Wyeth Remembered

A giant of American art has fallen. Andrew Wyeth died last Friday, Jan. 16 at age 91 at his home in Chadds Ford, Penn. In death, as in life, he commands a huge presence. As one of the most hotly debated artists of the last century, Wyeth was a touchstone of sound and fury. Those who oppose his place in the canon of modern art are as bloodthirsty and ruthless as his many supporters. I can only speak for myself when I speak of Wyeth and his art. He is and will continue to be one of my favorite artists.

He was a staunch and headstrong artist, pursuing his craft according to his own heart, in spite of his numerous critics. His art, to me, is at once peaceful and tumultuous, real and surreal, beautiful and devastating. The way he painted reality was not mere copy or representation. He was capable of bringing out the purest, most raw emotion in the most mundane scenes.

Groundhog Day, by Andrew Wyeth

Wyeth's work is rooted deeply in the rural traditions of New England, something that is personally important to me. That is why his art is so moving: it is about emotion. Wyeth said many times that he painted what was personal to him, and that he did not expect anyone to understand. He only hoped that others would find something personal to them in his paintings.

Trodden Weed, by Andrew Wyeth

Maine was personal for Wyeth; most notably the Olson house in Cushing, which I have visited twice. It is an eerie place; the grey house is perched atop a hill, its wind-battered shingles look like old bones, and the inside of the house is as stale and quiet as a mausoleum. Utterly untouched by time, standing in the house is like standing within a Wyeth painting.

Day Dream, by Andrew Wyeth

I believe that the most enduring, most significant aspect of Wyeth's art is its timelessness, its deceptive simplicity. He painted the truth. Wyeth's works are stripped of all pretense, just like the man himself.

Andrew Wyeth, you will be missed.