Jane Wilson, a well-known New York artist, is represented by a show of recently done, and extremely evocative, landscape paintings. The quality of the ex­hibit is expressed perfectly in these lines from Proust: “How often during our walks have not my friends known me to halt like this at the turning off of an avenue, or beside a clump of trees, and ask them to leave me alone for a minute. Nothing came of it. I shut my eyes and made my mind a blank to recruit fresh energies for my pursuit of the past, then suddenly re-opened them, all in an attempt to see those same trees as if for the first time. I could not tell where I had seen them. I could recognize their shapes and their group­ing, their outline seemed to have been traced from some beloved drawing that trembled in my heart. But I could tell no more of them and they themselves seemed by their artless passionate atti­tude to say how sorry they felt not to be able to make themselves clear, not to be able to tell me the secret that they well knew I could not unriddle.”

—James Monte