I’ve been meaning to write about this for a few weeks now, and I wish I’d written it the day my wife told me, but life happens, eh? Andrew Wyeth is dead. You know, I’ve always been an artist at heart and what that means has mutated and evolved over time, but traditionally speaking Andrew Wyeth is my favorite artist. He lived in Chadds Ford, PA and painted that which he knew—those people and places around him like Western PA and Maine, his friend, family, and, of course, Helga. Ah you can’t forget about the German blond haired blue-eyed beauty. He painted Helga nude for years supposedly without telling his family. The only time I’ve ever been to the Brandywine River Museum near West Chester, PA I saw Helga’s dirty blond hair painted meticulously as Andrew’s granddaughter, Victoria Wyeth, talked of her grandfather’s work. I’d never been more enamored in an artist’s life story before – a story I came to serendipitously on my own. Sure, I like Dali for Dali. I like Warhol growing up in Pittsburgh, and I like Basquait because they made a movie about him. Wyeth was all my own and I didn’t have to share that love with anyone. I moved through his galleries that afternoon and just existed among the stories and the art. I will miss you, Andrew. Thank you for leaving me the gift of your paintings.