A day of rare romantic clouds - A rainy noon in a woods; feeling of sunshine about to come thru the trees – at the season when it seems summer is an eternal season –
The beauty of a flower does not exist in its form + scent, but in the associations it brings up; not because it tallies with certain abstract rules of beauty but because it has some subtle meaning for us.
I “wrote” in my mind, much of my career at the wall-paper mill. If only there were some magical way to get such mental exercises on paper!
A sultry day. Sky cloudless. Little breeze. Z-ing of katydids fills the air...
"...sun-soaked...A warm almost sultry September afternoon..."
At the end of a few hours I feel as if I had been existing in bedlam, my nerves raw, but nevertheless experiencing a sort of physical stimulation.
Jupiter surrounded by a white glow seen better when not looking directly at it. Where do the clouds go at night? Milky Way plain. Are they made of light? A vague misty light in the air. It is pleasant to go along this country road at night.
Music affects me more than any of the arts: painting, sculpture, poetry. It affects me almost as much as sunlight, or wind, or rain.
The beauty of Thoreau’s thoughts increases for me every time I open the book, I anticipate reading his Spring, Summer + Winter almost as much as I anticipate an early morning walk in the Dutchman’s.
Made tracing from the old tracings [during the later part of his career, Burchfield revisited paintings from 1917. He expanded the original work to create new larger works] I made several years ago, of the 1917 “Windswept Meadow”