Domesticated Chisels

The world's great art capitals seldom produce artists: they attract them. Up to last year, when Nazi armies dispersed its teeming traffic in art, Paris was the world's No. 1 art centre. But only a relatively small percentage of the art that Paris bought, sold and chattered about was made by Parisians.

When World War II swept over Europe, the world's art capital, by default, became Manhattan. The art centre of 57th Street, always cosmopolitan, began to bristle more than ever with foreign names.

Symptomatic of this international art trend toward Manhattan was a show of contemporary U. S. sculpture put on last week at Manhattan's youthful Buchholz Gallery.

The gallery's enterprising director, bald, sad-eyed Curt Valentin, had chosen 26 assorted bronzes, terra cottas, plaster, wood and granite pieces by 16 of the ablest U. S. sculptors. All of them were U. S. citizens, but less than half of them were U. S.-born & bred. Deftest sculptures exhibited were by Ukrainian-born Abstractionist Alexander Archipenko, German-born Heinz Warneke, Spanish-born Jose de Creeft, who teaches at Manhattan's New School for Social Research.

Like any typical Paris sculpture show of the 19303, Director Valentin's U. S. exhibition was long on abstractions and elephantoid nudes, short on frock-coat portraits and winsome nymphs (exceptions: Simon Moselsio's sloe-eyed Nude, John B. Flannagan's dreamy bronze Mother and Child--see cuts). None of the pieces showed any recognizable relation to the U. S. scene. Most abstract of all were: 1) a nut-&-bolt portrait by David Smith, virtuoso in scrap iron (TIME, Nov. 18); 2) a jittery, swaying mobile made out of fence wire and iron by U. S. Mobilist Alexander ("Sandy") Calder. Most arresting exhibit: a crawling, sluglike, headless, armless and legless female form in plaster with three hips, two breasts and a navel, modeled with necrophilic realism and euphemistically labeled The Span of Life, by Cleveland-born sculptor Hugo Robus. Prices ran from $100 to $1,500.

A German refugee from the galleries of Paris, London and Berlin, Curt Valentin settled in Manhattan four years ago, opened a gallery with the help of art-loving Motor Scion Walter P. Chrysler Jr., for whom he had bought many a picture. He quickly made a name as one of the most progressive and choosy of syth Street's art impresarios. But morose Impresario Valentin dislikes selling pictures, would rather have a job in a museum. Says he sadly: "Gallery business is sometimes fun, but I hate having to make money."

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.