Large panoramic expanses of desolate, wind-swept landscapes are occasionally populated by a sparse figure in the highly romantic paintings of Okamura. The artist is best when he is most abstract, i.e., most removed from Barbizonesque naturalism. He can wield a skillful brush and swoop a mean series of rococo curves when he wants to, as in Ryder, Coleridge and Shadows. Here, the texture of his pigment is varied, along with the mood of the form he is describing, and his pearly rendering of flight seems to be a special pictorial device all his own. Too many of the pictures, however, are banal in their triteness, arbitrarily composed, and drab in color. The figures rarely have any formal relationship to the ambiances they are in, and appear cut-out at best, or as if they belong some place else at worst. With careful editing, this could have been a much better exhibition.

—Arthur Secunda