His living room, Central Park, his wife Sally, his daughter March, the beaches and mountains where they summered; cows, fish heads, the flight of birds; his friends and whatever world strayed through his studio : a domestic, unheroic cast.
But from these there have been fashioned great canvases, that far from the casual and transitory implications of the subjects, have always a gripping lyricism, and often achieve the permanence and monumentality of Egypt.
The world is blue at its edges and in its depths. This
blue is the light that got lost. Light at the blue end of the spectrum does not
travel the whole distance from the sun to us. It disperses among the molecules
of the air, it scatters in water.
Water is colorless, shallow water appears to
be the color of whatever lies underneath it, but deep water is full of this
scattered light, the purer the water the deeper the blue. The sky is blue for the
same reason, but the blue at the horizon, the blue of land that seems to be
dissolving into the sky, is a deeper, dreamier, melancholy blue, the blue at
the farthest reaches of the places where you see for miles, the blue of
distance. This light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole
distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much
of which is in the color blue.