It’s almost impossible for artists to see the work of our hands objectively, even if we don’t share our pessimism with the general public.
A landscape painter is in some ways a journalist. We notice and communicate facts about our world.
He had a hangover, and then he had a stroke, and then he died. A fine ending, that.
I’m not doing anything differently; I’m painting something different. It would be a sign of failure if my Maine looked like my New York, wouldn’t it?
Between painting and the reception, artists mostly want to stay out of the way. Lucky for us, our hosts had some lovely artwork, so we pottered around peering at things.
There was a time when everyone learned Bible stories, and they learned them predominantly through paintings.
Yes, one can get blueberries from New Jersey, but they bear about as much resemblance to the Maine blueberry as plasticulture strawberries do to the ones that grow in my lawn.
Most women–including me–are too conventional to show up at a reception in their paint-stained work clothes. The big packing issue of a painting trip becomes what to wear to the reception.
The honest painter thinks about rocks’ color and fracture patterns, and doesn’t just throw in a generic rock face in the general area it’s needed.
Go ahead and be a subversive: learn art history on your own. After all, nobody really owns the right to our shared history and knowledge.