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Dear Buddy:

"I want you to write on art as it." You know damn well I am an artist; you know that I have been painting seriously the past three years; that I have won the grand prize for Honolulu painters; that I write sonnets; that I number among my friends painters, writers, musicians, and frustrated painters, writers, musicians; that I read Millay and Auden; that I think Rockwell Kent painted moods I was meant to paint; that Wolfe is the greatest writer America has produced; that I could have written the poetic rhapsodies found in Of Time & The River and The Web & The Rock; that I consider social painting the only significant painting today; that my paintings are not usually called social; that I think any kind of subject matter expressed with enough of what it takes may be social painting in that men may be moved by it; hence that I consider my paintings, especially "September 1939" which you haven't yet seen, to be truly significant that my best friend is you & that I think you're doing things for greater than you dare think; that there's too much shit that streams in & out of our darling Art Academy and that oozes in black & white sterility from the dear dear art page of our Star Bulletin, our