Charles E. Burchfield in his own words
From the age of seventeen until the end of his life, American watercolor painter Charles E. Burchfield wrote in journals that chronicled his artistic and intellectual development. These journals reveal much about his unique vision, love of nature and gift for writing. Burchfield’s passion for writing could not be contained in the journals alone. Throughout his career, his moods, ideas and personal critiques were also recorded on thousands of scraps of paper and studies for paintings as well as in letters to family, friends and colleagues. His complex and layered visual language points to a complex human being. The inner triumphs, struggles and ambitions of his career are reflected and recorded in his own words and serve as an inspiration for all.
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
A storm like this is a momentous occasion. All afternoon it came down. Down down down and as I looked out the window I wondered it did not make a roaring sound. The silence!
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
How can I get out of this slough? Everything I attempt is useless. – A bitterly raw, damp December day –
Monday, December 11, 2017
"...Houses various tones of steely grey – startle white windows of frost..."
Sunday, December 10, 2017
A note to Posterity—What I want is a circular museum, large enough to house these four season transitions and six month transitions
Transcription from the tape recording of the inauguration ceremony for Dedication: The Charles Burchfield Center, Buffalo State University College, December 9, 1966
Saturday, December 9, 2017
DR. BULGER: I’ve kidded Charlie a little bit, I mean that red vest…my favorite bird is the flicker, and I accused Charlie of putting them in all these pictures, but he insists that they’re woodpeckers that he puts in his pictures. But I think…that vest…Charlie, … more
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
To Symphony Concert. It revives the poetry in me why need it be revived? I am anxious for a ramble in the Bottoms - then let me steep myself in its poetry - no sight of hideous city.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
A bright “boisterous” windy day, — a day like early march. It is a dangerous thing to become detached from human affairs. Sympathy should be felt for those who struggle in the pit.
Monday, December 4, 2017
"...I have not heard the wind in the tree-tops for months. Today the sun seemed to roll along the top of a snow bank..."
Sunday, December 3, 2017
Each picture, as I looked at it, became translated into the actual scene of the house itself, so that I, in truth, was the child, grown up, but being allowed a peep into a lost world.
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Already it is definitely December. Yesterday morning it was still November — fine cold misty rain out of the southwest void of gray sky, heavy oppressive pall over the earth, a feeling of something terrible about to happen. — but as the day wore on, with little wind … more