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[[underlined]] from a review in Time Magazine, January 14, 1935 [[/underlined]]

"...on view were a succession of carefully drawn studies that might be landscapes, trees, sky, the ends of old houses and narrow streets, but were actually elaborately conceived studies in pure color... no matter how gay the canvases, they paled beside the personality of the painter. Still unknown to the general public, Oscar Florianus Bluemner has been a pet of the U.S. art world for 25 years. His friends jammed the gallery last week. Fellow artists, retired critics, dealers, fell over each other in their eagerness to tell newsmawks about his cat Jochen, his accent, his cigars, his career as portritist, architect, bartender, philosopher.
"Oscar Florianus Bluemner comes from Hanover, Germany. His father was an architect who had built up a nice practice in Italianate brick churches in the south Tyrol. At the age of 18 Oscar Bluemner gave his first portrait exhibition in Berlin, shortly afterward won medals at the Royal Academy where he was studying painting and architecture. In 1892 an artistic argument with the All Highest, Wilhelm II, caused him to leave Germany suddenly for the U.S. For two years he lived in Bowery flophouses, working as a bartender when he could, selling packets of needles on the sidewalk at other times.
Then came a wave of prosperity. He resumed his profession of architect, practicing for 20 years in an office on Manhattan's 42nd Street. As a painter he exhibited in the Armory Show of 1913... since 1929 the Whitney Museum has bought three of his canvases. [[strikethrough]]Since his architectural practice evaporated he has never made much money but he has not lacked critical appreciation.[[/strikethrough]]
[[strikethrough]]Now at the age of 67[[/strikethrough]]he lives[[strikethrough]]in what he likes to call 'the last house[[/strikethrough]] in South Braintree, Massachusetts' with his musical daughter Vera, his son Robert, a black cat and a pair of bluebirds. Forty-three years in the U.S. have not changed an accent that would make the fortune of any German comedian. His enormous Gladstond collars generally have the patina of an ancient manuscript. He hates beds and regular meals, cooks what he wants when [[strikethrough]]his[[/strikethrough]] he is hungry and sleeps on the attic floor rolled up in a blanket. To counteract his habit of forgetting things his watch, his pocketbook, fountain pen, keys, etc. are attached to his clothes by an intricate system of safety pins and odd bits of string. He knows Goethe's Faust by heart, writes and speaks Latin fluently, discourses familiarly on the philosophy of Nietzsche, Spengler, hates beer.
With the greatest of gusto and good humor he ceaselessly tries to explain his theories of the emotional value of color, and in particular his fondness for brilliant reds. Slow-witted listeners generally retire baffled, content that the 'Vermillionaire's' colors, whatever they may mean, are pure, shrewdly chosen, and form most decorative patterns.