Englewood, New Jersey.

March sixth, 1932.

Dearest Barbara.

For me to be writing a letter, even to you, is rather an event.
All winter long I have shirked my correspondence, and I have regretted it. But
the causes have been neither unreasonable nor unflattering, and some of the effects,
even the side-effects, have been worth the isolation and the trouble.

Now that you are back in what we call civilization you do not
seem so far or so foreign. And it wouldn't have been much use to have sent letters
to Russia. Perhaps it is not surprising for me to think that in such outlandish
parts you would have forgotten the distinguished English language. I haven't much
imagination about unvisited countries. And your return is responsible for much in-
ward celebration. The few reports I have had of you are reassuring. My imagination
did suggest that you might be freezing and under-nourished. (It is suggesting a
number of things about Bernardine. Has anybody any news of her?) I was delighted
to hear that you were full of news and health. Are you going to bring them both
over here?

The exhibition of which you are the god-mother, and of which I
am some sort of parent, opened last Tuesday. And that is the second cause for
celebration. I wished so many times that you were here, although you would have
hated it. As openings go, it was really a phenomenal success. Over two hundred
people attended, and three-quarters of them were strangers to me. Heaven only
knows where they came from. And they were all most flattering. The picture of

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

April fifth, 1933.

Barbara dearest.

When your letter came this morning I realized how sentimentally I have been wishing for word from you, for the sight of your handwriting on the envelope was enough to give me a real twinge of nostalgia for you and to make me very happy. Perhaps you can imagine how moved I was by the letter itself. Everything you wrote delighted me: about the dogs, about Jeanne, about your new flat (how remote it is), and about number 32 though I must confess I shall miss it. Then, first and last, pervading me with a delicious melancholy, with many misgivings and, of course, an insistent desire, is your lovely invitation.

I have so many reasons for wanting to go to Europe now, that is almost immediately. Foremost is the fact that I have been very worried about Monie. He sounds so blue and I want terribly to help to cheer him up. In reply to my cable suggesting he come over here, he said simply that he could not. And a letter from him this morning brought the news that Glen's book would not be done before the end of the summer. For purely selfish reasons, I want all three of you desperately.

There does not seem to be much point in complaining of my troubles here, though, God knows, they are real enough. It has been a hellish winter. Not all winter in fact. I did very well up to Christmas. But father's death and mother's illness, getting the Englewood house closed and the Egremont house opened, the necessity of taking a jump blindly (anything seemed better than inaction), and the subsequent dearth of business, has had a depressing effect upon me.

I have spent most of the morning on the telephone inquiring of my various friends and acquaintances who have to do with advertising and other commercial aspects

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

TELEPHONE: PLAZA 3-8666

CABLES: VAUGIRARD NEW YORK

ography what is considered the "dead season". They are less unanimous as to the fact that nothing is going on this spring or summer. Some feel I should be here next, others that I should be here in September. Obviously there is no portrait business through the summer.

If it were not for the rent problem I should, accept your invitation at once. But, you see, I have been on this place until May 1934 and the rent has to be I am here or not. I dismissed the idea of subletting; there is only one chance in a hundred that I could find some- body who would sublet would want only the apart- ment I seriously doubt if I could get a temporary reduction in rent. You see the position I am in. There is no chance being able to earn the rent in Europe (I am supposed to earn it a month), and ought to want to earn it here. But, please do not think I am asking favours. True that I think in the world more than to go to you, and that one and two are the best months for me to be away that ought not to be allowed to exist in the business but unless something can be done about the rent I am going to have to stay here to try to earn it.

I have not such a good opinion of myself that worth or worthy of what it would cost to get me to Above all I do not want you to feel in any way ob- because you invited me, to assume the extra burden invitation involves at this time. I have been as frank as (there never is any use in beating about the bush), ant you to be frank too. I know how poor everybody is if I cannot see you this summer, God knows I'll love you the less.

I meant to thank you for your wire about the fact I sent it to Englewood. It was forwarded, heaven knows my mother in the country, then sent back to Englewood, actually delivered to me here. A dog seemed infinitely de- at the time I sent it, and Agnes Ringe was coming should have realized the pup was too young to travel. I know of him and his brothers and sisters fills me anew for canine companionship. I am looking forward to my real excitement.

Bless you, my dear. My mind and heart are too you and Glen and Monie this morning even to wonder if there is any news. There probably is none anyway. Nothing amusing done in weeks and weeks and weeks, and I am sick of two or three of the people I see.

May I ask you to wire. For I have to make my whatever they are to be. And if this is a selfish, self-ish letter, please forgive me.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

April twenty-fifth, 1933.

Barbara dearest.

Words are not going to be enough now to tell
you all I think and feel of my projected trip; in my hands they
are insufficient at best. There are so many aspects of useful-
ness as well as of pleasure and satisfaction, and you will, I
think, understand and appreciate my thankfulness. I wish I
could say definitely now just when I am going to be able to sail.
There are problems about my future here, and the problems of
getting the work finished which I have under way. I expect to
know more by this afternoon, too late to send word by this boat;
I will wire Monroe. I hope to get to Paris about the eighth of
May; I will surely be there by the fifteenth. All depending on
the boats and my more or less jig-saw duties. God knows I want
to see you.

I think I wrote M that your building has a
new marble facade. Very pretty, and exceedingly rich. And I
received the pictures of the pup; I adore him. And do go to
see Mae West in a film called She Done Him Wrong.

You seem so near. As if you were here, or

I there. It will not be long. Devoted love always,

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

TELEPHONE: PLAZA 3-8666 - CABLES: VAUGIRARD NEW YORK

© con la Banca de L. Vicente Trelles

GRAN HOTEL GAYOSO
LUARCA

TELÉFONO NÚM. 10

quez, and the Italians (the Titians, the Tintorettos, not to mention Raphael's Cardinal).

I could make such a long list. And you must have heard how I loved the bull fight (apparently a very good one) which was the first thing I saw on Spanish soil: to such an extent that I dream of them. And the perfection of the dome of the old cathedral at Salamanca. And I liked the gaudy realistic sculpture in Valladolid; Glen seems pretty thoroughly wedded to what he calls "the Medieval Man", and was not so enthusiastic. The Caves of Altamira, and the Romanesque painting in the Pantheon at San Isidoro in León. I go on with my list. I should never get things in order or come to the end of it.

Thank you, dear.

I have to go to Dieppe to see my antique cousins, the Hardys, before I sail. There is something I should like to get out of, but it cannot be helped. And I will sail either on the Majestic (August 23rd) or on the Aquitania (August 26th). I will let you know about that too. Agnes was to go on the Aquitania which might make that a very difficult trip, but I would not be surprised if she should change her plans. Is it all right to leave my Cupid in Rambouillet until I get back from Dieppe? Do let me know if that is likely to be a nuisance.

Now back to the beach to fetch Monroe, for we are going to Biarritz for dinner. I should see a place as famous as that, whatever it is like. Saint-Jean-de-Luz is crowded and not chic and there are galas everywhere, but one can wear one's scantiest costumes and the sea is green and cool (you may have heard I like salt bathing, I do though I hate the salt in my hair), and it is not hot at night. A good place to rest and to take the sun.

Warmest regards to your family. Have a good time. I hate having to look forward to seeing you just somewhere and sometime. But I'll be seeing you just the same.

Ever your devoted Goy.

GRAN HOTEL GAYOSO
LUARCA

TELEFONO NÚM. 10

Hotel Madison,
Saint-Jean-de-Luz.

August ninth, 1933.

Dearest.

Such a heavenly happy trip. But I must tell you the news first. Luckily
Monroe, the note-paper hoarder, is able to provide the means of communication. I
have long since forgotten what little I ever knew about the use of the pen. The
combination is perfect, though Luarca seems far away.

We hurried from Madrid to San Sebastian so that I could see another bull
fight. Alas, we reached there only to discover that the fights that Sunday were in
Vitoria and in Bayonne. We saw Burgos pretty thoroughly, though somewhat hastily,
and passed up Santo Domingo de Silos . . . which Glen rather particularly wanted to
see. Then, deciding that San Sebastian was too crowded, having discovered that to
bathe there one was obliged to wear a complete bathing suit, Monroe and I came on
here, and Glen, bitterly regretting that he had missed Santo Domingo, went back
to Burgos to meet my brother and John McAndrew, who were due there yesterday, and
to see it with them. The best laid plans of mice and men . . .

This morning arrived a telegram from Glen saying that John's Ford had been
wrecked and that Agnes Rindge's mother had been killed, that the others were all
right. It apparently happened in or near a town called Villaviciosa, which is near
Oviedo. I rushed down to the Post Office and sent wires to Agnes and Russell and
John and Glen; then we went to the beach. While we were gone Glen telephoned from
Burgos and left a message to the effect that he was going on to Oviedo to meet them,

C/s con la Buseo de San Juan de los Reyes

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

October third, 1933.

My dearest Bobbie.

I do wish I were sending you a better letter than this is likely to be. I have worked so hard all day, and today is remarkably like the others. For a wonder, I have this evening to myself, to ourselves. And I do not dare to put off writing, not knowing when I will again be alone and moderately secure from interruption. If I send you a dull sheet, put part of the blame . . . Oh, put it where you wish. The fact is I am tired.

I am hoping, of course, that life in a sanatorium is not as unpleasant as one could imagine (I have heard that some are rather gay), and that you are not in desperate need of cheering. It was a dreadful shock to me to hear you were ill and had to go. Why is it that those who deserve it least usually get it in the neck? I wondered that when Mon was having his gall bladder attacks, and still feel the same helpless useless irritation. I take comfort in the facts that you have more than a common amount of fortitude and that you

44 EAST 50TH STREET, NEW YORK

will not have to stay there forever. Just the same it is beastly
you should have to be the one.

An utterly perfect creature lies curled at my
feet, gently, even musically, snoring. The joy of my life and the
apple of my eye. And it is through no ordinary inspiration that
he is called Cupid. He is huge now and very sleek and of flaw-
less disposition. But it is difficult to compare him to his
mother. An entirely different shape, and a quite different set
of eccentricities. Only when he is ashamed is there a marked
resemblance, and it is then that he most brings out the mother
in me though I remain stern. And he is house-broken now. With
exceptions. He is likely to become lax after train journeys still.
And today, after the noisy passage of the President (F.D.R. of
N.R.A. fame) of the United States through my street, his con-
duct left something to be desired. But no matter. I am used to it
now. I bitterly regret Claus still. Think what a perfect couple
they would make, how well they would set each other off.

Did Monie tell you what I am doing? If he
did, I will just be telling you again. I hope you will not mind.
It is rather funny though deadly serious and very hard work.

I have acquired a bumptious Irish wench,
one Catherine Cleary, who has assumed the task of making a suc-
cess of me. Not for love either. Though I am paying her nothing
now, she seems to have the idea that she can make me earn en-

ough to be able to pay her $300 a month. In other words she
thinks my talents are worth anywhere from $1000 a month up; not,
of course, that I disagree. But, as Glen said last summer, I
am never going to earn a living doing portraits. I am doing
mostly fashion work. Then there the advertising jobs: all kinds
of still life, underwear (next week I am doing something for
Carter's "Softies"), fabrics, jewelry, and "human interest"
work for example, a lovely female and a handsome male
exclaiming over an automobile, or a couple of children quarreling
over the tooth paste. Oddly enough I do these things rather
better than they are usually done, and it is rather fun. And
there are portrait jobs too, though Cleary did make me raise
my prices to $150 a dozen.

The fatiguing part is getting the work to
do. We have a list of over two hundred agencies and companies
who use the sort of work we can do. Cleary works with me on
the photographing (though I still take the photographs). And
all the rest of the time she is telephoning to make appointments
to see people and to show the work. And then we see them. I am
not a bit good at that, but she is a natural saleswoman and
politician and usually manages to rectify my mistakes. Well,
wish me luck. I am going to be either a great success or a
dismal failure. I doubt if I shall fail, but one never knows.
And, if I do half as well as we expect, I will do very well
indeed.

Of course, if I succeed . . . no Europe
next summer. That is a consideration. But, if I do not succeed,
it amounts to about the same thing. Perhaps you had better
plan to come to see me.

ask
I have a favour to ask, and not a good
time to ask it. But, when it is convenient and if you have any,
would you send me any evening dresses you no longer want. I
can always use them in advertising photos. Not pressing. You
see, I like your clothes and, here at least, they will not
go out of style sufficiently or quickly enough to matter.

No gaiety. A glorious weekend in the
Berkshires with my mother. No surprises, except for a cowboy
who called on me one morning. He had been sent by friends in
New Mexico and appeared in high-heeled boots and a sombrero.
We lunched together in a restaurant much frequented by people
I know where he was a mild sensation. Only a wedding this week.
a 20,000,000-dollar-baby in whom I tried to interest Lloyd
last winter, now being married to somebody else. It is very sad.

I am going to bed now. First a romp about
the block with Cupid, who has stopped snoring and who now en-
joys the sleep of the innocent. Then bed. I feel vaguely mum-
ified.

I hope it is some comfort to you to know
you are loved. By me, at any rate. I love you very much, and
think of you continually.

June thirtieth, 1934.

Extra-dear Bobby.

The best news of all is that you will soon be out of the hoosegow, though somewhat more personally I revel in the news that you are finally coming to our dear awful and wonderful town. I am envious of Salzburg, and wish I could be with you to not-shoot birds in Hungary ... you might try putting salt on their tails. The idea being that I want to see you, though I expect I can wait.

I expect you have heard about our excursion, about the Ford that was named Titania in honor of Midsummer's Night and which Mon renamed Mimi because he did not like it to be refered to as Titty, about my job photographing the Quaker Oats heiress in her Iowa domain, etc.. I am now in Evanston and leave in a few days to visit Glen on his native soil and to photograph his parents and birthplace as well as to collect material for my show in the fall. Maybe we will return to New York via Kentucky and Virginia.

I am back from Iowa, and guess I cannot pretend to have enjoyed my visit. Cedar Rapids is a town of some 70,000 souls of which the 100 or so I saw were young and handsome and gay and friendly to excess and drunk all day long, really 100% authentic FLAMING YOUTH. And they all thought me stuffy. One poor misguided bit of fluff went so far as to tell me I was stuffy but kind of sweet, and I had all but forgotten such people still exist. I was bored and the temperature remained steadfastly at 108 all the time I was there and I had to work under the most trying circumstances. A cocktail party the minute I arrived, followed by a formal dinner (out of doors, thank God) for about 75 people at

which countless toasts were drunk in sickly sweet champagne and
the ice cream was served in flower-shapes . . I got a vanilla rose.
The dinner was followed by a general brawl in the cellar of the
house of the bride's sister: walls all done in burlesque posters
and lined with gambling machines. No end of jokes: stale Martinis
served with soda, though there was plenty of whiskey, and a dummy
old woman seated on the W.C.. I went off before midnight, fed up
with foolishness and the heat, and got some sleep which is more
than anybody else got. The next morning I did have fun. I bullied
my hostess into driving me to the local dump and then to the slums
where I took pictures. But the morning ended with one of those
fearful lunches of jellied salads, full of fruit and vegetables and
eggs, and nothing to drink but punch, not even water, and that time
I got a strawberry calla lily though it was a different house. The
wedding did not take place until evening and, though I did not at-
tend, I heard that the candles completely wilted in the heat and
fell off the altar with a crash. There were dying flowers everywhere.
Some of my work was done before the ceremony, some of it afterwards.
And I had a tiff with Mrs Douglas, the bride's mother, because I
held up the reception. And the best man could not be found at all
after the wedding and I had to take the pictures without him. To
think that my only way of expressing myself was to take a train
back to Chicago the minute my work was over. Really pathetic. But
to the good were: the Douglas house, a huge edifice, very odd and
luxurious, brick trimmed with stone and stuck about with great dark
wooden bay-windows and turrets, all more or less 1900; the park and
gardens and the adjacent sober and flat and green landscape; Mrs.
Douglas, the most careful curls on her fat neck, and some of the
other older members of the family who were pretty picturesque. And
I have felt so free, so happy-as-a-lark since I got away. I am sure
I smiled in my sleep, naked in my Turkish Bath of a lower berth.

I have been to the Art Institute twice and it is
really fine. Best of all I liked Greco's "Coronation of the Virgin"
which belongs to Max Epstein, the Cracker Jack king, and Veronese's
"Adam and Eve", and Goya's portrait of some young woman which is
out of Andrew Mellon's collection. Nothing of any great interest by
way of Baroque painting, unless under that heading you would in-

clude the four famous and glorious Tiepolos and some Hubert Roberts
which are better photo-backgrounds than anything else. Sublime and
unfamiliar Courbets, Corots, and Renoirs. And my favourite Manet
of the half-fish on a white table cloth. A set of enchanting
Giovanni di Paolo panels illustrating the execution of John the
Baptist. A fifteenth-century French Pieta, also Mr. Epstein's. A
large fox attacked by birds, Winslow Homer's chief contribution,
all snow and Courbet-rust. Any number of lovely things. And one
can avoid the vomit departments, principally American.

We lie on the beach when there is sun, and I
have bathed in the lake which was cold, and we run about Chicago.
Did you know this is the first time I have been west of New Jersey?
And, well, we did put in an appearance at the Century of PROGRESS
and rode about for two hours in what they called gin-rickeyshaws
which were drawn by brawny blond students from the University of
Texas, and, well, it was all pretty progressive and pretty terrible.

Glen writes from Wisconsin that he fell off a
ladder and broke a rib, and I had a good laugh about that before
I began to feel sympathetic. But it appears that it is not serious.
He is not even being kept in bed, and will be quite mended in a
week. We telephoned to inquire.

Now I go to bed. I love and think of you more
perhaps than you suspect just casually, and if I write less often
than I might or should like, it should not be considered indicative.

A good-night kiss.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES
145 EAST 52ND STREET
NEW YORK 22 NEW YORK

15 November 1949

Barbara dearest:

John Wisner called this morning with an
afterthought - to recommend one

Frank Haberl
949 Second Avenue
(Plaza 5 - 4798)

who is simply a carpenter rather than a cabinet maker and
who, says John, will be both quicker and cheaper.

touch with

He also suggested that you might get in

Elmo Avet at The Flea Market
1003 Second Avenue
(Plaza 3 - 5987).

It's a swanky junk shop, with emphasis on eccentricity. But
might have old narrow shutters or might know where they're
to be had.

Hope this helps.

We loved our evening. So come again soon.

Charles Howard
359 W. 27th Street
New York, N. Y.

Mrs. Lloyd B. Wescott
Mulhocaway Farm
Clinton, New Jersey

Dear Mrs. Wescott:

I hereby transfer and sell to you for a considera-
tion of $400.00 all my right, title and interest in
the following picutres:

1. Portrait of George Lynes by Paul Cadmus.

2. A head by Aguilar.

3. 3 Guaches by Tchelitchew.

This letter will warrant that I have good title
to these pictures and that they are unencumbered and
will serve the purpose of a Bill of Sale.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

229 EAST 47 STREET NEW YORK 17 MURRAY HILL 8-2318

29 August 1951

Darling:

It makes me feel such a heel - God knows, maybe I am one - on
the one hand to make you a little gesture of giving photographs then on
the other to scream bloody murder. And yet - since Russell and Akin are out
of the country - besides I dare say they'll be dead broke when they return -
there's nobody else I can scream at.

Prosperity may or may not be just around the corner. I only know
that for nearly two months, except for the portraits of Debo and for one
other job, I've done no business at all. There is business semi-scheduled
for September and October, four or five jobs anyway, but when they'll be
done and when (so important) I'll be paid for them I've no way of knowing
yet. And the old bloody overhead goes on and I have (or so I think) to go
on eating and some old creditors are pressing - just now the Collector of
Internal Revenue is acting ugly.

I put off even thinking of these things until I get a good swift
kick in the gut, get backed into a corner; I go on making technical exper-
iments and so-called public relations, keeping myself busy, giving myself
at least the feeling of "getting somewhere". Then in a sort of panic or
desperation I yell for a rescuer - and with something less than my old ar-
rogance (or self-confidence) because I can't be sure what lies ahead. Still
I manage to go on being optomistic and, so far, I've not too bad a credit
rating.

I'm afraid that this time I need rather a lot of rescuing, if it
can be managed, but to explain by letter would take a great deal of writing
and reading. Besides I'd rather talk to you about it, when you come to town,
if you have an hour, if you can bear it. Meanwhile, to get me through this
week and next, for salaries and rent and such, I'm in a desperation for $350
to $400. Can you help me, at least to that extent, on short notice? The
larger problem can be put off a week or two.

All this is hell in another way too. Because I see you so seldom
these days, I've no notion if you're feeling richish; for all I know you
may be as broke as everybody else. Wish I could agree, as has been suggested,
that it might be a fine thing if I were to go to jail and have the leisure
to write my memoirs.

The finished prints of Debo soon. Bless you.

GEORGE PLATT LYNES

10 September 1951

Bless you, darling, and thank you.

The enclosed is, I suppose, only a formality. $400 of the $1100 in question is covered by the pictures I'll deliver to you presently. The I.O.U. for the balance - in case anything happens, in case I should leave an "estate", unlikely as may be.

Do come to see me sometime. My hovel on the Hudson isn't too unattractive - in spite of the four flights to be climbed - I miss you.

1 April 1953

229 East 47 Street

427 E 84

Dearest B -

I'm afraid that this must be another not so shining example of your old GPL wanting to have his cake and to eat it too.

Nearly two years ago (remember?), to rescue me from both sentimental and economic near disasters, you put up $1100 - $400 to purchase five of my pictures, to protect them from the greedy Director of Internal Revenue, $700 as a loan. Could it be all loan? You see, I don't forget. One of these days, so help me, I'll repay.

Now I have taken a new flat - seven months in one room
stop Russell's house has been an eternity - and I hanker to have the
pictures back. May I? There are - the last time I saw them they were in
a closet on the ground floor of your house -

3 Tchelitchew gouaches - the Barnyard and 2 "studies" for my portrait
a head by Mauricio Aguilar
and Paul Cadmus' portrait of me.

Is this, as we used to say, "unethical and lousy" of me?

Please tell Lloyd that as soon as the blow-ups of his cow
arrive we'll go ahead with his calendar.

Love to both

17 September 1955

c/o Reichenbach

17. PLACE DES ETATS-UNIS. XVI!

Dearest B -

This, by rights, should be a letter of great seduction.
Could it be? Dare I try? For, you see, I'm up to my eyebrows in history,
mine, ours.

A couple of days ago I wrote to Mon - did he tell you? -
that everybody's ex-friend, J. Guérin, still has and has
flat in the Avenue d'Orléans I occupied the summer of 1930. Then, which
was damn near more than I could bear, I found that 32 rue de Vaggirard is
no more - only a dirty fence, enclosing God knows what, where once it stood.
Just now I'm so enamoured of these scenes of my youth, not these streets
in particular, all the streets, that I want to stay on and on and on. Let
the French-frogs have New York, if they want it; I don't much, not now.
So I say: Come back. All (all what?) is forgiven. Let's start all over again.
Oh, I don't go so far as to suggest that we rebuild the rue de V.! No
matter. We'll think of something, and have fun.

It doesn't help - in the way of nostalgia, it doesn't help
me - that every day or two François has a wire from you.

Of course, I didn't manage to answer your letter from the
hosp, wonderful letter, all flowers and faces and jokes, my sort of jokes,
the sort I understand. I find myself wondering - no joke about that - how
finally you got around the prohibition. How did you? How are you? Nobody
tells me these things. Nobody tells me anything. This is my eighth day and
I've had only two letters, one from my mother, one from my brother. No real
news. It ain't fair. Maybe you're still feeble enough to have nothing to do
but to write to me. I wish you no bad luck, but all the same . . .

So kiss your beautiful husband and your beautiful daughter
good-bye - or, what the hell, bring them along - and COME.

How Lynes-like! With nothing but seduction at heart, all
he manages is a peremptory sort of tone. Too bad. Wonderful, though, if it
would work.

Mon has my news, most of it, and what he hasn't Bernard
has. My life's silly stuff these days, but it interests me. Maybe it'd
interest you too. Love to all (almost all)

Bless you.