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1066 Filbert St
July 15 '40

Yesterday - at home among people: Jean Reynal and Fred Thompson at Stinson Beach (Thompson Gulch) - And a world that is mine: the yellow hills over the sea [[strikethrough]]bey[[/strikethrough]] on the road back from Stinson Beach. Cold winds, a cold ocean and the far horizon hidden in mists. The rocky line of land and sea below me. Grandeur and power greater than Point Lobos.

Today - this evening in class (Hayter's etching & engraving class) lost, bewildered as lost as I have been. The surrealists in class: horror pictures, or the new art? or both? Where am I to fit in with such a group, if it be the advance guard in art I was told in Honolulu to contact and study with on this mainland trip? I tried to do some work in the vein of the class but I was unhappy about it - ashamed of my fumbling steps in their direction, ashamed of my world of [[underlined]]place[[/underlined]], of seacoast and sand and reef and wind - it [[strikethrough]]looked[[/strikethrough]]seemed so insignificant when I thought of it in class.

If art is solely the beauty of line, then they have it. If it is solely pattern, they have it and will [[strikethrough]]learn[[/strikethrough]]discover much more in the future. But if art is to move men and inspire [[strikethrough]]thes[[strikethrough]]men to do great deeds of a constructive nature, to reaffirm in men the goodness of freedom and struggle and daring, then by God the stuff done in the class is unclean, unhealthy.

Where are we all going & who is out of step?