One day when I was in Maine, I went up to Rockland to see the Farnsworth Art Museum. By pure luck I happened to make this trip the day the museum stayed open late. Which meant that I got to explore the museum’s main building at leisure, take a break for lobster, and then head back over to the museum again.
The Farnsworth has a number of good exhibits and collections — including an interesting special exhibit on Shaker design — but its collection of Wyeth paintings is really the heart of this museum. I’ve known Andrew Wyeth’s work tangentially over the years, but don’t know that I gave his paintings as much thought as I might have. In person I found his work deeply compelling. There’s such a subtlety in his brushwork, a patina that requires in-person viewing to fully understand.
The museum also does a great job contextualizing Wyeth’s work, both through its placement in galleries and special exhibits, and through thoughtful interpretive plaques. I especially appreciated reading Wyeth’s reflections on his own creative process, which struck me as grounded and generous. On his use of tempera, he wrote:
“I love the quality of the colors: the earths, the terra verde, the ochers, the Indian reds, and the blue-reds. They aren’t artificial. I like to pick the colors up and hold them in my fingers. Tempera is something with which I build — like building in great layers the way the earth was itself built. Tempera is not the medium for swiftness.”
When I got to the Farnsworth’s Wyeth Center, a satellite gallery located in a repurposed old church across the street, I was the sole remaining visitor for the museum’s last hour. Which meant that I had the galleries — and a small group of dedicated exhibit docents — to myself for a little while. It was helpful to learn more about the entire Wyeth family — work by all of whom was on display — and to have long, solitary moments in front of paintings like In Her Room.
Part of what appeals to me so much about the Farnsworth’s Wyeth paintings is their predominantly Maine context. The light and coloration and portraits of lobstermen resonate with me. Perhaps in part because of my own long and early connection to that landscape. But there’s also something deeply meditative about the experience of these paintings. After leaving the museum, I walked along the long stone breakwater, out into the dimming night. Local men were walking barefoot along the rocks to fish, rain was coming. It felt like the space I needed to digest these paintings, this experience of place.
Wyeth’s reflections about the creative process are so often true across form and genre. “I dream a lot,” he wrote. “I do more painting when I’m not painting. It’s in the subconscious.” So true of writing, too.