The Snow Melted: Passing of Andrew Wyeth
January 16, 2009
J. Prock

I grew up close to where Wyeth painted. I never met, saw him or went to Hank’s Place where he ate. Of the entire art world, Wyeth has had the most profound influence on my work. He’s helped shape my outlook towards creativity, and how one approaches the creative process.

It’s a belief of trusting one’s own instincts. You shut out the peripheral, meaningless opinions, what if scenarios, and work from the nature of your experiences. It seems selfish; it has to be — it’s personal; it’s your work. During the creative process work can’t be shared — a contamination of sorts sets in.

1966, I saw Wyeth’s Temperas, Dry Brush and Drawings Exhibition in Philadelphia. I was a little kid. A few years later my parents had Christina’s World on the wall. I’m still attracted to the spatial planes, an off-center Christina, muted colors, linear perspective, textures, and the macabre notion — what exactly is this woman doing?

I went to see Christina’s World in New York at the Museum of Modern Art 1984. She was hanging in a hallway, around a corner as kind of an after-thought. I got the impression that the curators had to do something with it — couldn’t rightly throw it away. I found the painting, and studied it intently.

Most articles about Wyeth I’ve read never asked him interesting or probing questions. They focus on working with egg tempera, using local talent as models, being a Wyeth, where’s the inspiration come from, why Chad’s Ford and Maine?

If I had a chance to talk with him, I’d of asked a few personal questions about the times: did he try pot in the ‘60s, what did he think of rock music, did he look at cartoonists, where did he get those cool Nehru-like jackets, and maybe if he could show me where Howe’s army marched during the Battle of Brandywine in 1777. And, could we have a glass of apple cider together, the kind with a little kick.

I’m saddened by his passing. Over the years, I’ve looked forward to seeing new work. I never believed Wyeth was an “illustrational realist,” or his paintings were “formulaic stuff” as his critiques have written.

January’s snow has melted around Chad’s Ford, and the boy in Winter 1946 runs down the hill for the last time. The floating hand in the painting… finally joins the fathers’. The pumpkins have all rotted, autumn’s leaves have been carried down the Brandywine River, and the light is just right for Ground Hog Day.