. . . subLiminality . . .

This last Friday morning Andrew Wyeth died at the age of 91. Several years ago I took up studying this artist in great depth. In fact I consider myself kind of a Wyeth scholar. I've always been intrigued by his use of a "realistic" approach to painting with muted earth tones and often dark themes embedded in pastoral landscapes and portraits. There has never been a more profound American artist. When the art world was ranting and raving over abstract expressionism with the likes of Jackson Pollock, Willem DeKooning, Barnett Newman, Isamu Noguchi, etc. (all of whom I admire on many levels as well, and all of whom have enhanced diverse artistic traditions in their own right), Wyeth stuck to his guns, so to speak. While looking at many of his works I'm struck by a level of surrealism that surprises, all the while bringing an unspoken narrative along with him.

Wyeth has imagination that looked deeply into the mundane and everyday. Perhaps that's why M. Night Shyamalan was inspired by the artist when he built the set for his film The Village, of course many others have as well. This imagination led to his disappointment with the "real" Sherwood Forest he visited decades after growing up dreaming and pretending to be Robin Hood. This imagination offers validity to Baudrillard's theories about simulacra and the hyper-real, calling into question whether or not there ever was something real in the first place. Or is one's imagination the reality, again a fairly reasonable case could be made for that as well. Ahhh, the blessing and curse of great imagination. In fact it was this great imagination that led me to name our third child, our second son, Wyeth who is now 5 years old . . . a constant reminder to me and to him of a great story of a great man.

Several years ago, after reading Richard Meryman's biography of the artist entitled Andrew Wyeth: A Secret Life, I was moved to write him. I've never written a letter to anyone of renown in my life really, growing up it was always athletes like Walter Payton whom I admired but never ventured so far as to actually write to. But something compelled me to write a letter (the precise content of which still escapes me) to this frail little old man, I think he was in his early 80's at the time. So I write my letter to Wyeth, then write an accompanying letter to Richard Meryman at the publishing house where A Secret Life was published hoping that just maybe "America's Painter" will read it one day.

Well, I was stunned the day a hand-written letter arrived that said:

Dear Edward Traub -

As you see, I have received your letter and your wonderful, moving sentiments. I am going down to see Wyeth next week and will deliver your letter by hand. I know he will be very touched and pleased.

Richard Meryman

Dear Mr. Traub

As promised, I delivered your letter to Andrew Wyeth, and he read it on the spot. His firsts words were, "interesting," and he smiled which meant to me he was pleased. Then looking thoughtful, he said, "I just hope he has the courage." The he said something classically AW: "He has to be on his knees . . . and chin himself."

He means, I am sure, that you must be on your knees to your art, to your subject matter, while hauling yourself with a mighty effort as high as possible - chinning yourself on the bar of your loftiest expectations of yourself.

So you should be well satisfied - and I applaud your sentiments.

Warm regards,

Richard Meryman

Now that I'm looking at the date on the letters, that was just over 10 years ago that those letters were exchanged. I wish I could say that those words worked some miracle in my own work as an artist. And indeed as far as production and exhibitions and sales, not much has happened (although I do sell and exhibit); however, his words continue to compel me to consider my "art" in whatever form it takes. The reality is that I've actually sought to sacrafice my work as an artist on some philosphical altar a number of times but it continues to gnaw at me and say that it is indeed worth everything to make art that really means something, even if no one else "gets it."

I'd like to think that perhaps a micro-second of memory flashed through Wyeth's mind and heart in the years since regarding my letter. He has and always will be the one who led me to take my art seriously. Many others have followed suit as mentors and heroes, but never will I forget this great man who chose to devote himself almost completely to the discipline of painting.

My sympathies go out to his wife, Betsy, and the rest of his extended family . . .

"When I paint an open field or the inside of a building with lonliness implied, it's not concocted. Perhaps I dream of more lonliness in a thing than is actually there. But I'm not trying to be dramatic; it's natural for me. Have we lost the art of being alone? I think we have."

From Richard Meryman's Andrew Wyeth: A Secret Life, pp. 183-184.