(THE scene is laid in the large living room. It is Sunday afternoon and the table is fully laid for the friends who will come in. On the walls and round the room are the many art treasures Epstein has accumulated. The only pictures on the walls are a vigorous series of paintings, flower pieces and nudes, by Matthew Smith. They are rich and glowing in colour, painting of a quality rare in what Epstein calls "this anæmic age." There are a few Epsteins, a head of his wife, some baby heads of Peggy Jean and the mask of Meum. Through the glass doors can be seen two large Marquesan idols. This is the scene of nearly all our conversations, though occasionally we may wander into the next room or across the corridor into the vast glasscovered studio, full of shrouded figures, to discuss some particular work.)
A. L. H. What is art?
EPSTEIN. I was once asked very much the same question by a judge in a New York court. A Mr.