The Canvas
Last weekend I had the pleasure of visiting the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC (why yes, I am something of a world traveler) and I was lucky to arrive at the time I did, because the museum was hosting an exhibit on one of my favorite artists, Andrew Wyeth. The exhibition was called “Looking Out, Looking In”, the theme of which revolved around paintings and sketches Wyeth produced all either from the point of view of looking out a window or from outside looking in. The painting below is titled “Wind from the Sea” and gives a good example of what sort of work was on display.
I believe when those of us who enjoy art are every so often called upon to write about it feel the need to qualify themselves up front about their ignorance about the techniques for art. As the decades have eroded arts education in most public high schools around the country, the layman’s ability to speak of art has similarly decayed. And yet, when I look at the painting above and with a complete ignorance of the technique, medium, or tools used to produce this work I can’t help but be in awe at the deft hand and intricate eye capable of reproducing the threadbare lace curtains that delicately play in the wind, their flurry of action betraying the stark, desolate landscape that waits outside.
These empty countryside landscapes are one of Wyeth’s fortes. Many of his most famous paintings were produced while he lived near the Olson family, who owned a neighboring farm in Cushing, Maine. Indeed, his most enduring work, “Christina’ World”, is a portrait of the eponymous Christina Olson spread out in a yellowing field staring off toward a farm house in the distance.
There is something ghostly and ancient in Wyeth’s work, which is why I think it has proved to be so enduring for the past seventy or so years. As we become ever more technologically advanced and removed from nature, Wyeth’s studied, quiet pieces remind the viewer that there is a vast, unsettling beauty that resides outside of our cities of concrete and TGI Friday’s-stuffed suburbs. Indeed, melding of the past and the present is a concept that Wyeth subtly dabbles in, such as in the following work, “The Quaker”.
Two Quaker coats that look to be from the 18th Century hang unceremoniously from the mantle of a fireplace in a bare, rickety farmhouse. The light from outside seems to stream in reluctantly, as if the sun itself is hesitant to visit the none-too distant past.
Wyeth’s subdued celebration of isolated country landscapes are both arresting and haunting and I am always impressed with how he is able to imbue so much meaning, with a uncanny ability to capture light, into simple still-lifes such as the following:
However, I can’t help but question exactly what it is about Wyeth’s art that enraptures me. I am an avowed city guy. The peace and quiet of country life leaves me queasy and nervous. Give me the sounds of car horns and ambulance sirens echoing through the streets any day. Heck, I can’t fall asleep without the sound of a garbage truck collecting trash obtrusively wafting into my ears at night.
And yet, I love the work of Andrew Wyeth, even though it leaves me unsettled. When I view Wyeth’s work, I am forced inward where I find the quiet, contemplative soul of a rustic, content to pass his days enveloped by the mysterious, quiescent beauty of the countryside. Perhaps I enjoy Wyeth’s art because it does what all good art should aspire to: it forces me to ask uncomfortable questions about myself and about what my place in the world might be but makes no promises of providing the answer.
The exhibition runs until Nov. 30th. If you happen to find yourself in our Nation’s Capital, this is a definite must-see. There is no fee as it is a federally funded institution.
The Junction Journal 