Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, November 16 - 24, 1942

The Metropolitan "Artists for Victory" jury meeting. I do not intend to try to give a complete account of this event as time and my present energy are not sufficient for the task.

(As this is being written later (Dec. 9.) much that seemed interesting or important at the time, has since faded.)

Mere physical facts now seem to have little point - The submission of over 7000 oils and water-colors, of which we retained 500 - The manner of voting (the anonymous electrical system) the expert handling of picture by the Metropolitan staff (they must have rehearsed it thoroughly) The time it consumed - Mon am to Sunday noon.

At this date, not much remains in memory of this vast pageant of pictures - the bulk of it was stupidly bad and boring - only rarely were pictures bad or naive enough in their concept, to raise a laugh (never once was a picture, ridiculed because it was bad - if the intention was honest, it passed by without comment - it was only the cheap exhibitionists who raised our sardonic laughter - viz; a badly painted female nude drawing a low [illegible] a string from her crotch to her chin, drew the instantaneous response from Speicher "Ah, she's playing an A on her G-String" much to our hilarious delight. Many times, when there were long stretches of dull pictures, I had to fight sleep.

Of the number we retained - I remember that many of them gave me great pleasure and stimulation - but I do not recall that there were any really great pictures among them - Perhaps it is not easy to recognize "great" pictures under such circumstances. I find it hard to recall specific picture. When my own "Indian Summer" came up by mistake, I was distinctly disappointed in it, and embarrassed. (Not that I mention it as a possible "great" picture I missed (!) but only that I thought it was better than it seemed at that moment.)
Most vivid and most [illegible] part of the experience was the association (at lunch and at work) with the other jury members - As nearly as I can remember (without consulting the prospectus) they were: Speicher, Kroll, Nutkins, Davey, Sheets, Sample, Bohrod, Hayman Adams, Beall & Myself as regulars with Corlex James, Schnakenburg, Gladys R. Davis, & Johanson (who never appeared) as alternates -

Of these only James, Sample, Adams, Bohrod and Mrs. Davis had I never met before. Of the others, they mostly improved upon repeated acquaintance, new facets of their personality being revealed to me. For example I had known Davey chiefly as a superb teller of stories (chiefly of himself in some embarrassing situation) and very lovable on that account. The chance mention of music brought out that he played the cello and was greatly interested in quartet music. At the same time, S___ confessed to an interest in recorded music. However what seemed like a lane down which we could stroll together ended abruptly in a dead-end, when we could not agree on any composers we liked. Such a discovery places a wider gap between two individuals, than if one of them had no interest at all in the subject under discussion. A man who cares little for music may only smile sympathetically when you speak of Sibelius' music ecstatically, but from a man who, interested in music, thinks Sibelius of no account, your adulation only drives him further away. (or better put - his dislike makes you recoil with distaste)
Our lunch hour was gay and interesting.

So much for the Jury. My anticipated visit with Frank Rehn and the intimate talks I hoped to have, did not materialize, thru no fault of either of us - As he said he was literally swamped with visitors - Franklin Watkins with his new bride were his house-guests - Henry Poor had a show opening at the gallery; Alex James & his wife from Vermont, and John Wyeth, all descended on him in one week. The result was a round of dinners & theatre parties, which were gay and interesting in themselves, but almost completely impersonal, as such things are apt to be. The one moment we had alone Tuesday lunch of the second week - found us both completely exhausted -

On Monday night a dinner at Larre's - the Poors, the James, the Watkins, a refugee american expatriate artist from Paris, whose name I cannot recall, and his wife. I remember little of this affair except that I was terribly tired, and that Bessie Poor created a minor sensation by unearthing the painter of "Nude Descending a stair-case" Duchamp.

The next night a dinner party by Frank at Theodore's (?) [CD] of the Watkins, Speichers, James, Mangrante's, John Anderson & Margaret Brewning - (It was "meatless" Tuesday, so we had to struggle along on a roast Guinea Hen, very delicious!)

Wednesday nigh I was alone. It was a fairly clear night, but cold, - I thought I would take a ride on top of a fifth Ave. Bus, but after waiting for a considerable time, I gave it up.

Thursday I was alone again, and as the weather [CD] much milder, I had no difficulty in carrying out my project of the night before. I had wanted a Riverside Bus, but took the first open top that came alone, which happened to be a 5th Ave Bus, [CD] course ran out 5th to 110th - past Central Park, west on 110 to Riverside Drive - out Riverside for a considerable distance, when it switched over to 7th Ave, to 162nd Street. Coming back our course lay on 7th Ave, thru Harlem, to 110 and thence to 5th Ave. -

It was a beautiful evening, the air deliciously mild, a full moon high in the misty eastern sky. The city, darkened by the new "dim-out" rule, was very beautiful - mysterious. I had expected the dim-out to be depressing, but it was not - I saw New York in a new approach. Pedestrians, for examples were black silhouettes, without identity - buildings usually ablaze with windows, loomed enormous black monsters against a faintly luminous sky - For the first time I saw moonlight on the sides of buildings. I think this remains one of my strangest impressions of New York - of the great sea of huge buildings, dark, with bottomless canyons, their towers and upper portions lit up with wan moonlight - I could sense the whole expanse of the Atlantic Ocean beyond - sinister, limitless in extent.

On Friday evening - The Watkins, Frank & I had dinner at Larre's. On this occasion, Mrs. Watkins boys were with us (presumably from her 1st husband - Watty is her third) They were nice boys, shy but eager to be responsive to any attention[i] I wondered what they thought of their mother - They probably admired her for her decadent beauty, but perhaps could not think of her as "mother" as we of a more normal age parenthood, think of the term. After dinner they were bundled into a taxi, to go back to their father, while we went to see a burlesque show "Strip for Action" - an extremely bad show from any angle, - it's [sic] vulgarity was of the puerile back-fence variety, and as for the play, it was less than nothing.

Afterwards we went to Sardi's for beer.

Saturday night we had dinner at Frank's apt. then went to a movie.

One of my chief pleasures when on a trip of this sort is getting mail from home. Bertha wrote faithfully to me every day, the youngsters intermittently - newsy letters so full of the spirit of my home, that while reading I could feel their presence about me.

Sunday - Frank and Mrs. Watkins met Watty and I at the museum and we drove out to Greenwich, where we had a pleasant dinner at ? restaurant. Afterwards, we stopped at Watkins birth place - a huge Victorian House. (His father, once wealthy, had lost his money, and had to sell the estate when Watkins was 12) The present occupants invited us in. We looked around a bit, and then wandered around outside.

In the evening Watkins treated us to the Russian Ballet and opera - a delightful experience. The ballet set to the Tschaikovsky [sic] 2nd Piano Concerto, was classical; and while it had not the color of the Diaghileff (?) Ballet, it was very beautiful. So pure was it in its expression of the beauty of human form, I felt it would not have been out of place in a cathedral.

The Opera, "The Fair at Sorochinsh" [sic] by Moussorgsky [sic] was very colorful and delightful. A light comedy, its humor was very simple and wholesome, and the gay costumes and dances gave the illusion of some folk-tale come to life.

Monday night the Whitney Museum opened. Difficult to see pictures. I was again disappointed in my own (Budding Poplar Branches) - The frame seem [sic] to crush it. Frank claimed it was the pink walls on which it was hung, while Mrs. Force and Moore claimed it was the frame itself. It was the frame.

Afterwards a few of us invited up to Mrs. Forces apartment. We left at 9:00. The Watkins and I to Pickwick Arms for dinner.

The food was delicious. Reggie Marsh, who lives around the corner, asked us to come to his apt. afterwards, then came before we were thru eating, to escort us over. He started to explain to Watkins the Maroget method of painting, and used the well known phrase "painting wet into wet" - The rest of us were feeling silly from the effects of our food and drinks; we took his phrase up, and started singing "wet into wet - wet into wet" to the tune of the "Daring Young Man" 

Marsh's apt. was six flights up - we were completely winded when we arrived at the top. We spent a pleasant hour there.

On both Monday & Tuesday Frank and I tried to look at my recent pictures but without much satisfaction, due to constant interruptions. On Monday Speicher came in, and with Frank, the Watkins and Watkins Cousin (?) - we had lunch at Theodore's.

Afterwards, Speicher and I to Wildersteins to see a show of early Corots - very exquisite.

Tuesday evening I had cocktails with Frank, and the James's - then, Frank having a dinner date, I went alone to the Grand Central, where I dined sumptuously on oyster soup and apple pie & coffee, at the Oyster bar a "meal" I thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards I went to a movie to kill time. It was thoroughly stupid, and I was glad when I finally lay down in my berth, and was homeward bound.

Charles Burchfield,  November 16 - 24, 1942