Now that the childishly bellicose relations between post-World Struggle II summary and figurative artists are far behind us, it’s attainable to see artists like Andrew Wyeth afresh. Wyeth painted actual issues, actual folks. He was not at all times nice. However amid the summary and minimalist drone that dominates most museum collections of postwar artwork, a very good Wyeth can name out like fowl track.
His “Northern Level,” on the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, Conn., exhibits a lightning rod on the roof of a home. The amber-colored orb midway up the steel rod, which tapers to a fantastic darkish level, is glass — the concept being that if it shatters, you’ll know lightning has struck.
The home, on Teel Island in Maine, belonged to Henry Teel, a fisherman the artist had befriended. Wyeth (1917-2009) painted it a number of instances. He liked uncommon views. Right here, as if gifted with a fowl’s preternatural imaginative and prescient, he imposed his particular model of hallucinatory readability from above.
Wyeth was an empiricist. Loving coastal Maine, he needed to color it in all its wind-blasted austerity, its hard-bitten romance. He needed to seize these wind-lashed blades of sea grass, the rocks on the far finish of the bay, the waves breaking softly in opposition to the shore, the bleached sky.
Wyeth was a wondrous technician. Favoring egg tempera on gesso, a medium with an inherently parched look, he was parsimonious about coloration however had a aptitude for tensions created by juxtapositions of sunshine and darkish, close to and much (however all equally in focus), and transparently clean and opaquely textured.
He clearly thought laborious about the way to use paints and brushes to seize the woodgrain and weather-beaten texture of the shingles, soaked in salty air and cured by the solar. A part of the curiosity on this work is the strain between these shingles and the amber-glass orb on the lightning rod. The shadow forged by the orb, with its little outbreak of coloration on a roof that’s in any other case unrelentingly grey, is weirdly riveting.
The astonishing textures Wyeth obtained had been as typically subtractive (the results of scraping again into the paint) as additive. No lush, Venetian oils with tinted glazes for him. No blowzy gestural prospers a la Willem de Kooning. (The Dutchman’s repute, together with Jackson Pollock’s, was cresting in New York’s avant-garde artwork scene when Wyeth painted this in 1950.)
Wyeth’s love of Maine’s pristine surroundings dovetails with a pressure in American sensibilities that sentimentalized rural rectitude and ease as an antidote to each rampant consumerism and the manic vitality of the American polis — what Saul Bellow (and earlier than him Wyndham Lewis) known as “the moronic inferno.” That makes him, within the condescending however finally trite formulation of artwork world aficionados, “conservative,” or retardataire.
However there’s at all times extra occurring in Wyeth than meets the attention. You allow off taking a look at his work pondering you will have glimpsed, by all of the parched readability of its element, one thing secret, shimmering and indirect, just like the shadow forged by that orb.