1936
Oil on canvas
32 1/2 x 40 1/2 in.
Perhaps the most noteworthy of Wendt’s Bowers paintings is titled, Trees, They Are My Friends. While the wildly obscure play Antichrist, written in 1912 by a Vancouverite named James Orman Gray, does include the exact phrase “trees; they are my friends” in the midst of its larger story about gunslinging figures of Grecian myth and history, it is likelier that Wendt’s titling convention was a purely coincidental result of his relationship with nature which had started at a young age. His first job working in Chicago was as a commercial artist where he spent six of the week’s seven days indoors mass-producing paintings as part of a human assembly line. On the seventh day he traveled to what little untamed Illinois he could find to paint landscapes. Having grown up in another country entirely and being somewhat late to transcendentalism, there is no way of knowing if Wendt was familiar with its most famous authors, but it was as true for Wendt as it for Henry David Thoreau or Ralph Waldo Emerson that nature was a temple he worshipped in, a muse, and an old friend. Though Wendt was by all accounts a kind and humorous man, he was quiet and of few words. He described city life as “soul-destroying” and admitted to regularly suffering from bouts of melancholy. Perhaps trees seemed truer companions to him than even the partners in painting he brought to join him in the great outdoors.
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