Andrew Wyeth was my best friend, my teacher, my mentor and my father. His death left a gaping hole in my life. Among his legions of admirers and battalions of critics, the question remains: Was his art an intellectual challenge, or was it sentimental pap? To me, that misses the point. Wyeth was not a Realist painter; he was, quite simply, an outsider. His work was utterly untouched by any style, fashion or movement. His world was a magically airless, crystal-lit microcosm, of which he was the sole inhabitant, and his art will forever remain, by his own design, elusive.
Wyeth is a third-generation American artist