It is a rollicking and antic affair when all the stable gang hold their annual get-together in the pristine showroom at Dwan. An orthopedic appliance takes dead aim at a 100 franc note and the glittering love-goddess winks from the corner pretending not to notice the plight of another bunch of used dolls all tied up and easy prey for the excitable honking device with plumes. But no one need worry, really, because that clean-cut young comic strip with all those neat spots is there, too. Of course at all these fun meetings there are some social crises: the black painting is trying to pretend he is not there at all, and that nice young lady sculptor is so prim and kind of reverent about things that she just isn’t mixing, isn’t even looking in the boxes or reading the wild signs. And then there always seem to be a few who don’t know how to live it up and just do paintings on canvas, but then the older generation does add tone to the group. Among those making the scene at the Dwan gala were Bob Rauschenberg, of the combine family; Arman, an eminent collector; Raysse, in sequins; Lichtenstein, of the Ben Day family; Oldenburg and Kienholz, with their lovely dolls; Larry Rivers, of the Banque Francaise; Ad Reinhardt, looking dashing in three shades of black, with Lee Bontecou, lovely in black and white. Music was supplied by Tinguely and his society machine. Others in attendance were Jim Dine, Yves Klein, Ray Parker, Robert Rosenquist, and the ghost of Smoky Stover.

—Doug McClellan