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Updated: May 20, 2025
It had been a great success, and the only time I had felt lonely was in a crowded restaurant in San Diego, where J and I had had many jolly times in past summers. On the Smiling Hill-Top who could be lonely with the ever-changing sea and sky and sunsets. I dare not describe the picture, as I don't wish to be put down as mad or a cubist.
He is a square man whose portrait could be properly done only by a Cubist. "Too much history, my friend!" he shouted, getting up with the manner of one accustomed to making dinner-table speeches. "What most of us are coming to Egypt for is mummies. Egyptian history is too troublesome, anyhow, for a normal man to grasp. Give me mummies! There's something in them. Now, there's Mena.
I was inclined to agree with her, but in silence I went on looking through the notes I had made concerning the extraordinary case which must be solved quickly if the solution were to be of any benefit to the country. Quarles was also silent, continuing his work as an amateur cubist.
This year Zuloaga is the craze, and several of his canvases will come to life. Do you care for Zuloaga?" "Immensely, but " Kedzie said, wondering just what Zuloaga did to his canvases. She had seen a cubist exhibition that gave her a headache, and she thought it might have something to do with Zulus.
"This will show you how stubborn she is: she pretends she does not remember my name. I don't mind her calling me Polly, but I do think she should address my letters to Mr. Peter Perkins and not Polly. I have known her ever since we were both of us babies and she must remember what my parents call me, even though she never did call me Peter herself," said the poor cubist who looked ready to weep.
"And I don't care how many cubist pictures you paint up there so long as you ain't noisy about it." He fingers his soft hat nervous, smiles sort of embarrassed, and remarks, "But but I'm not an artist either, you know." "Well, well!" says I. "Two misses, and still in the air. Is it anything you can speak of in public?"
The long-haired artist, who looked miraculously like pictures of Robert Louis Stevenson, smiled down at his queer, slender-legged little daughter in the curious Cubist frock; and she smiled back and snuggled up and rested her cheek on his arm. There seemed to be a deep and silent understanding between them.
Indeed, she didn't know what to say; she was taken aback, she was at a loss. She had expected a cubist masterpiece, and here was a picture of a man and a horse, not only recognisable as such, but even aggressively in drawing. Trompe-l'oeil there was no other word to describe the delineation of that foreshortened figure under the trampling feet of the horse.
Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian steppes, and in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an Egyptian temple excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with difficulty and at great expense had buried there. She did not know what to do about it. She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of their homes.
There is in my possession at this minute a masterful depiction of a tall, bearded, horrified man who, clad in an anonymous rig of goat skins, with a fantastic umbrella clasped weakly in one huge paw, bends to examine an indication of humanity in the somewhat cubist wilderness whereof he had fancied himself the owner.... It was then that I noticed the walls.
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