Excerpt from Loan Exhibition of the Works of Albert P. Ryder
IT IS strange that the art of Albert Pinkham Ryder should have happened in America in these days, but the history of art prepares one for such contrasts. Within sound of the elevated trains and in the midst of the clang and bustle of this boisterous city of ours, he found his place, and here he painted pictures that depend but little on the statement of facts, and in which the emotional value of design and color reproduces his sentiment in a fashion that approaches the immateriality of music. He is of the company of the Oriental painters, of the Sienese, of Blake, Coleridge, Poe, and of the Romantic com posers. He makes one feel the weirdness of gaunt branches against moonlight skies, the fragility and help lessness of ships on vast seas, the turmoil of waves that chew on rocky shores. He shows us people of old legends like apparitions in dreams, the serenity of autumn fields basking in afternoon light, the mystery of night. With a poet's vision and the intuition of a mystic he has chosen the expressive lines and the significant color that evoke these sensations in a way that can not be analyzed.
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