Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

May 13, 1922; It is a morning of heavy opaque haze – The sun has the peculiar “silvery-brassy” color peculiar to the emerald & cerulian (sic) foliage of spring – there is a haunting woods-like gloom in the dark buckeye lined streets – the foliage hangs simply in great candelabra like masses – a great lush over them. Street cleaners & teamsters somehow do not join in this idyllic setting – The orioles & yellowbirds are here today –; I spent most of the afternoon putting up some of my sketches on the wall. At late afternoon I sit & think of the brilliant sunshine pouring into the room – downstairs a child is playing with a mouthorgan – the most aimless wanderings over the scale of a mouthorgan attains a sort of music – it is reminiscent of the plaintive South – of the negro myths of days that are “gone by” – The sunlight pours down in a brilliant flood –