were as beautifully executed as any fine English water color.
Simple things such as a few garden vegetables, a vase of cut flowers, an old barn, present all the problems there are to master. Each of these may be a vehicle for your individual expression. Each can be so beautiful as to be worthy of a place in a fine arts gallery. That is the scope of things to be seen, felt, and set down. Clouds were there for Turner; they are here for you and will l>e here for your great-grandson. The qualities of light on flesh are present for you as they were for Velasquez, and you have as much right to express yourself as he had, and much less superstition and prejudice to combat. You can set up the almost identical pan of apples with which Cezanne gave a lasting message to the art world.
You can look for yourself at the haze of atmosphere that entranced Corot or the burst of late-afternoon light that entliralled Times. Art will never die—it just awaits eyes to see and hands and brain to interpret. The paintable waves will not cease breaking with Frederick Waugh, nor will pictures be forgotten with the
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