This book deals with Andrew Wyeth's relationships. Importantly, it often deals with Andrew Wyeth's relationships simulataneously. One relationship is analysed and the conclusions are superimposed onto another relationship to seek similarities or contrasts.
Describe the book as a series of overlapping X-rays of Andrew Wyeth's relationships, if you will, but do not expect Meryman to give you one final, big revelation.
Rather, Meryman goes for all the details and intricacies without at any time repeating himself or getting boring. The book is an exciting exploration of a complex and great artist. Meryman is all the time getting there, removing the layers of skin around Wyeth's core secrets, but never actually arriving at the heart, no matter how many accurate, sensitive, well-aimed X-rays he plies.
You sense, though, that the tension in his major relationships -- with his father NC Wyeth, his wife Betsy, his two sons, his sisters, his black friends, the people he painted most, namely, Helga, the Kuerners, the Olsons -- you sense that the tautness of feelings in each case, sharply controlled, come to bloom in his meticulously executed paintings which are austere yet quintessential life.
Paintings feeding on life. Life sublimated into art. And thus the reason, as Meryman shows, why Wyeth could not just paint anything, why before Wyeth embarked on a picture he had to be sure it had enough emotional engagement to see him through to the end, why his subjects became themselves the objects of his emotions, an intimate part of his life, like Helga.
The first picture I saw of Wyeth's was "Winter 1946", showing a boy seemingly lost in the fields. He did this the year after his father's death. Anyone who has lost a parent cannot help recognising the anguish in this picture.
To unleash such power, Wyeth had to find and assimilate it. Throughout his life Andrew Wyeth is seeking emotional momentum, whatever the cost.
It seems that, early in his life, pushed by NC's example and encouragement, Wyeth came to terms with the sacrifices which his art demanded. And yet it comes out clearly in Meryman's book that Wyeth could not come to terms with this driving force, with the brute rush, the ruthlessness which seeking emotional momentum implies.
This is a great book, sensitively written, comprehensive.
Holding it in your hand you can see that it is well-illustrated. It needs a proper index badly, though.
If you want to know Andrew Wyeth, go for it !