Artist Inspo: Jamie Wyeth
Some pig.
When I was very small, we lived in Pennsylvania for four years. I have strong sense memories from that time: the smell of baled hay on a late summer evening; the sound of hounds baying as a fox hunt crossed the neighboring field; the sharp edges of the heating grate pressing on the soles of my feet, hot air ballooning my nightgown.
Sometime between kindergarten and third grade, my mom took me to the Brandywine Museum. Late fall was transitioning to early winter, and holiday festivities were a part of the landscape. All but two moments from that visit have faded from memory. The first was an eye level view (I was on tiptoe) of a miniature landscape: tiny fields and farms, white-painted fences, clusters of deciduous trees, gently rolling hills. It was a scale model covering an enormous table in the middle of one gallery, part of a special model train exhibit that, incidentally, celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. I could hear the distant sound of click-clacking as trains wound their way toward us from other rooms in the museum, but I was transfixed by the landscape rather than the trains. The tiny, perfect world seemed proof that adults share some obsessions with children—a revelation.
The second moment was standing directly in front of—but beneath—Jamie Wyeth’s massive Portrait of a Pig.
I was no stranger to barns. The scuffed hay, the rough boards, and the moist shadows in the painting evoked a very familiar space. And while I didn’t know many pigs personally, I had (like so many other kids of my generation) absolutely read Charlotte’s Web. To my very round eyes, Wyeth’s portrait was also Some Pig.
I was too little to make the connection at the time, but we had other Wyeth prints in our home. Most were by Jamie Wyeth’s father Andrew Wyeth, worked in a palette of grays, blues, and creams more evocative of Maine than of the lush green fields of Chadds Ford and its surrounds. These prints captured the Spartan frugality of a New England ethos that we had temporarily left behind, and perhaps they held some space for far-away family in our Pennsylvania home.
Through exposure/osmosis, Andrew and Jamie Wyeth’s art therefore became a part of my childhood without me sparing it any conscious thought, and without me really knowing the artists’ names.
What did capture my attention at the time was a book called The Stray, written by Andrew Wyeth’s wife Betsy and illustrated by Jamie. The story was a bit beyond me, but I firmly believed it to be a children’s book anyway. I grasped that it was set in Pennsylvania—that it could, in fact, almost be taking place in the fields outside my window—and that all of the characters were animals. The proof that it was intended for my eyes? The illustrations were magic.
There was something singular about these drawings. They felt, to me, less approachable than most children’s illustrations—every character conveyed an element of danger or wildness, even those who were ostensibly protagonists.
Reading The Stray as an adult, I can recognize settings from Pennsylvania and marvel at how well the text conveys this sense of place—but what was familiar to me from the book, and what I remembered from childhood, were the illustrations. I’ve since seen The Stray compared to a fairytale, which rings true for me particularly because of this element of darkness. A sense of mystery drew me to those drawings over and over, just as I lost myself in the frequently dark, still un-Disneyfied tales in Andrew Lang’s Red, Yellow, and Blue Fairy Books.
Most people would know Jamie Wyeth for his paintings, and I wonder why he took on illustration for The Stray. Did he do it as a nod to his grandfather, artist and illustrator N.C. Wyeth? Was it an appealing opportunity to collaborate with his mother? Or did he want to evade pigeonholing? He has surprised his audience more than once (case in point: when he and Andy Warhol exchanged portraits). Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Like so many artists, he contains multitudes.
Children respond to art in every medium. Although my young self only knew to connect Jamie Wyeth to those wild creatures in his illustrations, he had already influenced me through his painting. I loved The Stray, but a portrait of a pig had earned an equal place in my tiny heart. Realizing now that one artist created both kinds of magic is the true inspiration.
Some gift ideas…
If you need holiday surprises for friends and family, consider these options:
Some delicious treats from the Upper Valley’s own Mac’s Maple (a Christmas morning basket? Or their “sugar on snow” box?).
For the history nerd in your life, Nicholas Evans’ and Gordon Noble’s hot-off-the-press bestseller Picts: Scourge of Rome, Rulers of the North. This archaeology is changing the way we think about Scottish history, and I’m here for it.
Affordable art from the brilliantly funny Ruby, Etc. I may have purchased this print, and it may just be for me…
A set of those darkly magic fairy stories from Andrew Lang (this set if you are a gazillionaire, or these if you’re not)
The gift of brilliance: an annual subscription to Survival by Book is always apropos!
Of course, wrapping paper and other goodies are always available from Doodle Dispatches! This month, use code ITSAWRAP for a 15% discount on anything and everything. Happy December!
I think you know why this post brings tears to my eyes. I remember the Wyeth museum, the Dusty Bottle, and the evocative moodiness of The Stray. Wyeths of all generations shaped my persona, for good or for ill.