Books praise passionate motion in sculptures,
paintings of cowboy riders and fighting
cavalry. But, oh, how his nocturnes—pure
in reflections of firelight, moonlight in
the peering wolf’s eyes and washing burnished
skin of mounted braves—create a sacred
world where we must honor stillness. He wished
near the end to conquer this vision. Said,
firelight…moonlight…difficult, to inscribe
his struggle. Felt by 1908 he’d
got it, though four years before, he’d described
in soft oil those mist-breathing, frost-backed steeds
poised in snowbright night while doorway reflects
lantern—scene to make Wyeth genuflect.
Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2009
