As I write this, I am sitting on a park bench in the shadow of Norman Rockwell’s studio. A friend of mine, Gregory Manchess, has been teaching a class at the Rockwell Museum all week. I’ve been to the museum a number of times and it is always a thrill to see. Like the Brandywine, it has a very human scale...it’s easy to spend hours and see the entire exhibit without feeling overwhelmed.
The work is, of course, wonderful. Thankfully, it is no longer trendy to consider Rockwell trite. I can’t imagine looking at the hope, concern, relief, and yearning for goodness that Rockwell so poignantly portrays into his pictures without being deeply touched. His depictions of life’s passages, whether it be from pre-pubescence into quickly oncoming adulthood or veteran that has returned home from war, are always hopeful but they are never trite.
One of the interesting things about spending so much time here (besides the work) is eavesdropping -- I keep hearing people talk about their parents’ experiences with Rockwell, or their own experiences knowing or modeling for him. Today I heard a woman complain that he never paid his phone bill on time. I also saw an African-American man explain to a small girl that his famil members, being only one of two African-American families in the area, were used as the models on the civil rights themed paintings Rockwell did. It’s sad to realize that these first-hand accounts will soon be gone.
I was also able to see the exhibit on the “fake” Rockwell. If you haven't heard the story of the forgery, click here. Interestingly, I heard from one of the museum curators that the forgery was nearly taken off the walls just a week or so before the original was found -- there was just too much evidence mounting against it. When compared to the original, the forgery does pale...but I have to admit that I loved this painting on earlier visits.
