Again, Epstein

In two rooms of the Ferargil Galleries, Manhattan, stood 44 of the sculptures of Jacob Epstein.

Madonna & Child drew the greatest storm of rage and approval. By this more than life-size bronze (a splayfooted gawky peasant girl wiping her enormous hands on the flanks of a wretched skinny child), babbits were terrified. They said, one to another: "Well, I must say, I think it's blasphemous. Jesus looks positively Semitic! And when you remember the way Raphael painted the mother, it seems really shameful . . . the man must be an atheist!" Esthetes, on the other hand, became jubilant. "What strength," they murmured, "what superb nuance."

The babbits, who attended the exhibit only because they had read news-stories which led them to expect, if not a touch of pornography, at least a large dose of sacrilege or obscenity, were baffled by the thoughtful bearded face of Tagore, the horselike countenance of the Duchess of Marlborough, the several gay and wayward studies of Peggy Jean (Mr. Epstein's child). When they looked across the room at No. 21, they wondered what wild emotion caused the bronze woman to clasp her hands and open her mouth in so inane a fashion. Some of the sharper babbits decided that she was laughing at the companion works of Sculptor Epstein; then they looked at their catalogs and saw, "No. 21: Weeping Woman." They turned to the bronze face again. Slowly there crept into their minds the feeling that perhaps, in her slack eyes, her gasping mouth, her anguished hands there existed in truth some climax of sorrow. Lest they should be forced to reverse their preconceived opinions of Mr. Epstein, they hurried away from the bronze figures.

Jacob Epstein lounged about the gallery with an aggressive nervousness while such people peered at his bronze sculpture. His face, abnormal, fierce, flatulent, was twisted into expressions of politeness when people were introduced to him. His oversized hands and heavy feet, his awkward body bulging in its loose shrouds, made him look very much out of place among all those lovers of art. But Sculptor Epstein did not appear disconcerted. Had the history of his career flashed through his mind, he would have recalled how he had left America in 1902, how for three years he had studied in Paris how for 22 years he had lived in London listening to the insensate mouthings of academicians every time he displayed his work. Lately returned to the U. S. after his long absence, he could not find, in the people about him, any marked difference from the people who had been so amused and scornful many years ago. But there was one distinction. Most of these people pretended to like, where the others had pretended to dislike his work. Of the 44 bronzes none were priced at less than $1,000; two were offered for $5,000. Some had been bought on the first day of the exhibition.