I am sitting on one of the little beaches at Torquay, and my hand is shaking from skipping of many stones.
My sister’s Art Shop is called “The Blue Bird”. “The Birds” have queer and varied experiences. Today a very tall young ex-soldier came in – wanted to learn painting, felt that he had “something in him”, and would find a vent either in art or poetry – wasn’t sure which – wanted to learn to paint “Futurist” pictures, and was wooing his muse of a non-metrical type, “something like prose” he put it.
An old maid is sitting nearby producing a masterpiece in water – seems afraid to mix any paint with it.
[Image: Myrtle Lee, ‘Interior of the Blue Bird’, c1919]