This is the kind of show that really throws the viewer on his mettle. Offered here is a selection of oddments from Parisian painting of the last hun­dred years. The problem is to find the art in it. Of course this problem of judgment is greatly complicated by ir­relevant questions of renowned names, famous styles, and current fashions in taste. At these prices few can afford to buy, but no one interested in painting can afford not to look. These are a few of the things one might see: An engag­ing piece of trivia, done in a few frivo­lous lines, by a fellow named Picasso; a deceptively easy water color of a Spanish dancer, which becomes a spoof on the absurdities of feminine dress and physical logic, (Dalí); a creamily pretty painting of a vacuous model pain­fully done by someone named Metzing­er; a mock comedy of pseudo-childish­ness characterized by remarkable va­riety in economy and becoming quite handsome the less it is looked at (Miró); an inept drawing of some monumental creatures relaxing on a Sunday lawn (Henry Moore); and an ugly-pretty paint­ing of an enigmatic girl which seems to be another of those perverse denials of skill à la Eilshemius (Moise Kisling). Renoir is here too, competently strain­ing in The Peppers and rather unin­volved, cleaning his brushes, in Woman with Guitar. And what do you do with a Phillipe Noyer? They’re all here and many more; Paris’ finest and most pa­thetic. Actually it seems as though she is the Artist and these are all only mir­rors of her moods. Her infinite nuance, her individuality, her perversity, spon­taneity and disarming charm. But will we never tire of this by now pointless pilgrimage?

––James Parks