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Reginald Marsh, whom I was privileged to know for almost thirty years, was a gentle, sensitive, generous, man and an utterly dedicated artist. He made hundreds of etchings, thousands of drawings, many hundreds of paintings. He worked at all times and with tremendous energy: he drew while walking from his New York apartment to his studio—one recognizes in his paintings certain shop signs and windows; he drew while riding subways, trains and ships; he drew demonstrations for his students; he drew in restaurants, at theaters and standing under the now demolished elevated structure in the Bowery.

In the early days of my acquaintance with Reginald Marsh, I particularly remember a hot New York summer during which he was working in a borrowed studio on fourteenth street. He had begun to etch. Also, he was drawing cartoons for a New York weekly, painting water colors of The New York skyline and harbor, working on a