Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

my musical work redeems my defects and raises me to mankind in its truest sense, begins to overwhelm and torture me. The only means of escaping these tormenting doubts and self-flagellations is to start a new task” ; (Tchaikovsky). I, too, Peter! And I wonder if we all are not alike. ; For my own part, I have fallen again into a slough [sic] of artistic insecurity. The work I have been doing seems trivial, and of no account whatever. I am divided between the thought that to prolong the inactivity is to increase it many-fold, and the feeling that perhaps a rest would refresh me and that then I would start anew with much more energy and many more ideas. But, a T––– says above, inactivity breeds all kinds of hideous humans. One is driven, by self-disgust to produce indifferent work, just so as to be during something, in the wild hope of redeeming one’s unworthiness. July 22, 1939 – (Saturday) – ; Days of futility – doubt – I cannot give direction to my thoughts; nor can I generate faith as any one idea, to pursue it to the exclusion of all others the only manner in which real work can be accomplished – ; ; Had frames for all my spring work made, and have prepared and painted them. This necessitated going over the things I have done, and they seem trivial