Abstract
Milton Avery, for those who knew him, was a mystery as well as an inspiration. We knew that on many days he painted one picture in the morning and another in the afternoon. On others he painted only one picture. Yet I remember him best seated for hours on a sunny park bench in Washington Square, chatting with passing friends or otherwise enjoying the parade of oldtimers, N.Y.U. students, mothers with baby carriages, dogs, and freaks, all with a good-humored interest, like a satisfied retiree, as though there were plenty of time. There was an over-all absence of pressure or anxiety in the way he lived his life.
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