Thursday evening

Dear Mable:

The sky shutters outside. An ocean storm moves inward and the seaport is doused. The little New York draught is broken. The fast yellowing lawns will now turn green again. The big glitter and the splash of night lights take on a more meaningful shimmer as reflections run amock and careen down drenched asphalt. New York, the human mountain range, a little higher yet but fundamentally unchanged from your menories. This afternoon I watched stone facade slabs beingedged over by long derrick stems, maticulously manouvered by esoteric hand signals into niches high up on vaulted walls, and more masonry is slung on, and here the bricklayers work with unearthly speed almost automatically tiers of brick reel off row after row and up and up they go, more foothills among the many old.

I met Abraham Walkowitz today. His face is very familiar to me-- since childhood. Many years ago my teacher, Jeanne Liberte, intorduced me to him. So today we talked-- way up on the pent house of the Museum of Modern Art-- and the hours slipped away as he spoke of good years, of deep comradship and youth. He knew and loved you well, Mable, and it seems, many others do too. He spoke of Stieglitz and how the master photographer met his Georgia. He spoke of Picasso and Weber and Marin and Epstein. He remembered the death of Cezanne and the bitter denial of him in the Paris papers. He talked of the great Rodin and the intuitive magisty he emitted. He talked of the elevating spirit of this man, and then he spoke of you. Of your interests in Florence, and of your group on lower Fifth Avenue. Of your endless generosities and enthusiasms. He said therechas never has been nor will there ever be another Mable. He credited you with being the strength and unity behind resounding thoughts and expressions and beloved by all. He remembers the long table full offood and you retreating into your corner, quiet and intuitively powerful and holding the group together. You helped the "Fauves" transplant to America.

The last of the "Stieglitz Quartet" paid a most beautiful tribute
to you, Mable. He is now seventy-six and almost totally blind but
the spirit of Wallkowitz was partly lit by you. This I feel and I,
toom pay tribute to you!

He mentioned one very sad fact, though. He requested me to relay
to you. I was hesitant at what it might trouble you but then
concluded that best you get such news. Maurice Stern is miserably
ill with hip cancer and Walkie gave the impression he is in great
need.

Walkie sends his love to you and Georgia and Dasburg and Brett.

I, of course, miss Taos dreadfully. Taos has become part of my new
strength. It will see me through this feverish ant heap while I
search for ways of further securing myself financially in Taos.

Until I can again read you some bit of poetry or prose and chat with
you and slide my drink aside in true Karshan manner I remain most
sincerely

Don Karshan