Yesterday's opening of a new gallery at the Club Mt. Auburn threatens to arouse the most profound disillusionment among the old patrons of Harvard's own jazz emporium. From now on, the Club's curtains will be thrown back daily at 10 a.m., the lights will be turned on, and devotees will be subjected to the awful truth that 47's wall are white, not black, that there aren't really any rates scurrying about, and that the romance of dirt and darkness is all an illusion--there is actually a certain repelling sterility about the place.

What's worse, the Gallery's insurgent director, a total newcomer from, God forbid, Reed College, obviously cloisters the most evil of all intentions within his crafty mind. No one could doubt that he is dedicated to the utter humiliation of the Club. For he is embarking upon an experiment which is altogether too daring, too wild, too foolish, to merit the least glimmer of hope for success--he is exhibiting representational, objective art.

The man even has the gall to exhibit a rather good representational artist. Although Sidney Hurwitz's work may suffer from lack of motion and facial expression, and from frequently poor composition, the boldness of his line and color more than compensate. His style, moreover, is pleasantly diversified, ranging from heavy black outlines containing splotches of color reminiscent of Roualt to rather delicate line drawings of city-scapes.

The exhibit is certainly to be highly recommended. And if this show can be taken as an indication of the standard of excellence for future exhibits, the gallery, too, deserves continued attention.

Yet, by night, the sound of the tom-tom shall continue to issue forth through the cracks of the Club Mt. Auburn. Heaven help it against the fury of its non-objective customers.