Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

so hilarious and enjoyed our ourselves so much, that later, I could not help but feel that it was a good thing for us, that the “disaster” had occurred.
P.M. B & I to S––‘s. Not a very pleasant after-noon. I feel sorry for S–––, because he has all the yearning of an artist for the freedom to paint, yet his “talent” is very slight, and what little he has he dissipates in attempting large dramatic themes beyond his ability ever to bring to any kind of realization. Moreover, he makes the same mistake that many artists at this time are making – i.e. he feels that the must put down on canvas his protest against all the horror and devastation that is going on. Any man, with only the slightest sense of humaneness, feels that ghastliness of our present catastrophy [sic] yet it is not given to all of us, to be able to surely express it in our art – and an artist of maturity should know whether or not he has that power and if he has not, to leave the theme alone. S–––, obviously has not, but he does not realize it.
Both of them are homesick for New York, and can see no good in Buffalo – which is understandable, but they should bury it within themselves. Much of our sympathy for them was dissipated by their young son, who is so thoroughly untrained and spoiled as to be completely obnoxious.
We felt, at length, our nerves frayed, and our minds in a turmoil. We had planned, as an antidote, to go see “Desperadoes” at the Lafayette – however, a long queue of ticket buyers gave evidence of an overpacked house, so we took a walk out Main Street, bought coffee and sandwiches at a corner drugstore