Thursday, January twenty-third.
Sometimes the smoke goes up the flue—and sometimes down. And that’s not good for the fire. I sit within six inches of the stove with a frozen nose and icy feet. The wind sifts through the walls. Now, with our moss calking shrunken and dried and shriveled further with the cold, our cabin would be light without windows. These are so far the coldest days of winter. Although it blows straight from the north, whence only fair weather comes, the day is dark with drifting snow cloud high. The water of the bay is hidden in driving vapor. We cut wood and stuff it everlastingly into the stove. To-day seventy pieces for the ravenous air-tight, big chunks, have been cut and split—and we’ll cut again to-morrow. But with all the trouble of cold weather we’d be mightily disappointed if the winter slipped by without it.
It’s a real satisfaction to find that my calculations in supplies, in bedding, in heating equipment were just right for conditions here. We’re running low now in cereals and milk but we had planned to visit Seward this month to restock. Olson’s absence is quite outside of all plans. If he isn’t sick it’s hard to explain reasonably in any way.
For the past three weeks I have made on an average no less than one good drawing a day, really drawings I’m delighted with. I’ve struck a fine stride and moreover a good system for my work here to continue upon. During the day I paint out-of-doors from nature by way of fixing the forms and above all the color of the out-of-doors in my mind. Then after dark I go into a trance for a while with Rockwell subdued into absolute silence. I lie down or sit with closed eyes until I “see” a composition,—then I make a quick note of it or maybe give an hour’s time to perfecting the arrangement on a small scale. Then when that’s done I’m care free. Rockwell and I play cards for half an hour, I get supper, he goes to bed. When he’s naked I get him to pose for me in some needed fantastic position, and make a note of the anatomy in the gesture of my contemplated drawing. Little Rockwell’s tender form is my model perhaps for some huge, hairy ruffian. It’s a great joke how I use him. Generally I have to feel for the bone or tendon that I want to place correctly.
ZARATHUSTRA AND HIS PLAYMATES
Last night I drew laughing to myself. A lion was my subject. I have often envied Blake and some of the old masters their ignorance of certain forms that let them be at times so delightfully, impressively naïve. I’ve thought it matters not a bit how little you know about the living form provided you proceed to draw the thing according to some definite, consistent idea. Don’t conceal your ignorance with a slur, be definite and precise even there. Well, by golly, this lion gave me my chance to be unsophisticated; such a silly, smirking beast as I drew! At last it became somewhat rational and a little dignified, but it still looks like a judge in a great wig. But a lion that lets a naked youth sleep in his paws as this one does may be expected to be a little unbeastly. When I began to write these pages to-night the stars were out. Now it snows or hails on the roof!