Andrew Wyeth Poses — RICHARD SCHULMAN

I remember:

I dream of an army of arachnids (Phidippus audax) flexing their spindly legs across my cheeks. Frightened, tears flow towards the spiders. They nip at my salty droplets. In seconds the army invades my tear ducts...

While in route to my photography destinations across the globe, panic sets in like the spiders in my dreams. I fear I will become lost while walking a straight line. I might now laugh at myself. The laughter is akin to a Big Top Circus clown standing center ring in a single spot light. He mimes a tear filled with a rendition of sorrow. So sad so true.

My travel map indicates i95 south the whole way. I am traveling from New York City the most advanced city in the world to Chadds Ford Pennsylvania, a Revolutionary War battle town. A delusory blur confiscates all of the highway signage. I am heading in the right direction but I am lost.

I am on my way to photograph one of the most famous American artists of the mid 20th century, Andrew Wyeth. By early 1984 I had photographed hundreds of artists. There was this hushed buzz about my photographs. So many artists were “the” artists. I had this immediate acceptance. It was crowd pleasing. It made for interesting ice breaking conversation. The conversation always turned personal. All of the artists wanted to know what other artists were up to. It became an exciting narrative for me to meld my cameras with words and words with my cameras. In hindsight my only regret is that so many of the words have become blended into the thousands of portraits. It makes me cry a bit that I can’t share the singular moments. Sometimes I can, but most often I stare into my photographs wishing for the voices to come back to me.

I arrive at the Wyeth compound. My ears are trained towards the opening of a screened door. Wyeth walks through like Moses parting the Red Sea and Marlon Brando pleading, ”Stella!”. His body is protected from the winter elements by a full length beaver fur coat. The aura surrounds him. I am late.

I try to explain my misdirections while traveling. He motions me inside. I am greeted by his wife Betsy. We sit down to a bit of soup and sandwich. I am quizzed about my shooting expectations more arduously than an inquisition. I get it. I am me, and he is Andrew Wyeth.

I made a few positional photographs inside his home. We then stepped through the compound for more moments. We arrived at the door to the studio. My eyes teared as I imagined I was going to see Helga naked. The then famous rumors were already splayed across the art worlds universe. Helga was not to be. In fact not a single painting was in view. I thought for a few moments that Helga might just be in the adjacent room. I was panting, not Helga.

Photographing Wyeth was fantastic. My eyes absorbed his as he followed me through the ghostly space. A wicker basket, a chair, a Christmas tree, winter tools,and a barren easel were the only signs of life. There was a single window where the winter light poured through. He rummaged through my brain looking for the conversant bridge between the generations of artists I had photographed and himself. We traded some curious thoughts for a couple of hours.

My day and adventure was complete. I drove home leaving a bit of heaven and the twilight zone behind me. I was a bit dazed by our exchanges. I had met the face of a dynasty. I had felt the presence of Wyeth’s tryst with his muse Helga. I had imagined Wyeth’s solo world with “Christina”.

For years I have thought about the mythology of Wyeth and the many artists in my archives. I have intellectually appropriated them into a composite of a dozen or so portrait years and many thousands of images. The photographs memorialize another lifetime. I am just now remembering how glorious he looked. He was stone handsome. I was merely gazing.