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3/12/00.

My dear Mother——

Have got into work — real work and am happy. Today I started a picture in the slum-district a picture of an old played out sculptor. He lives in a small house with his little wife; a cranky little woman with an impediment in her speech. The sculptor is large, and bloated, his eyes blink at one in a contented way, his beard is thin (atmospheric) he is old, white, and ragged. He says I'm a homely chap, and although he has sat only one morning, he feels that I'm an old friend. After this morning's work I noticed this heavy old man bending in front of the small panel picture (just started) saying, "Jim, Jim, who would have thought it, that you, Jim, could never grow so old." poor Jim, he is still fond of life, and art. I hope to get a good sketch of him. It will be more than a sketch. He, on the panel, is seen working on a statue which rests on the table in front of him; behind him is a cupboard, fire place &c. Jims mouth at rest is not beautiful and when smiling it is a wide, weird, arrangement
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