Since 1903, members of Arts and Letters have delivered commemorative tributes to fellow members who have passed away. These remarks celebrate and reflect on the lives and work of the members being honored and acknowledge their contribution to the arts. A selection of tributes is now available in the digital archive below. As we prepared this archive, we were reminded that these tributes reflect their times, and, in some instances, include terminology and social and moral judgments we do not endorse.
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It must be more than thirty years now since I went to the Frank Rehn Gallery in New York to see an exhibition of paintings by Henry Mattson. There was another visitor in the Gallery at the time viewing the paintings with great interest and we were soon in deep conversation about the paintings and the art world in general. It was then we introduced ourselves and I was delighted to learn I was speaking with a man whose work I had known and admired for many years. John Folinsbee.
As soon as the war was over I went to Maine to live and some time later I learned that Jack and his family were now summer residents near Wiscasset. This was great news and we were soon in touch.
The house at Murphy's Corner always seemed to be filled with the friendly confusion of many people, grown-ups and children having a good time—Ruth, his wife, Joan and Beth, his daughters, their husbands Pete and "Wiggie," his grandchildren and greatgrandchildren and always friends and neighbors stopping by to chat. One group in the pool, another on the tennis court, and I remember taking part in some determined games of volley-ball.
Jack had a boat named "Sketch" which indicates how he enjoyed using it. She was an open power boat much like the local lobster craft. There were times when Jack had the wheel, standing down Montsweag Bay on a fishing and sketching trip off Sequin Light, leading someone on board to make playful references to Captain Bligh. In the early evening, while we were relaxing with suitable beverages, a few musical instruments would appear, including a homemade string bass given new purpose after starting out as a copper wash boiler. Jack was of course the center around which all this delightful turmoil rotated. All these images flit past my mind like picture slides on a screen, but the operator seems to be in a hurry and is running the projector a bit too fast.
John Folinsbee was a fine artist, motivated by the beauty of form, color, line, and texture and all that was good from the great tradition of the past. Without bothering to make sketches he attacked his canvas with lusty strokes, and with astonishing speed the face and form seemed to come to life. With a full brush and a broad stroke the magic texture grew under his hand.
There is not much more I have to say, mostly because I am out of my medium and not skilled in the use of words. In addition to the many fine landscapes, marines, and portraits he created, there remains much love and respect from all who knew him. An artist who with enormous courage scaled the heights in spite of a formidable handicap. I have learned much from John Folinsbee.
Sing low, sing low, while in the glow
of fancy's hour those forms we trace
Hovering around the years that go—
those years our lives can never replace.