"The snow came a little after noon. At first one or two flakes began to float down... The wind started to rise and our snow-storm had commenced. Snow-storms always had an irresistible fascination..."
Days of confusion; inability to start painting.
In studio, got to work on a new picture. It grew out of a note made quite a few years ago, an idea that came to mind on hearing the opening bars of the Sibelius Fifth Symphony (The Horn Call)
However it developed into an entirely [new] idea – namely a storm day in late autumn – the key to the idea being a black jagged stump surrounded by the blood red leaves of a swamp maple—as if they were the last glowing embers of the fires of autumn – (at present my title for it is indeed “The Dying Embers of Autumn.” From a storm sky white clouds scatter snowflakes to Earth— At the left is a white birch with rich yellow leaves, some of them flying across the sky and earth.
By this time it was time to go in for a rest. But the dead goldenrod and corn, lit up by the horizon sun attracted me, [so] that I pause to look at it—a beautiful scene
A world of white – everything covered, even to the finest wires. Yesterday’s threat made good
This is the powerful freakish poetry of the town.
Life should be lived from one moment to another – Living it that way, existence is full of precious incidents...
– it is the voice of eternal beauty coming out of the universe –
I planted crocus bulbs tonight, it seemed strange that these little dry bulbs planted in the cold black earth...
During the years of his greatest painting activity, Delacroix wrote little if anything in his journal. This is easily understood—when a painter is busy at his work, he has little inclination to write—in fact, writing in a journal of course is self-expression, and really only a spiritual need when the painting impulse is low.
Thus I have found little or nothing to say about my several sketching trips of the last two weeks, excursions filled with hard work and innumerable impressions. The natural effects in the country this fall are of such unusual beauty that I have the frantic feeling I had in my youth, when I felt that I simply must record everything I saw from day to day.