Spring really comes to Manhattan with the yearly drums of Ringling's circus. But its premonitory word, its first delicious promise of impending carnival, is the opening of the exhibition of the Society of Independent Artists.
Ten years ago these Independents had their first show. Having survived the cannonade of laughter that welcomed them, they proceeded, under the chaperonage of John Sloan, to exhibit year after year a freakish rout of paintings wilder than any parade of camels and elephants. The entire roof of the Waldorf is theirs to use; anyone who has...
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