Andrew Wyeth’s 1948 masterpiece proves itself to be extraordinary reference material.

Just as disc jockeys sample tracks in night clubs, artists of every stripe can’t seem to get Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World out of their heads. Rich in subtexts from postmodern panache to low-tide dolor, questionable taste, and crass commercialism (who knew Christina’s favorite long-neck was a Bud?), the result is a body of derivative work far more inventive than simply slashing a black moustache across Maine’s Mona Lisa.

Because we all carry that lonely grass hill with that unreachable stately farmhouse at its crest around with us—when we’re lonely, when we’re trying to figure out who we are, when we permit ourselves to dream.

If Dean Martin was the first to quip about his pal Sinatra, ‘It’s Frank’s world, we just live in it,’ it’s only fitting for us to give it another twist to create the title for this story. Because the question runs deeper: Why is Christina’s World part of our collective unconscious? And when does art in this vein rise above the level of cerebral roadkill?

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© 2008 Portland Magazine Colin Sargent, Editor & Publisher editor@portlandmonthly.com Click here to subscribe