Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967), End of the Day, 1938; watercolor on paper, 28 x 48 inches; Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia, Joseph E. Temple Fund, 1940
Charles Burchfield, Journals, January 19, 1962
Sunday, January 19, 2020
Jan. 19, Friday
A brilliant morning, the creek a blinding glare –
A.M. – To Dr. Gurney for check-up. When half-way in on the Thruway, the sunny morning was suddenly blotted out by thick amber smog from the manufacturing flats.
It seems as if the Dr. thinks I will have to go on the insulin by injection; and how soon that might be determined by what today’s tests indicate – and it was clear he felt I ought to stay put in the hospital rather than go in and out.
In discussing the celebration and events attending the opening of the new Albright-Knox gallery wing, he said that in the Lockwood Memorial Library where a convocation is to be held tomorrow, they had put up pictures lent from the gallery and private collections, and among them was my “Spring Rain in the Woods” owned by Mrs. Alan Oppenheimer.
While waiting my turn, in the waiting-room I picked up an ancient copy of “Time”, and under heading of “Scenic” came upon an interesting article on rabies spread by bats; especially those inhabiting large caves in the S.W. – by tests they proved that the disease could be contracted without any direct contact with the bats (such as bite or other physical means) – it seemed to be in the air. Descriptions of the conditions inside the caves were revolting.
Almost noon when I got home.
After dinner we watched “The Millers” in a tour of the new wing with Seymour Knox and Gordon Smith. After this we went food shopping -
Spent an hour in the studio in a fruitless search for the missing drawings –
Tea – and then for a nap – however, for some reason I was keyed up, and thinking too hard, so I had to give it up.
The other day Norman Ruth was reminiscing about the time when I had them do all of my framing, and then used to put some of them in the window – Workmen on their way home would cluster about the window, looking at the pictures with evident pleasure. It gave me a feeling of nostalgia and even regret, for long ago I lost contact with that kind of audience; an audience whose liking of my work gave me great pleasure.
Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, January 19, 1962