I always took his art for granted, I guess because it seemed so ubiquitous and accessible, like Thomas Kinkade's stuff which is on every card, calendar and cross stitch. But Rockwell's paintings are certainly more than just fairy houses. What I finally appreciated today was not only the fact that he tells a story with each one, but that he brings the audience into the story halfway through the telling of it. Take, for example, this picture:
Just that look on the teacher's face conveys her love for each and every one of her students. She is so touched by their birthday wishes to her--even from the class clown with the eraser on his head. Clearly her class adores her, too.
And then there's this one:
Rockwell was a master of giving you all the information you need in just one frame. You can tell immediately by looking at this what is going on. And he was so good at giving us images of everyday American life. Even though these kids' clothes are old-fashioned, this scene has played out time and again in school gyms for decades.
So with my new found respect for Norman Rockwell, I will leave you with one of my favorites:
What do you think of the story?
Trouble with Math in a One-Room Country School
by Jane Kenyon
The others bent their heads and started in.
Confused, I asked my neighbor
to explain—a sturdy, bright-cheeked girl
who brought raw milk to school from her family’s
herd of Holsteins. Ann had a blue bookmark,
and on it Christ revealed his beating heart,
holding the flesh back with His wounded hand.
Ann understood division. . . .
Miss Moran sprang from her monumental desk
and led me roughly through the class
without a word. My shame was radical
as she propelled me past the cloakroom
to the furnace closet, where only the boys
were put, only the older ones at that.
The door swung briskly shut.
The warmth, the gloom, the smell
of sweeping compound clinging to the broom
soothed me. I found a bucket, turned it
upside down, and sat, hugging my knees.
I hummed a theme from Haydn that I knew
from my piano lessons. . . .
and hardened my heart against authority.
And then I heard her steps, her fingers
on the latch. She led me, blinking
and changed, back to the class.
