ABSTRACT
This year’s Salon des Indépendants, in so far as it counts at all, is a “ Cubist ” Salon. In an exhibition which stretches nearly to the horizon, where anyone may send his pictures without fear of rejection, for there is no jury, and where apparently everyone does, the critic may reasonably hope to meet with adventures. Somewhere amid the jostle of fashionable, glossy efficiency and crude or glossy incompetence he may light haphazard on a lure beckoning to unknown delights. Somewhere in the ruck may be the choice encounter of a lifetime.
