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This is the third time I am typing a second page. You will nowknow that this is a hit-and miss affair. But I am used to this sort of dabbling, of tingling uncertainty, of little poo-boos. We must never be too directly successful in our dealings with art or women. We must climax in a dream-state. The dullest kind of humor is that which has a point. That's why the New Yorker is decadent; it is now building its humor on situations that are in themselves cliches. That's why Millay no longer fascinates me: her "I shall look with sharper eye where to store fur or something" type of fade-out is now so inevitable that it becomes an enter villain. That's why the world is at war: to rid itself of economic cliches. 
So, shall we discuss change. I believe we two learned about all there is to know about change, when we sat in Charley's Place last summer and listened to the radio: swing to Wagner and back to swing, news flashes and dipsy-doodle. That is why I am amused when a critic raves about Isami Doi's paintings in terms of lovely greens and richly blended tones in the drapes, warm sepia in the girl's arms, etc. That was Robert Lee Eskridge talking in the Advertiser. He paints, too; he goes out to Laie and brings back sketches of Natives in Movie House, Young Hawaiin playing Checkers, etc. He tries to stop the Hawaiians. He tried to stop Honolulu's tourists with his studies. He tried to stop Doi with lovelies, richlies, etc. But Doi does not stop. Laie does not stop. Tourists stop, because they have too much of change. 
In broader terms, art does not stop; if you try to stopx art, you have propaganda (which, incidentally, is not half so bad as much that is gained in the name of nobility, time, beauty,). I know this: that if you stop a great thing, you have a small thing. They stopped the relation between man and the universe, and they got religion. They stopped color, and we have names of colors. 
Which brings us to this;;(but nothing can bring us to anything. It is we who choose to see direction. Richard Evelyn Byrd is sailing in waters still strange to him, after so many voyages, for villages cannot rise to stop the onward-rushingness of water, the onward-remainingness of ice.)--which, to repeat, brings us to this: that the American destiny can never stop art--not, heavenforbid, in the sense that Teuben will post a sign "do not disturb" over his studio, nor that Alexander Brook will cease travelling down South and become a purestudio painter--but that whatever condition out social foundation is in [[underline]]now[[/underline]], art was as it was before that time, art is as is, and are will be as will be. Now, now, Buddy, waitaminute. Art is [[underline]]not[[/underline]] living in a world all its own. Art is no isolated acticity of a few painters. When the pulse of the nation is low, art is low, when it is high, art may still be low; when it is low, art can be high, but only according to another standard of measurement. So there is a relation between social structure and art; there is no relation. You seek relativity; there it is; you deny it; it is still there, or it isn't there. This doesn't make sense; that's the point. The sense is that it doesn't make sense. Call for Wheaties--three chances for a dollar. Didn't your mind experience fright when you read that. Senselessness makes us scared. That's why we make words, symbols, and telescopes to measure stars. That's why we study geometry. The Gilbert Islanders never had geometry. They had idols. But we shall always have fear. When a whole race harbors fear, the people call on engineers to build bridges, to create river-purpose; they call out their steam shovels and madamizer to build roads, to create land-purpose; they call out their educators to teach the children, to create intelligence-purpose; they call out their farmers, to create plant-purpose; then they make a great mistake, and call out their artists to decorate their walls, for they need beauty-purpose. The Thomas Hart Bentons and the Grant Woods, ever willing to serve their brethren, rally to the colors. And what happens? Beauty-purpose is created, and decadence rears its ugly head. Let the land serve a purpose, and let water, and plants, and intelligence; but let beauty serve a purpose and you have a contradiction. Art has been double-crossed in the procedure. For art is change, and beauty s the stopping of change.