Richard Diebenkorn Correspondence
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Correspondence from Richard Diebenkorn to Phyllis Diebenkorn
Date:
14 July 1945 Medium:
Ink on paper
Current owner:
Richard Diebenkorn Foundation Archives
Credit Line:
© Richard Diebenkorn Foundation RD number:
RDFA.263 Description
Correspondence from Richard Diebenkorn to Phyllis Diebenkorn while the artist was serving in the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II, 14 July 1945
Transcription:
A Torch Song
He drew what he saw and laughter pealed
From months stretched wide under lifeless eyes.
Wave after wave it cried.
But he was determined to draw.
His life-kindling fist and his sight-tortured eye
Fashioned lines that lived death.
He drew just what he saw.
To the wound in the side
And the tickle of red.
But then laughter stopped and dead eyes grew red.
A wound in his side
Caused a tickle of red.
R.C.D.Jr.
July 14th [1945]
Darling –
This is opus 3. I think I told you that I cast out 2. See what you think. If it is bad I want you to tell me so, please, and I won't write any more poetry. Maybe just a little. I don't like this paper and I refuse to put any of my creation on it so an opaque sheet accompanies this one or these.
Does it sound sing song or balladish in the Service sense. Tell me any criticism you may have. I feel that it is inferior to opus 1. Having written it this morning I'm still pretty close to it. There is a bit of self-identification here but not completely. I haven't deluded myself to thinking that I have a "life-kindling fist." This is a cry for artists collectively and collectively they may be considered as having a life-kindling fist.
I received your letter of the ninth. You are cute when you say that the two of you are going to sleep. Does she still have blue eyes. And is she getting tan. Give her my love. And tell her I will write her a letter one of these days. And it won't be like Mom and Gaga. I'll really write. Phil, tell me to write Gaga. I can't bring myself to it. I only seem to be able to write to you.
But I missed Thursday and I forgot to tell you. I went on liberty and returned with a half hour to do it and someone got me into a stupid conversation and I just couldn't break out of it. But I love you.
I liked the way you said it in the last letter. You said "I love you so much Witz" and that made me feel wonderful. I'll work it on you and don't think this is stiff or staged because I mean it.
I love you so much Phil.
Goodnight Sweet. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Love you,
Witz
P.S. This will be the last letter to L.A. address. I hope you get this without too much delay.
W.
Transcription:
A Torch Song
He drew what he saw and laughter pealed
From months stretched wide under lifeless eyes.
Wave after wave it cried.
But he was determined to draw.
His life-kindling fist and his sight-tortured eye
Fashioned lines that lived death.
He drew just what he saw.
To the wound in the side
And the tickle of red.
But then laughter stopped and dead eyes grew red.
A wound in his side
Caused a tickle of red.
R.C.D.Jr.
July 14th [1945]
Darling –
This is opus 3. I think I told you that I cast out 2. See what you think. If it is bad I want you to tell me so, please, and I won't write any more poetry. Maybe just a little. I don't like this paper and I refuse to put any of my creation on it so an opaque sheet accompanies this one or these.
Does it sound sing song or balladish in the Service sense. Tell me any criticism you may have. I feel that it is inferior to opus 1. Having written it this morning I'm still pretty close to it. There is a bit of self-identification here but not completely. I haven't deluded myself to thinking that I have a "life-kindling fist." This is a cry for artists collectively and collectively they may be considered as having a life-kindling fist.
I received your letter of the ninth. You are cute when you say that the two of you are going to sleep. Does she still have blue eyes. And is she getting tan. Give her my love. And tell her I will write her a letter one of these days. And it won't be like Mom and Gaga. I'll really write. Phil, tell me to write Gaga. I can't bring myself to it. I only seem to be able to write to you.
But I missed Thursday and I forgot to tell you. I went on liberty and returned with a half hour to do it and someone got me into a stupid conversation and I just couldn't break out of it. But I love you.
I liked the way you said it in the last letter. You said "I love you so much Witz" and that made me feel wonderful. I'll work it on you and don't think this is stiff or staged because I mean it.
I love you so much Phil.
Goodnight Sweet. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Love you,
Witz
P.S. This will be the last letter to L.A. address. I hope you get this without too much delay.
W.