I love Norman Rockwell. I love his idealistic, quaint, and sentimental portrayals of American life. Some art critics call it “overly sweet.” I disagree; I think they simply represent the ideal aspects of an imperfect world.
I am as sentimental as the day is long, (i tear up during Publix commercials).so his art really “speaks” to me. It pulls as my heartstrings and makes me yearn for a simpler time, where children could play outside till dark with no fear of being snatched by the boogie man, where after prom, a couple would go down to the corner drugstore and share a malted shake; where when a little boy had enough of his baby sister and decided to run away, he packed his buffalo nickel and a Hardy Boy’s book in his red handkerchief, tied it on a stick, took his dog and set off down the dirt road to grandma’s house.
I love the wholesomeness, the snap shots of the American dream.
Of course, I’m not completely deluded enough to think that life really was “simpler” back in the good ol’ days. I mean you had the World Wars, the Cold War, women had the vote, but few other freedoms, and African Americans pretty much had nothing but each other.
But ahhhh, there’s still something about it. Not quite innocence, but something….
His illustrations are American as baseball and mama’s apple pie. Which by the way, my mama doesn’t make apple pie, but she does bake a mean cream cheese pound cake.
As American as mama’s cream cheese pound cake….
Then again, somethings never change, and that makes me smile too.