It Was The Basilica Of Gossip, The

Perhaps The Rhinos And She-crocodiles Whose Gyrations Between Mortimer's And East Hampton Gives Us Our Vision Of Social Eminence Today Are Content To Entrust Their Faces To Andy Warhol's Mingily Cosmetic Polaroidising, But One Would Bet They Would Rather Go To Sargent.

Modernism Is The Protein Of Our Cultural Imagination.

What Has Our Culture Lost In 1980 That The Avant-garde Had In 1890? Ebullience, Idealism, Confidence, The Belief That There Was Plenty Of Territory To Explore, And Above All The Sense That Art, In The Most Disinterested And Noble Way, Could Find The Necessary Metaphors By Which A Radically Changing Culture Could Be Explained To Its Inhabitants.

We've Got A Recipe For Disaster. It's Huge -- This Combination Of Body Image Issues And The Drug's Weight Loss Appeal.

It Was Van Gogh's Madness That Prevented Him From Working; The Paintings Themselves Are Ineffably Sane, If Sanity Is To Be Defined In Terms Of Exact Judgment Of Ends And Means And The Power Of Visual Analysis.