Painter Morris Graves is a special pet of Manhattan's artiest art lovers, but he is careful to keep 3,000 miles between himself and their cocktail parties. His strange paintings, completely uninfluenced by the fads of 57th Street, look as if they might have been done by a lama in the peaks of Tibet. Graves has done little to dispel that illusion. When his temperas were first shown and acclaimed at Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art (TIME, Feb. 2, 1942), critics and writers excitedly wired Seattle for information about him. The tall, cadaverous recluse sent them a characteristic aphorism instead. "Vision," he...
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