To the Editor of the Crimson:
My knowledge of art criticism and my command of the written work wouldn't impress a Hottentot, but even I feel justified in crying out in painful protest against the flatulent, inane farce parading in Saturday's Crimson under the pretentious rubric of "Collections and Critiques." I don't mean farce; I mean tragedy. For Fogg's current exhibition of modern French art--Degas, Daumier, Renoir, Picasso--would stir the most rudimentary, untutored aesthetic consciousness. Yet it could not evoke in your criticism even the most backneyed cliches of our introductory fine arts courses, which, after all, whether trite or significant, do at least say and mean something. How intriguing, how illuminating, how it enhances one's appreciation to learn that Degas' dancing girls were "almost vicious in their vices," and "Picasso's use of line has form and solidarity (sic!) which can hardly be excelled and his handling of many different bodily postures is expert in the highest degree!" What imbecile would be willing to confess to writing such tripe. Yours truly, Albert K. Cohen '39.
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