Where all is weak and clothed in failing forms,
Where skies and trees and beauties speak of change,
And always wear a garb that's like our minds,
We hear a cry from those who are about
And from within we hear a quiet voice
That drives us on to do, and do, and do."



The persistent necessity for creation is strikingly proved by the
prolific output of the Arts. Year after year, as we whirl through space
on our mysterious destiny, undeterred by apparent futility, the primal
instinct for the visualization of dreams steadily persists. Good or bad,
useful or useless, it must be satisfied. It amounts to a law, like the
attraction of the sexes. Discouraged in some directions, it will out in
others, never permanently satisfied. Each age and people must have its
own art as well as what remains of the arts of past ages and peoples -
in spite of scant patronage, commercial limitation, and critics'
hostility. The philosopher tells us that everything has been done, yet
we must do it again - personally.

Art is so much a part of life that to discourage it is to discourage
life itself - as if one would say: "Others have lived; all imaginable
kinds of life have been lived. Therefore it is unnecessary for you to
experience life."

The plastic and pictorial decoration of an Exposition offer unusual
opportunity to the Artist, at the same time imposing handicaps - the
briefness of time, the poverty of material. It affords chances for
experiment, invention, and originality only limited by the necessary