The painter Andrew Wyeth died yesterday at age 91. I almost missed the news report, buried as it was among the stories on how the economy's going to hell. In my youthful days I dreamed about being a great artist, although my talent was minimal and I lacked the discipline to develop my modest abilities. I always tried to copy the techniques of professional artists, including those who drew for Mad magazine.
Anyway, Andrew Wyeth was an artist I admired for years, and if I could've forged a career in art, his work was what I'd emulate. I don't have the expertise to discuss Wyeth based on technical criteria -- I'll just say his paintings reflect a level of skill that even people who don't normally care about art one way or another can appreciate. Some of his watercolors and temperas are almost photorealistic in their detail.
My daughter the artist is a big Wyeth fan; last year she gave me his book Autobiography, a retrospective of his work from 1933-1993. I looked through it again this afternoon and was as amazed by his talent as if I were seeing it the first time. One of the hardest parts of getting older is realizing gifted people I admire are gradually disappearing from this world. Fortunately, many of them leave some of themselves behind on film, in print, and in picture books.
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