The big news on Manhattan's art-marketing 57th Street last week was a single picture. It had taken three years of planning and three more years of painting. Peter Blume's 6-ft.-wide canvas, which he called The Rock, was a complex allegory of building and decay, done with photographic, Technicolored precision.
Like it or not—and some gallerygoers decidedly did not—the painting had authority and punch. In the fast-stepping world of modern art (which turns out an even higher percentage of grade B quickies than Hollywood) it was a supercolossal production. As with all such productions,...
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