Word: paintings
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...Never paint the material of the sleeve," N.C. would roar. "Become the arm!" It was classical instruction, demanding empathy with the object. Yet the leonine old illustrator never let his pupils fall for the pathetic fallacy-that empty barrels are lonely. He believed that the painting must find an echo inside the painter-in a sense, Method painting. It was all done with such verve and warmth that, as Sister Carolyn says, "there was nothing arty about it. It was like coasting, like playing outside in the snow...
...Father, of Course." The Wyeths always summered in Maine, and there, on his 22nd birthday, Andy met his future wife, who was then only 17. The next year, while he continued to study and paint with his father, they were married. When the war years came, he tried to enlist, but was decisively 4-F'ed because of crooked hip joints, which give him a gangly gait. Instead, at a time when U.S. art was at a virtual standstill, he churned out vigorous, splashy watercolors that explored flattened space, joyous color and jumpy line in such a way that...
...discovery that he was suffering from bronchiectasis, a disease of the bronchial tubes of one lung. They were removed in an operation so drastic that his chest had to be opened from top to bottom, slashing his shoulder muscles so that he thought he might never be able to paint again. While convalescing, he painted The Trodden Weed, with his arm suspended in a sling from the ceiling. The boots that flatten the weed once belonged to Howard Pyle and were Betsy's Christmas gift to him in 1950. Wyeth wore them while taking long walks to regain...
...storm straight out of the Gourmet Cookbook, and-though she might still chill them-there are vintage French burgundies to add some thunder. A frequent visitor over the years is Brother-in-Law Hurd, a New Mexico painter of Western landscapes, who years ago taught Wyeth how to paint with tempera. Together, though, they are more apt to top each other's tall tales than talk...
...some, a man who bothers to paint a blade of grass is an anachronism who must have been born in the previous century. The late Bernard Berenson, going on guesswork, believed that Wyeth was dead ("What a pity America has starved its painters," he murmured). No foreign museums or collectors have ever bought his work...