When the English art critic John Russell was preparing an important retrospective exhibition of works by Balthus for the Tate Gallery, London, in 1968, he was instructed by the artist to state in the catalogue, “Balthus is a painter of whom nothing is known.” This extreme craving for privacy seems peculiar, especially on the part of an artist, an individual, after all, whose overriding purpose in life is to secure public appreciation of endeavors which inevitably reflect the innermost aspects of his being. It is an odd fact, though, that many artists have been secretive. Perhaps they have feared that the overt quest for admiration was already revealing too much, betraying secrets which had best be kept from the world, and even from themselves. The very willingness to exhibit creations produced in circumstances which are the ne plus ultra of privacy presupposes a certain tendency toward exhibitionism, an inclination akin to that which impels children to seek adult approval of make-believe playthings and imaginary dwelling places. Children, too, are secretive, of course, but they seldom advertise it and tend to avoid situations whereby their fantasies run the risk of grown-up consequences. An artist who seeks to make a mystery of himself seems to be playing at blind man’s buff with the far greater mystery which it is his professional purpose to unmask. Creation goes hand in hand with revelation, and the fullest measure of the former comes from a candid profusion of the latter, while common sense advises