London may be
unaware that the value of the best work of this new school is permanently
and definitely settled--outside London. So much the worse for London. For
the movement has not only got past the guffaw stage; it has got past the
arguing stage. Its authenticity is admitted by all those who have kept
themselves fully awake. And in twenty years London will be signing an
apology for its guffaw. It will be writing itself down an ass. The writing
will consist of large cheques payable for Neo-Impressionist pictures to
Messrs. Christie, Manson, and Woods. London is already familiar with this
experience, and doesn't mind.
* * * * *
Who am I that I should take exception to the guffaw? Ten years ago I too
guffawed, though I hope with not quite the Kensingtonian twang. The first
Cezannes I ever saw seemed to me to be very funny. They did not disturb my
dreams, because I was not in the business. But my notion about Cezanne was
that he was a fond old man who distracted himself by daubing. I could not
say how my conversion to Cezanne began. When one is not a practising
expert in an art, a single word, a single intonation, uttered by an expert
whom one esteems, may commence a process of change which afterwards seems
to go on by itself.
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