I have made a statement on my living-room wall, but since few people will see it there, I wish to describe it. Above the bookcase hang nine pictures, not chosen for the purpose of making a statement but for enlivening the room. The rightmost two, by the same artist, are brush and ink studies of a New Mexico homestead. The next six represent a diversity of human attitudes and artistic techniques:
A lithograph of a man dozing while the sand in the hourglass beside him runs out is followed by a charcoal sketch of a baseball pitcher studying home plate before the windup.
Below the pitcher is a print of an oil painting of a young woman in a long, blue dress reading a book while her spaniel slumbers at her feet.
The scratchboard above and to the left is also of a woman and dog, but they are in a darkened room and the dog is barking at the person, seen in silhouette, who is rapping at the window.
Below that is a wood engraving of a woman fleeing into the hills at night, her small child perched on one shoulder.
The sixth picture in this subgroup is a simple pencil sketch of a girl in her early teens.
While each of these pieces has merit, and the arrangement is pleasing enough, no statement has yet been made. For this, one must look to the final picture on the wall, a small photograph of two derelicts in a sidewalk meditation. How do they view the feast of fancy and finish before them? One is obviously disgusted - ''Bah!'' fairly leaps from his features. His companion, leaning into him as if for support, is lost in an amazed reverie, his eyes glazed with wonder. Thus, unwittingly and unerringly, they summarize all that can be said of art.