Friday, Mar 21, 1890 This would have been my fathers 90th birthday had he lived. It was foggy and rainy this morning but cleared in the afternoon. I have been at work trying to paint another portrait of dear Gertrude but I can make nothing of it. It is strange that I do not succeed better for I can see her so plainly when I think of her. These are dull and discouraging days. Not the least interest or encouragement in my art from any quarter. Yesterday I saw in Butlers Collection a clever picture by Douglas Volk. I understand he has given up painting, probably obliged to seek some other mode of getting a living. Butlers pictures sold last night very poorly and I think he brought them in. It shows people they had better not invest in American pictures if they expect to get their money back. Downing Sedgwick and I went to the 14th St. Theatre to see a foolish play called "My Aunt Bridget". It was the worst thing I think, I ever saw. We had 50 ct. seats in the balcony where the air was execrable and I had five high, big hats between me and the stage so that I saw nothing. I left at the end of the 1st act disgusted.
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