Wayne and Jerry. And cakes.

Okay, all quiz for all you artsy types. Which painter am I reminded of every time I pass this store just outside of the side gate of our university?



Did you say Wayne Thiebaud? Yeah, I know, that one was too easy. At least if you've ever seen his paintings, that is.

Wayne Thiebaud, Cakes, 1963

If you’ve never heard of Thiebaud, or don't know much more about him other than his signature cake paintings, now’s your chance to click this link and get right on it. Go ahead, I’ll wait...

Okay, done? Nice paintings, right? A little bit candy coated, perhaps, but nice. You may have seen them hanging in the modern section of your local neighborhood art museum, right next to the big black square painting that your mom couldn’t figure out. If you went to A Serious Art School, one of your professors might have dismissed him as “one of those decorative California painters”, and you may have had a twinge of guilt for liking something that was, well, pretty.

Now on the other hand, Jerry Rudquist, my first painting professor in college, really liked Thiebaud’s paintings. I mean, really really liked them, as in “let’s put up a slide of one of his paintings in a dark room and talk about it in a monotone for forty-five minutes running” liked them.

Given that, students of his had two choices - either:

• fall into a deep slumber dreaming of cake, or
• develop a taste for the nasty acid sludge from the coffee maker by the art department office, prop open your eyelids, learn how to look at a painting for a long long time, and discover things about paint, color, composition and space that you never ever knew before. Oh, and develop a deep and lasting appreciation for cakes, especially those that are artfully arranged.

So every time I run into a group of cakes, I think of Rudquist and Thiebaud. Or more properly, Jerry (who slipped away from “Professor Rudquist” into first name status sometime in my Junior year), and Wayne (since I believe that nothing puts you on a first name basis with somebody you’ve never met in person quite like looking their paintings for hours on end).
Wayne, the master of composition and sneaky bits of color. Wayne, the guy who can snake a horizon line right up to the corner of a painting and get away with it, still in California, still painting at age 90.

Jerry, who introduced me to Wayne, and Piet and Jan and Paul and many other painters that I’ve stared at so long that they’re past first name basis and now simply part of my mind. Jerry who introduced me to complimentary color and rhythmic composition. Jerry, who passed away in 2001, and was one of the first people to introduce me to the habit of looking deeply at things.