On an autumn day in 1989 I parked on Ring Road at the exact spot where the train killed N.C. Wyeth and his grandson. A station wagon driven by a black lady slowed almost to a stop as it passed me. Sitting in the passenger's seat was Nat Wyeth and we looked into each others eyes as they passed. At the exact same moment the horn of a train was wailing off in the distance. A cold shiver ran up my spine and I left Chadds Ford that day with a feeling like the Wyeths had touched me in a profound way.
I don't think that any artist understood the chill and solitude of winter as did Andrew Wyeth.
JeffersonDinedAlone 2 months ago
On an autumn day in 1989 I parked on Ring Road at the exact spot where the train killed N.C. Wyeth and his grandson. A station wagon driven by a black lady slowed almost to a stop as it passed me. Sitting in the passenger's seat was Nat Wyeth and we looked into each others eyes as they passed. At the exact same moment the horn of a train was wailing off in the distance. A cold shiver ran up my spine and I left Chadds Ford that day with a feeling like the Wyeths had touched me in a profound way.
rikoshayrabbit 2 years ago 3