Девять рассказов

           WhenIhadturnedontheoverheadlightandclosedthedoorbehindme,Itookmydrawingpencilsoutofmypocket,thentookoffmyjacket,unbuttonedmyshirt,andsatdownonafloorcushionwithSisterIrma’senvelopeinmyhands.Tillpastfourinthemorning,witheverythingIneededspreadoutbeforemeonthefloor,IattendedtowhatIthoughtwereSisterIrma’simmediate,artisticwants.

           ThefirstthingIdidwastomakesometenortwelvepencilsketches.Ratherthangodownstairstotheinstructors’roomfordrawingpaper,Idrewthesketchesonmypersonalnotepaper,usingbothsidesofthesheet.Whenthatwasdone,Iwrotealong,almostanendless,letter.

           I’vebeenassavingasanexceptionallyneuroticmagpieallmylife,andIstillhavethenext-to-the-lastdraftoftheletterIwrotetoSisterIrmathatJunenightin1939.Icouldreproduceallofithereverbatim,butitisn’tnecessary.Iusedthebulkoftheletter,andImeanbulk,tosuggestwhereandhow,inhermajorpicture,she’drunintoalittletrouble,especiallywithhercolors.Ilistedafewartist’ssuppliesthatIthoughtshecouldn’tdowithout,andincludedapproximatecosts.IaskedherwhoDouglasBuntingwas.IaskedwhereIcouldseesomeofhiswork.Iaskedher(andIknewwhatalongshotitwas)ifshehadeverseenanyreproductionsofpaintingsbyAntonellodaMessina.Iaskedhertopleasetellmehowoldshewas,andassuredher,atgreatlength,thattheinformation,ifgiven,wouldn’tgobeyondmyself.