P. M. Out Ellsworth Road, sketching – terrific high, wind looming clouds– Bluebirds & singing of telegraph wires – Host of redwings while I was in a gale on a hill painting the sun & clouds —
Even in the very heart of this steel town with its rows of identical sooty houses and steel mills with their tall black chimneys, [it] seemed only full of glamour and mystery...
About four o'clock this morning I woke up. Bright moonlight was streaming in the windows; I got up and looked out; it was a weird scene of ghostly moonlight, dark sky and shadowy earth.
Spring 'officially' arrived this evening - such artificial seasonal divisions are meaningless. Spring arrives when it arrives;
A beautiful, perfect winter night – the moon in the full – so bright that the mountains are barely visible – the snow creaks under our feet…
Noon is powerful - wind-whirled clouds dancing across the morning sun, edges quivering with March fire
Erin go Bragh! Hurrah for Ireland! Everyone had green or orange on to-day.
I would see our western N.Y. landscape, not in terms of modern life...but rather in terms of eternal verities of the primeval earth..which can never be erased if only we look beneath the surface.
The best work is done in retrospection. Even when working directly from nature, I am painting from memory...
All of my sins of omission in connection with my son haunt me.