Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

knitted object from one to another—when I woke up, I lay filled with a nostalgic yearning for the carefree comradeship of boyhood so strong it seemed unendurable.; 2. a visit to Birge’s—on the machine floor. Callahan, Ahean, Paddy Lyons & others around there—while we were talking (Jack) Babcock came in—I thought he was older—and stooped over, and it seemed to me that he had developed into a fussy pernickety work-fiend, who saw nothing else but performing his job in a meticulously covert way. He did not seem to recognize me, and when I told him my name, he did not seem to recognize me, and when I told him my name, he peered at me near-sightedly [sic] and said “no, it is impossible that you are Charlie Burchfield”—I could not remember his first name, and it worried me. I woke up, still bothered by it and for a long time I could not think of it.; ; ; ; ________________________; My mind is a blank as regards painting—I cannot seem to concentrate on anything very well.; Telegram late afternoon from “Fook” May. (Charlotte Devree) They had just completed a draft of museum directors & cities as to who are the 10 best painters at present in America. I was chosen as one of the 10 (Frank had told me something of this in N.Y.) would I be willing to name my best 10—etc.; I found I could name seven rather easily, but from then on I had too many of about equal importance (to me)—; ; ; ; ; ; Oct. 24—(Friday)—; A bright cheerful morning—wind flower leaves.; A.M. to City line for chicken for B’s birthday dinner Sunday Then B & I to Buffalo to buy B’s present’s (a scarf & blouse)—; P.M. more straightening up in studio.