Carron O Lodge

Publishing Office: 67, Long Acre, W.C. THE LONDON SALON The Committee of the Third London Salon of the Allied Artists’ Association, Ltd., express a regret in their catalogue that the number of exhibits this year does not come up to their expectations. We are afraid that we cannot share their sorrow. To examine critically some twelve hundred odd exhibits in one day is a sufficient trial, even in the most favourable circumstances; but when, in addition, it is necessary to wander about the Albert Hall and risk one’s neck climbing over chairs to get at some of the pictures, the task is already almost superhuman. It may be that these adverse conditions have slightly jaundiced our purview, but, at any rate, we left the hall with the idea that the dreary show of unimaginative, uninspired art was usurping the most cherished prerogative of the Royal Academy. With one solitary exception, there is not—at least, as far as the pictures are concerned—a single glimpse of even embryo genius in the whole lot. The example that proves the rule is the work of a young man whose untimely death has robbed the world of one who promised to become a great artist. Caron Oliver Lodge possessed imagination and skill; his line work was as sure and graceful as Watteau, while his interpretation of his own dreams was instinct with real horror and fear. His death is a loss to art. But looking over the remainder, it is a matter of surprise how many mediocrities dub themselves artists. At the most five per cent, of the exhibitors call for any attention at all, and a good half of them are to be noted more for their faults than their virtues.