Hearing that the reputable Midtown Galleries were last week exhibiting the paintings of a lady named Minna Citron, Manhattan critics bustled round to have a look. They found a quiet, sharp-featured, well-dressed Brooklyn housewife of 38 with two sons and an interest in cooking and psychoanalysis who is artistically something far rarer: a feminine satirist, troubled not by man's inhumanity to woman but by the follies of her own sex.
Fifteen pictures and a group of preliminary drawings were on view, all grouped under the generic title of "Feminanities." Typical was one called...
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