| Andy as I Knew Him Contributor(s): Ruckstuhl, Charles Emil (Author) |
|
 |
ISBN: 1418426709 ISBN-13: 9781418426705 Publisher: Authorhouse OUR PRICE: $17.05 Product Type: Paperback Published: July 2004 |
| Additional Information |
| BISAC Categories: - Biography & Autobiography | Artists, Architects, Photographers |
| Dewey: B |
| LCCN: 2004105024 |
| Physical Information: 0.47" H x 8.26" W x 10.88" (1.08 lbs) 212 pages |
| Descriptions, Reviews, Etc. |
| Publisher Description: Charles Ruckstuhl is the stepson of the famous horse artist and author, C.W.Anderson. He has known "Andy" as his family called him, since 1927 when he first met Charles' mother. Charles therefore knows Andy well enough to portray not only his genius as an artist, but also as a poet, a lover of music, and an expert horseman. This book is unusual in that it is not only a biography, but also a book not only of Andy's poetry, but also a compendium of his never-published pen-and-ink and pencil drawings, especially of trees that he loved for their natural geometry and design rhythm. This book also delightfully shows his sense of humor back in the 1926-1934 era when his cartoons were published in the New Yorker whose staff has generously provided Mr. Ruckstuhl with copies of his early work for them. Additionally, the book contains a series of never-published ditties or doggerels superimposed on typical Anderson cartoonism. The content is typical of the art deco era and carries with it naughty connotations of a society not yet immersed in problematical behavior. In contrast to this lighter side of life, the chapter containing his poetry and sketches of trees and Long Island expanses is indeed emotional. These 47 short verses were writtem for Mr. Ruckstuhl's mother each morning and were put on her breakfast tray daily during her remainng weeks. The short poems, in a most heart rending way, combine Andy's intense love for his wife, Madeleine, and simultaneously portray the dying flora of the past summer. The ebb of nature and failing human life combine profoundly in the melancholy domain of his pen. |