(By Our Special Correspondent)

Three recent one-man exhibitions provide material for an interesting essay in contrast and comparison. There is, on the one hand, the work of an Auckland artist, Nelson Thompson, to consider.

In sharp contrast to the work essayed by Mr Thompson, we have a showing at the so-called "Cultural Centre Art Gallery", by Gordon Brown, a curiously introverted artist, whose work stands out in vivid contrast to that of Barry Brown and Don Driver, exhibited in the Centre Gallery.

Thompson is, essentially, a water-colourist, and a very good one; Brown, on the other hand, contrives at various media-gouaches, contes, water-colours and oils—but in none does he achieve the effect obtained by Thompson. Brown and Driver showed mostly oil paintings.

The work of these two young artists, Brown and Driver, is very experimental; lacking in any Indication as to either aims or future development, and, while some interesting effects are achieved, is generally of little import. I feel these two painters have a very long way to go yet. However, at least these two are moving somewhere; Brown gives one the impression that a sharp prod is needed to wake him up; his work is extremely repetitious in theme, design and effect.

Peculiarly animated work, vividly projected thought processes, as it were, are thrown at the viewer, who is rather at a loss to classify the author in terms of accepted cinteria.

Is Brown a futurist? Is he, as his titles lead one to suspect, having a go at social realism as well? Obviously he has been profoundly affected by contemporary European influences and trends In painting—as have, for that matter, Brown and Driver. All three, however, lean too heavily upon their masters.

In "Jacob's Ladder" and "First Breath of October," Brown shows us that he can combine a particular mood with freshness and cartoon-like vitality. In other work he is quite dead.

I visited, by the way, the so-called "Museum of Contemporary Art." I was amazed (with the exception of a Judy Cassals) to see so much down-right junk and spurious effusion. I'm afraid such works as "Interlobular Spaces," "X Mas (sic) in Hell," "Jan Uskopf," and "Spaceman" don't appeal to me. Neither does the price of 150 guineas asked for junk by the Director, tickle my fancy.

NZBC "Arts Review"

Just what exactly is the N.Z.B.C. trying to do with "Arts Review"? Is it trying to equate the Arts with an exclusively feminine viewpoint?

Opening these days with a few pretentious guitar strummings, capably backed by the acid dry monotone of Peter Bland, the show invites the listener to re-assess recent activities In the Arts with the aid of critics whose views he already knows. Owen Jensen may be a fine critic; Russell Bond's views we can read each morning, but as much as we may like or dislike reading reviews from them both, must we be subjected yet again to the same ideas?

Surely, the old panel discussion—with all its limitations—was more effective in bringing out differing points of view. Perhaps the present policy caters for illiterate critics?

The Galleries have been conspicuous for their absence on recent programmes or, more exactly, for their one totally inadequate and ludicrous appearance under the "Woman's Hour." Twice now, we have had interviews of Arts personalities (no doubt a value to the ladies), by Robin King. I feel Nelson Thompson was done a serious injustice; the re-broadcast "Woman's Hour" interview between himself and Robin King, over "Arts Review" was just plain silly. Why was there no criticism, no discussion of his works by critics?

One hopes that the N.Z.B.C. will wake its ideas up! To have whole editions devoted to discussion of Drama in New Zealand, or of the Theatre (with such eminent critics as B. Crump, Esq.) at a time when Wellington has a surfeit of musical and other events, Is nothing better than crazy planning.

The whole trouble with the old panel discussion, of course, was the difficulty in getting critics qualified to speak on the various arts—music, ballet, drama and the fine arts. We had music critics saying, "Well, I'm no expert on painting, but here goes . . ."(!)

However, we did get more than one man's opinion which is always refreshing. After all, a critic can only give his bona fide opinion to be "taken or left" by the listener. When we get several persons' opinions, then we have more opportunity to test them against our own reactions.

Unfortunately in New Zealand, there is an unhealthy public reaction towards a critic's opinion. If people disagree with the critic they immediately abuse him, taking his views as a personal Insult to their integrity. An Interesting illustration of this was manifested recently, when Roger Savage—who later appeared in an "Arts Review" edition—made a scathing criticism of one of the performances of the visiting Hungarian String Quartet. Who is to doubt his sincerity? There is no reason in the world; yet members of the National Orchestra—as though their professional status contained an implied right, ex officio, to abuse critics—leapt to the fray, pouring critically Invalid, ill-deserved vindictiveness at "R.S." But, it was noticeable, No constructive analysis of the particular performance was forthcoming.

It was most interesting to hear Savage's re-evaluation of the Quartet's playing. I rather think most listeners, and discriminating readers, would have taken "R.S.'s" opponents' childish jabberings at their face value.

—G.L.E.

Unrest in Brazil

Recently, the Brazilian National Union of Students started a campaign to recruit young men to fight in Cuba. An appeal was made to support any movement which would bolster the Fidel government.

Students joined with Industrial workers to hold demonstrations supporting the Cuban regime.

Customs Ban Books

Customs officers in Wellington have banned the importation of another large consignment of books.

Included in the bannings are: "Treasure Island," by R. L. Stevenson (an obscene reference to buried chests.)

"Fun in Bed," by Enid Blyton (a book of parlour games for sick children.)

The Fifth Symphony by Beethoven ("outrageous symbolism.)

Officials have sent "Jane's All the World's Ships" back to the publishers. They were told to delete all reference to naval.

Cuspidor

The small headmaster's good advice
Availed me not, I did not take it.
My father's hopes of scholarship
Went unfulfilled,
I did not seek it I resolved to sample life
And let Uncertain Future
Determine for my idle mind
If it had need for study.
Here, there and everywhere.
I carried on with clerking.
Trying many diverse ruts;
House and office, camp and ship.
Eventually, beneath the world,
I came against a man
Who always sought to get his flock
To study if they can
I said: Perhaps next year I will."
He thundered: "Do it now!"
Oh! I can hoar him still
What a bloody cow.

With no excuses good enough
To thwart that devil's aim
I trod the hated path that leads
To part-time madness.

Seven weary years I've spent
Climbing to and from
The Edifice above.
Seven thousand times I've felt
Frustration twice as deep
As that which snarls those tender lips
Whose peas Jail from the fork
An inch away.
Frustration at the guilty thoughts
When talking to a girl,
Not studying.
Frustration at the cruel shame
Of wasting intellect
On arid fact.
Frustration at the lack of time
To do one little thing
I wanted to.
Frustration which builds up,
Creates, and feeds upon
Its rotten self.

And I have felt life pass me by
While I delved in a book
To read the why's and what's of life
Instead of living it

Some characters who lectured
Could make sex seem dull,
And one so umhh'd and gabbled ahh
He made no sense at all.
But some of them were very good.
Both bald and hairy kind.
And even in my feeble mind
They planted seeds of thought.
(That is when I was able,
When making notes, to listen.)
After many lessons
I've wanted to consult
The spouting oracle
But this was seldom feasible;
Too many goons too little time.
And I have always wanted
To read each listed book
But did not have the price,
And if I tried to borrow them
I found them on reserve
Where they were little use.
With my own home to go to
I could not spend the night
In the grim and smokeless silence
Of the library.

Therefore those seeds have failed to grow
Beyond the fifty mark
Each subject's interesting depths
I've left untouched.

On wise and witty lecturer
Was quite delectable,
Hair as brown as nutmeg.
Eyes both green and blue.
For her there was but one good spot
Where we all wished to sit
The middle of the foremost row
In line with her left breast.
What, I wondered was nor line
In everyday affairs.
Belinda's brazen branch of love?
Or Tilly's subtle aim?
Had she suffered with a Nigel
Like the disappointed Chloe?
Or surrendered to a Kiwi
On the top of Ngauruhoe?
With what bold experience
That she had felt or done.
Did she compare the literature
Of metaphysic Donne?

What was it that she lectured
While I thought of all this?

The goons, Ah the goons.
Paper-Licensed hooligans
Who, we are told.
Make college life.
The cling, and the clang
As keen young mind
Whets keen young mind
(Like footballs touching in mid-air).
The cut and thrust of bright ideas,
(How did you do last year?
(What do you take this year?
(Have you done that essay?
(Have you got that book?
(Who is that big Sheila?
(Don't you think she's grouse?)
Once I hoard some goons decide
To go and Ban the Bomb
Some said why, and some why not.
But no-one did say how.

Such were my fellow travellers
At the evening swill
Upon that goddamned hill.

And now that I.
Like a Scotsman at Hadley Wood
Have lately come into the
Sunshine 01 a fuller life,
I look appreciatively
Into the clear brown eyes
Of my Golden Kiwi,
And I see I've learnt
That is of use,
Viz:
Not metre rhyme, nor sense.
That poetry needs must have

L. M.