Three years ago it occurred to me, as it does about twice a month, that I was an exceedingly ignorant person. The subject of my ignorance this time was modern art, particularly in the surrealist, abstract and cubistic areas. And with the resolution which I also make about twice a month I determined to educate myself.
Uncharacteristically, this resolution persisted. I read some books. I haunted the Museum of Modern Art at every visit to New York. I stood owlishly in front of works for half an hour at a time, expecting that eventually I would register the same ecstasy as that registered on the faces of two fifteen-year-old girls whose evident fascination for these twisted pieces of wire and asymmetrical configurations fascinated me.
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