February in Paris was cold, windless and grey, and its people beset with chaotic politics, strikes and shortages (see FOREIGN NEWS). Last week many a Parisian found a refuge from these storms in the sparkling new Galerie des Carets. There hung the paintings of a man whom some conservative critics have come to prefer to Picasso. He was monkish old Georges Rouault, whose fat, smoldering judges, jeweled kings, whores, clowns and solitary Christs grow richer and stranger year by year. They looked not like paint but hot coals, caked angrily into patterns by a muscle-bound man with a trowel.
Unlike outdoorish Winslow...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
