Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967), Insect Fantasy, 1917; graphite, ink, watercolor and conté crayon on paper, 22 x 15 ½ inches; Private Collection
Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, June 25, 1937
Monday, June 25, 2018
To the scene of Wednesday’s sketching to make more notes for the picture, which had been full of flaws. Afterwards I wandered southward and sat in a meadow by a woods. Here there were some glorious stalks of fleabane. This simple daisy somehow makes me humble. It is one of my favorites. It reaches back into some beautiful experience or chain of events in my boyhood. Today the sky is completely cloudless. Off to the north, the highlights of the sun on the headlights of my car twinkle like stars. Over the heat-hazed meadows the effect was fine. From the wood-depths came the strange call of the Veery thrush, several times repeated.
Then I explored north of the road, hoping to find a creek to bathe in. I did after a winding route thru a swampy pasture. The water was not deep, but it still had the soft freshness of rain-water about it and was delightful. What a wonderful “element” is water, one plunge into it, and years roll off of one’s back. After a while I ran about in an adjoining pasture.
Coming back, I paused in an open space to watch a huge monoplane go by. Still the last word in travel development, it seemed as natural as anything about me - trees, buttercups or grass. As [its] sound died away, there was a resulting sense of dead silence, then gradually I became conscious of a persistent humming of insects, that swelled louder & louder as the subconscious memory of the airplane’s motor receded. Tho I looked everywhere I could not see a single creature that would account for this throbbing sound. It grew more mysterious and seemed to be the pulse of the full overflowing life of June.
Charles E Burchfield, June 25, 1937- (Friday)