“a small picture by Wyndham Lewis”

I’m reading The Soul of a Bishop, a moderately amusing wartime fantasy by H.G.Wells about the spiritual troubles of the Bishop of Princhester.

His doctor prescribes experimental psychotropic drugs, which give him an alarming vision of God. He wants to discuss it, and so goes to the room of an advanced thinker. Wells’s description of her room reminded me of the Bloomsbury/Vorticism day at the NPG last Saturday:

But when he got to her great airy flat overlooking Hyde park, with its Omega Workshop furniture and its arresting decoration, he was not so sure whether this encounter was so exactly the thing he had desired as he had supposed…
He had a feeling he was taking an afternoon off from God. The adventurous modernity of the room in which he waited intensified that. One whole white wall was devoted to a small picture by Wyndham Lewis. It was like a picture of an earthquake in a city of aniline pink and grey and keen green cardboard, and he wished it had never existed.
He turned his back on it and stared out of the window over the trees and greenery…

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