By Paul Carrier
He may be less celebrated in our time than son Andrew and grandson
Jamie. But Newell Convers Wyeth was arguably the most famous and admired illustrator of the 20th century, thanks to works that appeared in books, magazines, advertisements and other venues.
Reproductions of N.C. Wyeth's paintings and illustrations are readily available in book form, but to the best of my knowledge, there's only one full-length biography of the artist. For that reason, and because of author David Michaelis’ exhaustive research, his nuanced 1998 examination of Wyeth’s life remains compelling and authoritative two decades after its publication.
N.C. Wyeth: A Biography clocks in at 430 pages, not counting a genealogy of Wyeth’s paternal and maternal lines, more than 70 pages of notes, a 19-page bibliography and six pages of acknowledgements. But Michaelis’ thoroughness pays off with a wealth of detail about both the chronology of Wyeth’s life and his state of mind along the way.
Raised in Needham, Mass., Wyeth was the oldest of four sons born to Newell Wyeth and Henrietta (Hattie) Zirngiebel. His mother encouraged his artistic pursuits as a boy, and Wyeth had an especially close relationship with her.
That changed for a time when the self-absorbed and possibly mentally ill Hattie, a suffocating force in the lives of her four sons, grew resentful of Wyeth’s decision to marry. But Wyeth’s devotion to his mother resurfaced soon enough. Those ties, coupled with an overpowering nostalgia for the Needham of his youth, remained obsessive focal points of his life.
One of the strengths of N.C. Wyeth is the generous use of artwork and family photos to complement the text. Another is Michaelis’ success in chronicling the complexity of his subject’s ever-evolving relationships with those closest to him, including his parents; Carolyn Bockius, whom Wyeth eventually married; and Howard Pyle, the famed illustrator who accepted Wyeth as a student at his Delaware-based school of art.
Michaelis also devotes considerable attention to the central conflict in Wyeth’s professional life: his preoccupation with elevating his work from what he viewed as mere illustration to the higher plane of fine art.
“The more successful he became as an illustrator, the more he discriminated between pictures painted to illustrate texts and pictures painted for exhibition,” Michaelis writes. “The more popular N.C. Wyeth became, the less he seemed to count as a real artist.”
Michaelis approaches his subject with the same astute powers of observation and analysis that the biographer displayed, years later, in Schulz and Peanuts, his 2007 biography of the legendary cartoonist who created one of the most beloved comic strips of all time.
The author has plenty to work with. Wyeth was bighearted bur secretive, outgoing but conflicted, an ambitious artist who sold himself short. Not only was the often-depressed (and never treated) Wyeth alternately proud of his work and disgusted by it, but he felt intellectually superior to his wife, conflicted about Pyle, and suspicious of anything that smacked of change. He was, for many years, perennially wedded to an idealized vision of Needham as something akin to paradise.
The ultimate homebody, Wyeth was clannish and devoted to his family. Michaelis gives the Wyeths’ brood of children their due. All five of them — sons Andrew and Nat and daughters Henriette, Ann and Carolyn — were talented, fascinating people in their own right.
Andrew's star eventually shone brighter than those of his siblings, of course. In fact, N.C. lived to see the son eclipse the father. Over time, N.C. came to be viewed more and more as the father of Andrew, rather than as the dean of American illustration.
Still, N.C. took great pride in his son’s success and growing reputation, which was well-established by the time N.C. and his very young grandson died in 1945, when an oncoming train plowed into N.C.’s car at a railroad crossing in Pennsylvania. The artist was 62 years old.
Shortly before N.C.’s death, Andrew, who worshipped his father, tried to bolster N.C.’s appreciation of his own legacy. “I told him that he didn’t realize what he had done," Michaelis quotes Andrew as saying. "He’d reached a pinnacle in illustration that would live forever. And I hoped that he would not look down on it.” N.C. was moved, but Michaelis notes that this great talent, so long at war with himself, “did not — could not — agree.”
Reproductions of N.C. Wyeth's paintings and illustrations are readily available in book form, but to the best of my knowledge, there's only one full-length biography of the artist. For that reason, and because of author David Michaelis’ exhaustive research, his nuanced 1998 examination of Wyeth’s life remains compelling and authoritative two decades after its publication.
N.C. Wyeth: A Biography clocks in at 430 pages, not counting a genealogy of Wyeth’s paternal and maternal lines, more than 70 pages of notes, a 19-page bibliography and six pages of acknowledgements. But Michaelis’ thoroughness pays off with a wealth of detail about both the chronology of Wyeth’s life and his state of mind along the way.
Raised in Needham, Mass., Wyeth was the oldest of four sons born to Newell Wyeth and Henrietta (Hattie) Zirngiebel. His mother encouraged his artistic pursuits as a boy, and Wyeth had an especially close relationship with her.
That changed for a time when the self-absorbed and possibly mentally ill Hattie, a suffocating force in the lives of her four sons, grew resentful of Wyeth’s decision to marry. But Wyeth’s devotion to his mother resurfaced soon enough. Those ties, coupled with an overpowering nostalgia for the Needham of his youth, remained obsessive focal points of his life.
One of the strengths of N.C. Wyeth is the generous use of artwork and family photos to complement the text. Another is Michaelis’ success in chronicling the complexity of his subject’s ever-evolving relationships with those closest to him, including his parents; Carolyn Bockius, whom Wyeth eventually married; and Howard Pyle, the famed illustrator who accepted Wyeth as a student at his Delaware-based school of art.
Michaelis also devotes considerable attention to the central conflict in Wyeth’s professional life: his preoccupation with elevating his work from what he viewed as mere illustration to the higher plane of fine art.
“The more successful he became as an illustrator, the more he discriminated between pictures painted to illustrate texts and pictures painted for exhibition,” Michaelis writes. “The more popular N.C. Wyeth became, the less he seemed to count as a real artist.”
Michaelis approaches his subject with the same astute powers of observation and analysis that the biographer displayed, years later, in Schulz and Peanuts, his 2007 biography of the legendary cartoonist who created one of the most beloved comic strips of all time.
The author has plenty to work with. Wyeth was bighearted bur secretive, outgoing but conflicted, an ambitious artist who sold himself short. Not only was the often-depressed (and never treated) Wyeth alternately proud of his work and disgusted by it, but he felt intellectually superior to his wife, conflicted about Pyle, and suspicious of anything that smacked of change. He was, for many years, perennially wedded to an idealized vision of Needham as something akin to paradise.
The ultimate homebody, Wyeth was clannish and devoted to his family. Michaelis gives the Wyeths’ brood of children their due. All five of them — sons Andrew and Nat and daughters Henriette, Ann and Carolyn — were talented, fascinating people in their own right.
Andrew's star eventually shone brighter than those of his siblings, of course. In fact, N.C. lived to see the son eclipse the father. Over time, N.C. came to be viewed more and more as the father of Andrew, rather than as the dean of American illustration.
Still, N.C. took great pride in his son’s success and growing reputation, which was well-established by the time N.C. and his very young grandson died in 1945, when an oncoming train plowed into N.C.’s car at a railroad crossing in Pennsylvania. The artist was 62 years old.
Shortly before N.C.’s death, Andrew, who worshipped his father, tried to bolster N.C.’s appreciation of his own legacy. “I told him that he didn’t realize what he had done," Michaelis quotes Andrew as saying. "He’d reached a pinnacle in illustration that would live forever. And I hoped that he would not look down on it.” N.C. was moved, but Michaelis notes that this great talent, so long at war with himself, “did not — could not — agree.”
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