Utah artist Brad Aldridge paints landscapes that seem at once generalized and specific. They may or may not refer to actual places. He eschews grandiose, dramatic landscapes and opts for intimate, quiet scenes, often of small streams, which I particularly enjoy.

Aldridge works in oil on prepared panels and prefers a muted palette with understated colors, subtle tones and an emphasis on the visual texture of his scenes. There is very often a subtle focal point of an individual shrub or tree. If you study several of his paintings, you’ll realize that his has deftly controlled the path your eye takes around his compositions.

The frames for Aldridge’s paintings are unique and seem specific to the individual paintings, as if they were considered part of the finished work and not simply a showcase for it. Alridge creates most (or all) of these frames himself.

In many cases he has created paintings on panels cut to unique shapes, often incorporating rounded or gothic arches at the top of the panel, that have corresponding frames, cut to emphasize the unusual shape of the panels.

I haven’t found a dedicated site for Aldridge, but he is represented by a few galleries who feature his work in their sites. The Joyce Robins Gallery has a good section of Aldridge’s work, as well as a nice essay on the artist by the gallery’s owner.

Bennett Galleries has a smaller selection. Leslie Levy Fine Art has 7.

Despite an awkward and inconveniently “clever” horizontally scrolling interface (in which you must hover your mouse over a link and wait for the Flash script to scroll the images at its pace, not yours), the Arcadia Gallery site still has the best selection of Aldridge’s work I have been able to find, as well as the largest images.

[Addendum, December 2010: The links provided seem to have gone bad in the past four years. Here are current links to Brad Aldridge on Susan Calloway Fine Art, Gallery 71, and McLarry Fine Art.]

As a student at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts I always felt that the great American painter and teacher Thomas Eakins (pronounced A-kins, with a long a) was a presence there, if a somewhat ghostly one.

By that I don’t mean that he walked the halls, palette in hand, offering critiques of student cast drawing from beyond the veil; just that his association with the school was as oddly strained in modern times as it was when he was studying, later teaching and eventually the director there in the late 19th Century.

On one hand the Academy of the 20th Century was proud to be associated with Eakins, who was unquestionably one of the greatest American painters; on the other hand there were the, um… controversies, with which the Academy seemed as uncomfortable in the 20th Century as it had been in the 19th, when Eakins was fired from his position for a history of insubordination to the board of directors and “improprieties”, of which the camel-back-breaking straw was the removal of a male model’s loincloth in a class of female art students.

The Academy’s web site, brushes over this whole era with a few words and little mention of controversy. Read enough biographies of Eakins and you will find mention of Eakins as a champion of the importance of the human form in art and an opponent of repressive attitudes toward teaching figure drawing, side by side with stories of rumored improprieties, rudeness, accusations of abuse and possible mental illness.

Leaving the social drama behind, you will find Eakins’ unswerving commitment to gritty realism, keen draughtsmanship, mastery of painting technique and the revelation of form through value and contrast. His mastery is evident in his portraits, including group portraits of physicians in operating theaters, artists, lawyers, and literary figures (like Walt Whitman, whose portrait by Eakins was said to be his favorite and is still in the collection of the Academy). Eakins was also a master of perspective, as often revealed in his paintings and studies of sculls on the Schuylkill River (image above, with perspective study, inset).

Although his work is highly regarded now, at the time he was something of an outcast from artistic circles. He was apparently very respected by his students, who asked him to carry on teaching after his dismissal from the Academy at drawing sessions arranged by the Philadelphia’s Art Students League.

The sessions were held at what is now the Philadelphia Sketch Club, the nation’s oldest continuing arts organization, which carries on the tradition of life drawing sessions to this day, and over the years has been a great resource for many artists and art students in Philadelphia, including this one.

“Caspar David Friedrich…”, wrote sculptor Pierre-Jean David d’Angers, “created a new genre: the tragedy of landscape.”

Friedrich attempted to create Christian religious art without the traditional biblical scenes, instead using allegorical landscape to convey religious themes. In spite of its message of Christian redemption, his work is steeped in loneliness, isolation and desolation, perhaps because of tragedy in childhood. He witnessed his brother drowning in the Baltic after falling through thin ice while attempting to rescue him from the same fate, his mother died when he was 7 and two of his sisters died by the time he was 18.

His fascination with ruins of churches, graveyards, shipwrecks, isolated individuals among hauntingly portrayed landscapes and mist enshrouded planes populated by bare trees made him a favorite of the Surrealists, who saw him as a visionary painter.

Similarly, he had a great impact on Symbolist painters like Arnold Böcklin, whose own tragic life and fascination with death undoubtedly found resonance in Friedrich’s silent stones and “haunted, frightened trees” (to borrow a wonderfully appropriate line from Bob Dylan).

Friedrich started his career doing sepia ink and wash drawings of landscapes; he didn’t take up oil painting until he was 30. In the course of his career he became one of the masters of romantic landscape painting along with Turner and Constable. Toward the end of his life he was crippled by a stroke and, unable to paint in oil, he returned to sepia drawings.

Unfortunately, some of his work was lost, both to fire and to the Allied bombing of Dresden in World War II. We have only photographic records, mostly in black and white, of some of his masterworks, although some have been colorized by modern artists in an attempt to reconstruct their original appearance.