In Which Thomas Kinkade, once an Artist, Gives it Up for Money

Thomas Kinkade died this week at 54, of "natural causes." I wasn't going to mark this occasion, because I really had nothing to say about Kinkade except to vent some of the snobbery I have trying to cure myself of. It does no harm to the world if people want to put Kinkade's glowing cottages on their walls, so why should I complain? But First Things blogger Joe Carter did write an interesting post on Kinkade back in 2010, and I pass along his discovery. Carter explains that Thomas Kinkade was once a neo-impressionist painter of some talent. Then he figured out that what people wanted on their walls was not art so much as solidified sentimentality. The two pictures above are both by Kinkade, the one on the left done in 1998, the one on the right in 2004. Notice how the treatment of light changed, from something that radiates from identifiable sources to an undefined glow that shines out of everything.

Again, two paintings of the same street by Kinkade, one in his artist mode and the other as purveyor of schlock. I feel no animosity toward Kinkade -- it's hard to make a good living as an artist, and I can't see how his path is any worse than the antics that brought Andy Warhol fame. Nor do I have anything against the 10 million people who own one of his works. But, lord, this is awful stuff.