Charles Burchfield, Journals, May 13, 1936

P.M. East, towards Varysburg to work on cemetery picture. Raining heavily, so to Weathersfield Springs, to visit cemetery there. Able to drive in and park right by an old stone. I sit cozily here, and make a drawing while torrents of rain come down. Thence, (the sun having come out) to Warsaw, and to the high plateau east, to wait for evening. Park on a side road, where I can see out over the wide valley to the west. I get out my lunch and watch meanwhile, a great storm approaching. The far hill lit up mistily, and of a pale silvery green color, with the dark blue-gray bank of cloud just beyond, which was topped with light billowy clouds; the sun still shining serenely. As the storm slowly advanced, the clouds spread out and upward, the sun disappeared, and the blackness of the clouds low down increased, now the hill turned to a deep blue green, darker than the sky, the foremost clouds grew whiter, and shifted to and fro nervously; a few now green trees stood out brilliantly on the edge of the valley, clawing raggedly; at the last the clouds tossed about more crazily, the roar of the rain and wind sought up the hillside, and the depths of the clouds had a sinister look; low in the east was a streak of cold, brilliant sky, throwing a strange pallor over the land. The storm broke and earth and sky seemed merged into a solid gray-green mist.

Later, back to the cemetery. The rain had ceased, the air rapidly growing colder, the wind increasing- the sky was overcast with heavy cold clouds in layers. As I was dressed in the thinnest of clothes, I soon saw I would be unable to work unless I could somehow protect myself- I solved the trouble partly by stuffing a blanket around my waist and one around my shoulder. Had great difficulty working, my hands growing numb, my feet cold, and the wind constantly shaking at my easel. Once in the east thru an opening in the heavy blanket of clouds, was a greenish patch of sky, with a fragment of a rainbow showing- in the west, the sun, just on the very horizon’s edge, gleamed a cold sparkle of gold in an orange slit.

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, May 13, 1936