By Colin Bredenberg
Nothing suits a critic’s nose better than the smell of fresh meat. True to form, we vultures most prefer the newly deceased. In this article, I have the pleasure of displaying my newest discovery—Olive Haverly—whose story is tragic to the casually acquainted, but hardly worthy of frequent regard. Few have seen her genius, and fewer her raw vindiction—both have driven me continuously since I first discovered her Self Portrait #1, and my redeeming hope, as a member of the critical class, is to be her vindicator.