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Page Two

events occurred that remain uppermost in my memory. I had agreed to go with a friend on a round of art galleries, because he hoped to find one where he could exhibit his paintings. Actually, this was a rather 
deperate undertaking. My friend's father was a wealthy mid-western manufacturer and was adamant in his refusal to send his son any money as he wanted him home in the family business. My friend, however, felt that if he could have a Paris exhibit, it would indicate he was making some inroad in the art world and his father might consent to help him.  In addition, there was another cold fact, the young artist's G.I. Bill had come to an end.

When I met my friend that morning, he had a push cart into which he had placed his paintings, and we went rolling along to the Rue de Seine and the adjoining streets, where practically every gallery on the Left Bank was located.

Even with the few galleries where the dealers would speak with us, the response was the same:

"I'm so sorry we are not taking on any more artists this year".

- or -

"I see that you are talented young man, but we don't show your style painting".

In the afternoon, we crossed to the Right Bank--what we encountered was equally dismal.  So, very discouraged, we felt we should return to the Latin Quarter.  But as we were passing a gallery, I suggested we might take just one more chance.

The dealer was the only person present, but as soon as he saw us he walked to the rear of the gallery and stood looking out of the window, his arms behind his back like Felix the cat.  After a wait, I cleared