If modern art had been capable of scaring Henry McBride, he would have been a gibbering maniac long ago. As critic for the New York Sun, he had exposed himself to all of it, and had vehemently defended most of it. But last week even Henry McBride was baffled. "These sculptures," he wrote, "are the queerest that have ever come to us from abroad with such high recommendations."
Along the walls and in the corners of a Manhattan gallery, eerie creatures of wrinkled plaster and bronze stalked or stood like forlorn little Whiffenpoofs that had somehow...
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