Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

spelled the doom of any sketching. While it rained, I drove to Machias by the north “Little Valley” road and came back to my “winding stream” by way of the Southern 242 road. I parked by the road again, to watch the valley below in the rain. ; Though the west was lightening the eastern sky was still darkly overcast with cool blue-gray storm clouds. Reflected in the stream below, this gray sky, due to the stream’s such yellow green and green banks, became a luscious liquid violet, clear transparent and watery, a beautiful thing to behold and creating a strange combination with the bank’s reflection, which was of a hot olive hue. The meadows beyond the red rusty railroad were filmed over with the delicate blue-violet mist of great beds of blooming iris. Deep rich violet also were the depths under tree groups on the hill above. ; By a vacant house I found some lemon-lilies blooming and picked a bouquet, later adding blue iris from a roadside swamp. ; I drove slowly homeward. June 13 – (Thurs.); A restless night, tortured by all manner of remorse, regrets, about my work and life in general. ; A.M. A cool misty cloud day-life seems good again. The war has become remote again, and my own feeling again that my job is my painting. I have the feeling again today that the whole struggle is a political and economic one direct by the jealousies of minority groups in each country, and that great masses of innocent men are being used by the