“I hate to say it, but this cluster of people, it’s sort of the end of an era. These people that are between 85 and 95, there aren’t that many of them, when you think about it. There will be more to follow — more talented and creative people — but this was a group of really formidable artists. And extraordinarily influential. And Joe was one of them.”
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More often than not, Tom Colicchio does not think of himself as a chef. He knows his place, depending on the kitchen.
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B. Smith lived by the motto, “Whatever you do, do it with style.”
Her loved ones would argue that she also did it with poise, charm, elegance and graciousness. She was a shrewd businesswoman, yet generous; accomplished, yet approachable.
She was joy.
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Whether she’s watching a river of clouds snake through a mountain pass, or holding her breath as the sun breaks through a storm on the ocean horizon, Renate Aller has honed her ability to predict a moment — and only then does she click her shutter.
That split second, she says, is “the space between memory and expectation,” during which nothing inherently happens, but without which no change could occur.
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There is more to George Morton than his sheer, mostly raw talent. Take one look at his dramatically lifelike, poignant pieces, and it’s there — his past, one set against the drug war of the 1990s in Kansas City, one that landed him an 11-year prison sentence.
One that nearly destroyed him.
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Through chalk, Kara Hoblin learned one of the most important lessons that life has to offer: the necessity of letting go. As an artist, that means letting go of her work. As a lover, to let go of heartache. And as a human, to let go of loss, insecurity, hate and pain.
But it doesn’t mean throwing them away, she emphasizes. It simply means letting life be — while growing through the shadows and emerging into the light.
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Eric Dever’s newest body of work, “A Thousand Nows,” is a study in compressed time, the 22 exuberant oils layered with colors that span the artist’s lifetime, from his earliest memories growing up in California.
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Jane Weissman usually travels alone — by both circumstance and design, she said — and she loves paper maps.
If she can, she rents a car and plots her routes by hand, avoiding interstates as much as possible. It gives her a truer sense of a place, she explained, eight months back from a road trip around the Southwest, though the fine red rock sand likely lingers.
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Robert Dash was a man with wonderful hands — for writing, for painting, for gardening, for talking, and for petting his beloved Norwich terrier, Barnsley.
He was a man with a proper air, a garrulous nature and an intimidating intelligence, often punctuating his winding sentences with a thoughtful “yes” when he wasn’t speaking Latin, Greek or quoting poetry.
He was a man of contradictions—genuinely caring about those he had barely met, hosting parties and guests at his home while keeping his distance, and equally content reading classic literature or experimenting with new plant material, knee-deep in soil.
Mr. Dash knew who he was. There was only one man like him. And there will never be another.
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Scott Chaskey and his daughter, Rowenna, stood at the entrance of a rather unremarkable shed in the Northwest Woods last week, with dozens of soaring metal sculptures with long, slender legs peeking out.
They were artist Bill King as Mozart, Bill King as John Faddis, Bill King as Mary Magdalene. They were Bill King singing, dancing and holding hands with children. They were Bill King in the furthest stretches of his imagination — a magical place, his family and friends attest, filled with generosity, wit and the driest sense of humor, if it could even be typified as that.
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