N e g a t i v e and Positive (marble terrazzo, 24 x 36 in.) 1 949 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Edward Corbett (born, 1919, Chicago, Illinois) Untitled (oil and enamel, 40 x 60 in.) 1950 Owned by Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Dimond, Jr.

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Edward Corbett Untitled (oil and enamel, 50 x 54 in.) 1950 Owned by Miss Nancy McRae

Ruth Cravath (born, 1902, Chicago, Illinois) Security (Georgia marble, 22 in. high) 1951 O w n e d by Otis O l d f i e l d

Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

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James Budd Dixon (born, 1 908, San Francisco) Painting (oil, 36 x 65 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Claire Falkenstein Sculpture (copper, brass, bronze, 9 ft. high) 1950

Claire Falkenstein Sculpture (mahagony, 8 ft. high) 1951 Photograph, Denise Colomb

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Mary Fuller Sculpture (terra cotta, 18 in. high) Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Mary Dumas (born, 1 9 1 2 , Wisconsin) The Swimmers (water color, 1 2 x 1 6 in.) 1 9 5 1 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

W i l l i a m A. G a w (born, San Francisco) W h i t e Flowers (oil, 40 x 34 in.) 1939 Collection, San Francisco Museum of Art cisco Museum of A r t

Photograph, San Fran-

W i l l i a m A. G a w A Surviving Trace of Something (oil, 40 x 70 in.) 1 951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Hal G o l d m a n (born, 1912, San Francisco) Injured Steer (oil, 3 0 x 4 1 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Jorge G o y a (born, 1924, Ohio) P-7-49-5 (oil, 4 0 x 4 4 in.) 1949 O w n e d by Miss N a o m i M . W i l l i a m s

Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

John Haley (born, 1905, Minnesota) Big Music (oil, 3 0 x 4 0 in.) 1951 Collection, Mortimer Levitt G a l l e r y

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John Haley Silent Echo (oil, 25 x 30 in.) 1951 Collection, Mortimer Levitt Gallery

Leah Rinne Hamilton (born, Finland) Movement in Yellow and Gray (oil, 2 6 x 3 6 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Leah Rinne Hamilton Lighted Passage (oil, 26 x 36 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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George Harris (born, 1913, San Francisco) Untitled (oil, 3 4 x 4 0 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

George Harris W a l l Hanging (flax, 41 x 69 in., executed by Christine Harris) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Ellwood Graham Gavotte (oil, 18% x 40 in.), 1950 Collection, San Francisco Museum of Art Photograph, San Francisco Museum of Art

Elah Hale Hays (born, 1898, Texas) Kneeling Figure (black magnesite, 18 in. high) 1950 Photograph, Walter Treadwell

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John Langley Howard (born, 1902, New Jersey) Trinity (oil, 14 x 15 in.) 1951 Photograph, Bob Lopez

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John Langley H o w a r d Spring Cleaning (tempera, 32 x 40 in.) 1947 Photograph, Bob Lopez

Robert B. Howard (born, 1896, New York) The Inspector (composite, 18 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Robert B. Howard The Scavenger (composite, 96 in. high) 1950

Sargent Johnson (born, 1892, Boston, Massachusetts) Chester (terra cotta, 11 in. high) 1950 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

S a r g e n t Johnson Conflict (terra cotta, 22 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Adaline Kent (born, 1900, Kentfìeld, California Desert Queen (magnesite, 32 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

A d a l i n e Kent Night Flyer (magnesite with inclusions, 2 0 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Karl Kasten (born, 1916, San Francisco) Hide and Seek (oil, 26 x 36 in.) 1950

Walter Kuhlman (born, 1918, Minnesota) Painting (oil, 1 8 x 2 2 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

Frank Lobdell (born,'1921, Kansas City, Missouri) Painting (oil, 6 4 x 7 0 in.) 1950 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

W a r d Lockwood (born, 1894, Kansas) Garden (oil, 3 6 x 4 8 in.) 1951 Photograph, Mildred Tolbert

Erie Loran (born, 1905, Minneapolis, Minnesota) Rock Fluorescence (oil, 34 x 52 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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Erle Loran Natural Derivation (oil, 26 x 42 in.) 1952 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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Robert McChesney A - 7 (oil, 4 2 x 4 8 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Robert McChesney A-8 (oil, 4 2 x 4 8 ¡n.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

James McCray (born, 1916, Niles, California) Spring (casein tempera, 34 x 50 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

James McCray Flotation (egg tempera, 16 x 20 in.) 1945 Photograph, James A. Lawrence

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Caroline M a r t i n (born, 1903, San Francisco) Innocents (oil, 3 6 x 4 8 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Jose Moya del Pino (born, 1891, Spain) Portrait of Dr. Thomas Addis (oil, 30 x 42 in.) 1948 Owned by Stanford University Hospital

Lee Mullican (born, Chickasha, Oklahoma) Ascension (oil, 20 x 32 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

Lee Mullican Essence of Ghosts (oil, 1 6 x 2 0 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Ernest Mundt (born, 1905, Germany) Fugue (monel metal, 40 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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Ernest Mundt St. Matthew V (copper, 72 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Alexander Nepote (born, 1913, Valley Home, California) Ominous (oil, 34 x 42 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

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Alexander Nepote Multiform (oil, 26 x 34 ¡n.) 1951 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

Richard O ' H a n l o n (born, 1906, Long Beach, California) Pelican (dacite, 6 in. high) 1950 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Richard O ' H a n l o n O w l (polished limestone, 14 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Q u a n d t

Mary Navratil (born, 1911, Vermont) Bird and Cage (oil, 15 x 21 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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Otis Oldfleld (born, 1890, Sacramento, California) Red Back (oil, 30 x 36 in.) 1941 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Emmy Lou Packard (born, 1914, El Centra, California) Embarcadero (casein tempera, 28 x 48 in.) 1950 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Emmy Lou Packard Composition with Light (paper and etched plexiglass, 36 x 48 in.) 1949 Owned by Chauncey McKeever

Photograph, Marshall Douglas

David Park (born, 1911, Boston, Massachusetts) Band (oil, 3 8 x 4 8 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

David Park Beach (oil, 3 9 x 5 0 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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Margaret Peterson (born, 1902, Seattle, Washington) Two on Yellow (tempera, 51 x 39 in.) 1950 Photograph, S. Moy

Margaret Peterson Vision of Tzouhalem (tempera, 48 x 64 in.) 1948 Photograph, S. Moy

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Blanche Phillips (bom, 1908, Mount Union, Pennsylvania) Bird with Young (braised brass, 36 in. high) 1949 Photograph, Bob Lopez

Helen Phillips (born, 1913, Fresno, California) Duo (bronze, 27 in. high) 1947

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Frann Reynolds (born, 1926, Oakland, California) Figure (oil, 3 6 x 5 0 in.) 1949 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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Worth Ryder (born, 1884, Illinois) Sierra Nevada (oil, 30 x 36 in.) 1946 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Zygmund Sazevich (born, 1903, Russia) Torso of Girl (walnut, 43 in. high) 1950 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

Zygmund Sazevich Head (terra cotta, 23 in. high) 1951 Photograph, F. W. Quandt

Geneve Rixford Sargent (born, 1868, San Francisco) The Convalescent (oil, 20 x 24 in.) 1925 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Jacques Schnier (born, 1898, Rumania) Mrs. Herbert D. Walter (bronze, 14 in. high) 1948 Owned by Colonel and Mrs. H. D. Walter

Photograph, Romaine

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Peter Shoemaker (born, 1920, Newport, Rhode Island) Action at Sea (oil, 20 x 24 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Louis B. Siegriest (born, 1899, Oakland, California) Back of C Street, Virginia City (oil, 24 x 26 in.) 1949 Photograph, Thomas J. Gintjee

Clay Spohn (born, 1 898, San Francisco) Legend of the Plains (oil, 36 x 44) 1946 Owned by Dr. and Mrs. Lindol French Douglas

Photograph, Marshall

C l a y Spohn No. 6-1-48 (oil, 2 0 x 3 0 in.) 1948 Photograph, Marshall Douglas

Ralph Stackpole Bust of George Sterling (tuffa stone, 36 in. high) 1929 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Ralph Stackpole Detail of San Francisco Stock Exchange (granite) 1931 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Marian Simpson (born, Kansas City, Missouri) Creeping Fog (gouache, 18 x 24 in.) 1950 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Juliette Steele (born, New Jersey) Spectra (water color, 22 x 30 in.) 1949 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

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G e o r 9 e Stillman (born, 1921, Laramie, Wyoming) Painting (oil, 30 x 40 in.) 1951

George Stillman Untitled (oil, 3 0 x 4 0 in.) 1951

Florence Alston Swift (born, 1891, San Francisco) Garden Plaque (iron and concrete, 24 x 32 in.) 1950 Owned by Thomas Church

Edgar Taylor (born, 1904, Grass Valley, California) Strange Afternoon (oil, 1 7 x 2 1 in.) 1945 Collection, San Francisco Museum of Art Moulin

Photograph, Gabriel

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Raymond Tom My Dream Playboaf (oil, 20 x 32 in.) 1948 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Charles W a r d (born, 1913, San Francisco) Untitled (white marble, 48 in. high) 1950 Photograph, Bob Hollingsworth

James Weeks (born, 1922, Oakland, California) General (oil, 40 x 56 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Glenn Wessels (born, 1895, Cape Town, South Africa) Columbia Street Corner (oil, 15 x 22 in.) 1948 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Hamilton Wolf (born, New York) Resurrection (oil, 36 x 40 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Hamilton Wolf The Prophet (oil, 36 x 40 in.) 1951 Photograph, F. W . Quandt

Bob Winston (born, 1915, Long Beach, California) Little Man Sitting Down Playing (lignum vitae, 6 x 9 in.) 1944 Photograph, Pat Winston