Within the past two weeks artist, Andrew Wyeth, and writer, John Updike, both died. Wyeth on January the 16th and Updike on January the 27th. Both were accomplished and brought a unique characteristic to each of their respective fields.
Wyeth was born in 1917, right in the midst of Picasso, Matisse, Duchamp, and the adolescence of modern art. But Wyeth looked to the past, using tempera as his medium (which dates back to before the Renaissance). His paintings are rendered in incredible detail. Each blade of grass is painted individually, lace curtains blowing in the breeze look perfectly light and airy. Most of his paintings have the somber, contemplative feel of fall and winter. His work, Christina's World, usually hangs in a claustophobic room next to the Surrealism section in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Hopefully he will get the recognition he truly deserves. 
Updike was probably America's greatest living writer. He had a special gift for writing where every single work seems carefully chosen to create the perfect phrase. He was also very academic. He was incredibly knowledgable about the arts, writing several books worth of commentaries on American art. His novel, The Centaur, is somewhat autobiographical telling the story of a boy and his father living near Reading, Pennsylvania. He ingeniously intertwines this story with stories from Greek mythology, creating an amazing book. But that's just one of his many works. With Wyeth hailing from the Philadelphia area and Updike growing up near Reading; Pennsylvania, let alone America and the world, has lost two its greatest figures in the arts.
