Introduction (from Pageant)
by John Ashbery
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IF
ALL ART ASPIRES toward the condition of music as Pater wrote, Trevor
Winkfield must be counted among the most successful artists of all time.
A picture such as his great,
recent Voyage II totally fulfills that condition: the accuracy and surprises
of great music even its linear unscrolling, are what confront us. In
fact its effect is the same one a musical score offers a person with
some ability for reading music - "sight-reading." Each element
in the painting has its precise pitch, its duration. It's as though
seeing and hearing merged in a single act, and the "meaning"
of the picture were lodged at the intersection of two of the senses
where one is pleasurably enmeshed, deliciously hindered.
The strange erection on the
left - a toy windmill with dysfunctional looking paddles (isn't it from
the coat of arms of some ancient and distinguished purveyor of something-or-other
to the Royal Family?), firmly placed on a pedestal fashioned of bricks,
tomatoes and other less namable objects, is there to cast the authority
of its key-signature over the frieze on the right, whose elements include
a harp, a seagull, some nautical-looking pennants, three table utensils
tied together with a red bow, and at the far right some wave-like scallops
and stylized drops of water that suggest the musical symbol for da capo
al fine - go back and start all over again, you idiot! (One of the heroes
in Winkfield's pantheon is Satie, author of a short piano piece called
Vexations that is meant to be repeated 840 times.)
There are also three identical
hands, each one a different hue and each holding what may be an empty
ice-cream cone (but the third cone has something attached to it that
looks like a drooping slice of flan.) There are two sculptural heads,
one Greek, the other that of a medieval bigwig, Charlemagne perhaps;
both are gazing to the left (westward), where the music is coming from,
and each is bathed in a different light, for which no source is apparent.
These are the describable
things, but there are less identifiable ones on which the same amount
of objective care has been lavished: three-dimensional grids; stripes
and colored lines; some stylized leaves at the top; and the Greek figure's
curious torso, like a child's top. The colors are those of brand-new
but antique toys that have been randomly stacked together: intense pastel
greens, banana-yellow, vermilion, chartreuse, Tabasco red, Kool-Aid
grape: an assembly whose components ought to "scream at" each
other, but which are instead intoning something ineffable, some music
of the spheres, though the spheres appear to be rolling around on the
floor of a nursery rather than in the heavens.
One could go on listing and
describing, "to small purpose and with less effect" in the
words of Winkfield's friend, the late James Schuyler. What's clear is
that there is no verbal equivalent for taking in the picture, just as
there is none for assimilating a piece of music, which is as it should
be.
The experience in both cases
amounts to what? Perhaps the very what in Jasper Johns' title According
to What. Something is regulating everything and placing its parts in
the proper relation to each other, but that thing is unknown: a blank,
though a fundamental one.
One reflects on how so much
modern art is concerned with dropping things out: the momentous vacancies
in Cezanne, in Cubist still-lifes, in Henry Moore's holes, in Giacometti's
erasures. And how an equally important activity has been filling things
up again: how the ashen, empty glasses in Picasso's 1910 still-lifes
are brimming with violent-colored lemonade, Suze and cassis after 1914.
Winkfield has somehow managed
to combine both of these natural impulses to drain and to replenish,
to build and to destroy. And he locates the core of creation precisely
there, at the plimsoll line where the glass is both half empty and half
full, where ecstasy means having exactly enough.
THERE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN ARTISTS
who dreamed of reviving the elaborate costumes and stylized affections
of the Middle Ages, and Trevor Winkfield, whose paintings are packed
with absurdist heraldic devices, is one of the dreamers. Winkfield,
who was born in Leeds in 1944, brings tough-mindedness to his whirling
arabesques, and there's some-thing ineffably English about the resulting
combination of fantasy and precision; I find distant echoes of the delicate
Lady Chapel in the fourteenth-century Ely Cathedral and the labyrinthine
work of the nineteenth-century painter Richard Dadd. Using flat, crisply
modern shapes, Winkfield imagines scenes from some zany toy theater
and fills them with the elegantly florid patterns of a chivalric age.
He's written that he still has vivid memories of 1953, the year of Elizabeth
II's coronation; nine at the time, he was struck by all the "ceremony
and religious ritual (particularly the handing over of regalia from
archbishop to sovereign, and the hierarchical poses adopted by the sovereign
when weighted down by this regalia)." The boy saw a modern princess
transformed into a gothic heroine, and he probably saw it all filtered
through the newsreel footage and crude tabloid images that were available
in a provincial English town. It must have seemed as if medieval manners
were zooming straight into the pop present, and that's exactly where
Winkfield takes up the story.
Winkfield fills his paintings with court jesters, tournament props,
and monkish hoods, yet this is also unmistakably the work of a modern
man, who sees abstraction as a fact of life - a visual equivalent of
a more general cultural disarray. He's basically attracted to medieval
pageantry because it's an idealized order, and if his own post-abstract
sense of structure leaves lots of room for upheaval and confusion, that's
his way of measuring the distance that we've travelled from the time
of The Romance of the Rose. What Winkfield understands is that the pomp
and circumstance that may have been a medieval reality have become a
modern fantasy, and because he has such an intuitive feeling for that
never-never land, his paintings, although chock-a-block with off-beat
pedantry, aren't overly self-conscious. His exuberant color and get-the-job-done
painthandling lend even the most labyrinthine imaginings a streamlined
ease. We're able to glance easily over mysteriously antiquarian encounters.
In Winkfield's paintings bizarre juxtapositions are everyday occurances.
He's telling us that modern life is a crazy pageant.
Like much strong painting that's produced today, Winkfield's work suggest
an ambiguous universe where naturalistic forms are reshaped by abstract
forces. In his canvases the clash of apparently irreconcilable traditions
has an underlying biographical meaning, because the artist, although
born and educated in England, has pretty much become a New Yorker since
moving here at the end of the 1960s, when he was still in his twenties.
Thus while the nautical doodads and general air of Edwardian nursery
room humor say "English" - and say it even to those who don't
know Winkfield's story - the hard-edged, joyfully strident look of the
paintings could be stamped "Made in USA." In Winkfield's canvases
the old English eccentricity is reconsidered from the vantage point
of mad Manhattan, and if his best paintings summon up a feeling of cheerful
panic, how could it be otherwise? Winkfield is living in New York and
contemplating somewhere - or something - else, which is a fairly common
situation.
This is an art of cool surfaces and madcap subjects. Frequently, the
central attraction is a figure, and there's something both touching
and troubling about personages that are such odd amalgams of household
objects and hardware and old-fashioned costumes. Winkfield's jerry-built
humanoids call to mind eighteenth-century automata or avant-garde marionettes.
They're ghosts who've ransacked the flea market for an identity, and
the loopiness of the outfits is obviously a burden, a freakishly jolly
carapace that must be carried everywhere. Winkfield's weirdos, in spite
of their up-for-anything smiles, are ambivalent about the roles they
play; it's overwhelming to be centerstage, or to bump into the strangest
props when you make the slightest move.
Winkfield has said that among the key influences on his work he counts
"the pinball machine effect of Duchamp's Large Glass - how one
object leads to another, and in so doing activates it." His paintings
have their own assembly-line-like absurdism; they're surrealist pinball
machines. This painter loves sleek, machine-tooled forms, and he's creating
a whimsical, cottage-industry version of mass production when he fills
one painting with half-a-dozen or so identical forms - balls or wheels
or matchsticks or cubes or mallets. Arranged at various odd angles,
these rising and falling doo-dads create arcs and trajectories that
take us on a twirling journey. The littered objects give some paintings
a William Morris-like busyness, which Winkfield is often inclined to
oppose to a backdrop of bold planes of color, so that the little incidents
turn out to be neatly pinned down, like butterflies in a curio cabinet.
In several recent paintings the strong-willed nut case who's trying
to call the shots is actually an artist. It turns out that putting brush
to canvas is as good a way as any to cope with the maelstrom of emblems.
In The Painter and His Muse, the birdlike painter works on his small
seascape while the muse, equally birdlike, holds up a schematic plan
of a sailboat. There's so much going on here that it's difficult to
know whether the painter is in control or just soldiering on. A sort
of chessboard that doubles as a palette may refer to Duchamp, but I
have no idea what to make of a group of forms that surround the muse;
they look a bit like medieval halberds and a bit like the jacks that
a boy keeps in the bag with the marbles. The artist who negotiates this
unpredictable universe is a cross between an anonymous medieval craftsman
and a character in a slapstick comedy. He's also a sort of harrassed
director-type, overseeing a production that's taken on a life of its
own.
Considering the on-the-go feel of so many of Winkfield's paintings,
it's quite logical that travel is one of his favorite themes. He fills
his paintings with things that move - birds, boats, wheels, fish, even
pairs of hooves. All these symbols of travel tie into a taste for the
exotic and unknown, which Winkfield then domesticates, so that a journey
to faraway places also suggests a journey home. The pageant becomes
a pilgrimage, and of course there are lots of stories to be told along
the way. Among the clearest of the recent travel paintings is Voyage
II, which, with its wave-like scallops, stylized splashes of water,
ship's mast, gull, classical head, and Greek harp, adds up to a fantasy
about cruising the Mediterreanean. Here the pilgrimage involves a flashback
to the Age of Odysseus.
Voyage II - part of a quartet on the theme of travel, and, at 45 by
72 inches, among Winkfield's bigger paintings - is a grand reflection
on the iconography of ocean voyages. It's about everybody's dreams of
distant horizons, which are often as affected by advertising brochures
as by trips that can be measured in nautical miles. All the dazzling
color and procession-like movement may also imply a voyage of life,
although Winkfield is too subtle to insist on the Big Theme as anything
but a sly aside. The mood is grand yet unaffected. The full tilt, surprising
color - which includes ecstatic blues and oranges in addition to some
oddly chilly greens - gives this elaborate conceit a brisk, businesslike
esprit. There are elements in Voyage II that I can't decode, such as
the rows of tomatoes and the ice cream cones. But the strong, leftward
movement of the entire composition carries along even these enigmatic
bits. Winkfield knows that this cargo of lunatic fancies will sink if
it doesn't swim, so swim it does.
The confounding occurances in Winkfield's paintings are something more
than accidents; they suggest a general principle of poetic unpredictability,
which we may be more familiar with in the work of writers than of painters.
Winkfield would no doubt say that painters can learn from writers (and
vice versa); he has devoted much time and energy to editing and translating,
and has also written critical essays and prose poems. For some of the
artists and writers who first came to know Winkfield a quarter century
ago, when he was single-handedly editing an impressive literary magazine
called Juillard, painter may still seem like only one of the hats that
he wears, although I can't imagine anyone doubting that it's the one
that suits him best. A look at Juillard, whose contributors included
the novelist Harry Mathews and the poet James Schuyler, helps to place
Winkfield's work within the renewal of interest in Dadaism and Surrealism
that was a part of the sixties experience, both for artists and for
writers. Edited in England but with the accent on a distinctly New York-Paris
axis, the mimeographed Juillard was obviously based on some more impressively
produced farflung manifestations of the New York School, such as Art
and Literature, which came out of Lausanne, dashingly typeset and printed
on good paper.
The wonderful visual garrulousness in Winkfield's work of the past decade
can be traced back to the crosscurrents of art and literature a quarter
century ago. Recalling how he came of age in London in the sixties,
Winkfield has written that "everybody. . . seemed to have donned
the American aesthetic, and it became absolutely taboo to promote the
old bugbear the 'Englishness' of English art. . . . Nobody could see
the point of a suburban snow scene when there was Oldenburg to aspire
to." But when Winkfield invokes this orthodoxy, which was related
to the powerful impact of Pop Art and Color Field painting, he really
does so in order to argue against it, and assert the importance of alternative
or parallel currents, which included a resurgent painterly realism,
a scholarly reexamination of Duchamp, and what Winkfield called, in
praising the range of work that his friend Simon Cutts showed at his
Coracle Gallery, "the whole kit and caboodle of suppressed Englishness."
Some of this eclectic spirit found its way into Winkfield's Juillard,
which at one time or another included texts by Jasper Johns and a drawing
by Fairfield Porter. It was among the more independent-minded spirits
of the sixties that Winkfield found friends and supporters, first in
England, later in the land of Oldenburg. Winkfield shares with writer
friends such as John Ashbery and Harry Mathews a great enthusiasm for
the early twentieth-century French author Raymond Roussel; he named
his magazine after one of Roussel's characters, much as another of the
little magazines of the period. Locus Solus, took its title from a Roussel
novel. Decades ago, Winkfield translated an essay of Roussel's, "How
I Wrote Certain of My Books," and more recently, in 1995, he edited
a valuable Roussel anthology. One of Roussel's methods of composition,
which involved generating plots from the double meanings of carefully
selected phrases, probably inspired some of the visual double-entendres
in Winkfield's work. Winkfield has a passion for word play that can
become visual play; he edited two collections of Lewis Carroll ephemera,
including some word games which suggest logical procedures for generating
idiosyncratic sentences. He must like Carroll's multifacetedness, the
fact that the inventor of Alice was also a mathematicican, a poet, a
photographer. Lewis Carroll was a Victorian who wore many hats, and
of course paradoxical headgear is a specialty in Winkfield's work.
And so far as dreaming up weird images goes, Raymond Roussel is in a
league of his own. There are passages in Roussel's elaborately bizarre
fictions that can almost function as descriptions of the oddballs and
panjandrums in Winkfield's paintings. Here are some lines about Le Quillec,
the "one-eyed and repulsive" court jester in Locus Solus.
"To exaggerate his physical grotesqueness," Roussel writes,
he "always dressed in pink like the daintiest squire. Witty in
repartee, he hid within a comic sheath a good and upright heart."
It's possible to image more than one of the denizens of Winkfield's
canvases as relatives of the one-eyed Le Quillec. There is the boy with
the palm-leaf collar in Tripoli; the four-armed figure with the upside-down
pot of tulips in Trapping Birds and Bees; the winged investigator holding
the beaker in The Mermaid's Revenge; and the yellow-faced gent with
the ornithological headdress in I Will Not Tolerate Such Insubordination
From My Pets! Winkfield presents his wildest imaginings with an imperious
austerity that echoes Roussel.
Making pictures tell stories is never easy, and Winkfield has spent
the better part of two decades figuring out how to turn an aura of literary
fantasy into an immediate visual experience. In the seventies and early
eighties, he painted on paper, and could never quite give his intricately
plotted emblems a freestanding poetic ferocity. Even after he made his
critical shift to stretched linen he was at first overly dependant on
black, illustration-like outlines. He also had a tendency to depend
too much on black-and-white dappled effects that may have been meant
to mimic photomechanical reproduction but did not really engage the
eye. When the breakthrough finally came, in 1986 or 1987, it had to
do with taking the antinaturalistic risk of edgy constructivist color,
which Winkfield found that he could use to give designs that were sometimes
close to dangerously quaint a contemporary theatricality. Winkfield's
masks, signs, and emblems gain in ambiguity as they gain in force; their
brilliant clarity makes them all the more difficult to figure out.
The daylit mystery is nothing new in art, and Winkfield has drawn from
a variety of sources, as recent as Duchamp, as distant as Vermeer and
Uccello. Anyone who is seriously interested in Winkfield's work will
be able to trace some of these influences. He has helped the curious
along, through his work as an editor and author. The full range of his
inspirations, however, is something that I don't believe you can know
unless you know the artist himself, and I'm glad that we've become friends-something
that does not always happen between critics and artists, even if they
are on the same wavelength. We've ended up exchanging enthusiasms, as
often for writers as for artists, and Winkfield has urged me to look
at the work of a number of literary figures whom I've come to think
of as mystery men. Winkfield is especially keen on literary and artistic
figures who cut a figure in public while remaining emotionally elusive.
Recently, Winkfield has written essays on Vermeer, perhaps painting's
greatest mystery man, and Florine Stettheimer, the American artist who
turned Jazz Age Manhattan into her own kind of rococo bohemian enigma.
Of course Raymond Roussel fits right in with this group of artists and
writers who are both outrageous and enigmatic. So does a figure of the
World War II London literary scene, the Ceylonese editor Tambimuttu,
founder of Poetry (London). Winkfield, who has of course done a lot
of editorial work, loaned me a book of reminiscences of Tambimuttu,
a sort of kaleidoscopic collective portrait of an exotic figure who
slipped in and out of people's lives, sometimes living splendidly, sometimes
barely getting by, but always a dramatic presence. Probably even closer
to Winkfield's heart is A.J.A. Symons, the British author, bibliophile,
gourmet - and magazine editor - who is mostly nowadays remembered as
the author of The Quest for Corvo, his study of another literary eccentric,
Frederick William Rolfe. A.J.A. Symons managed to live elegantly on
so little money that even his brother, Julian Symons, couldn't quite
figure out how it had been done when he wrote a biography of his older
sibling which might be called The Quest for A.J.A.
When Winkfield gave me a Xeroxed copy of one of Julian Symons's pieces
about his brother, he called my attention to a photograph of A.J.A.
Symons who, seen in profile, looks like an extremely attractive, overgrown
child. He's smiling subtly to himself, while holding a small glass (it
looks eighteenth century) which contains some rare vintage or delicious
eau de vie. Winkfield seemed extremely fond of that photograph, and
when I thought about it afterwards it occured to me that the man-child's
profile, the smile, and the glass are all reminiscent of elements that
frequently appear in Winkfield's paintings. That photograph of Symons
may or may not have inspired some of Winkfield's iconography, but its
inimitable aura of oddity and aplomb, the two sensationally mixed, is
something that you find in all Winkfield's best work.
Many of the figures that careen through Winkfield's paintings might
be said to be - like Florine Stettheimer, Tambimuttu, and A.J.A. Symons
- aesthetes with nerves of steel. So is Winkfield himself, who has gone
his own way yet managed to exert a subtle and (for New York) surprisingly
non-aggressive fascination. In the past few years, as the letters and
journals of the New York School of the sixties and seven-ties have begun
to be published, I've been amused to find Winkfield make a number of
fleeting but engaging appearances. His name comes up at least twice
in a recent selection of James Schuyler's correspondence. There is a
1968 letter in which Schuyler is imagining what the poet Ron Padgett
is doing. "Answering the phone: it is Dick Gallup. He wants to
read you an item from page 41 of yesterday's Sooner but you have already
cut it out, altered a few words and sent it to Trevor Winkfield."
Two years later, in a list of things to do, Schuyler offers these possibilities.
"Go pick wild strawberries? Uhmn. Take a photograph? Bleh. Type
something up and send it to Trevor? Gmorch. Write John? He owes me a
letter." The John is of course John Ashbery, who, in Joseph Cornell's
journals, brings Trevor Winkfield along when he visits the reclusive
artist in his house on Utopia Parkway in Queens. "11/6/69[.] Ashbery
Winkfield visit[. . .] cerise rabbit presented to Trevor Winkfield [.]
pink in John Ashbery's shirt - vertically striped[.] raspberry red in
the linzer tart."
I'm sure there will be more Winkfield sightings as more letters and
memoirs are published. What makes these initial anecdotal slivers so
much fun is how they begin to compose a portrait of the artist. It's
a veiled portrait that, not surprisingly, resembles one of his own paintings.
The clipping from the Sooner (whatever that is!), the unwritten letter,
the wild straw-berries, the cerise rabbit, the pink shirt, the vertical
stripes, the raspberry linzer tart make an exciting collage but are
difficult to entirely explain. The thrill of the juxtapositions has
something to do with the puzzle's not quite falling into place. The
quest for Winkfield continues.
Painting
in the Margins, Where the Action Is
The New York Observer
Mario Naves
Print
Article
The painter
Trevor Winkfield is, in more ways than one, an oddity. In an art world
overpopulated by careerists with a gimmick and theorists with a beef,
Mr. Winkfield has steadfastly pursued his art without recourse to formula
or fashion. At a time when glib appropriations of popular culture permeate
almost every facet of contemporary art, Mr. Winkfield transforms a pop-inflected
imagery into something personal and rooted. In a gallery scene renowned
for its sophomoric high jinks, Mr. Winkfield's art is endowed with a
wit that is keen and dry. His work looks nothing like the major art
we've come to expect from the standard surveys of late-20th-century
culture. Mr. Winkfield's pictures can, in fact, look downright marginal.
Yet he is one of our most distinctive and, frankly, best painters. Which
goes to prove that, right now anyway, the margins are where the action
is.
Walking into an exhibition
of Mr. Winkfield's paintings is to enter a dotty and rambunctious cosmos.
It is a world that is as complex as it is concentrated as it is comical.
The paintings are absurd and logical, dizzying and sober, nostalgic
and up-to-date. They remind us of how uncommon a true artistic vision
is. An exhibition of Mr. Winkfield's canvases based on the motif of
the still life is currently on view at Tibor de Nagy Gallery.
In describing Mr. Winkfield's
canvases, one is tempted to dust off the cliche of "everything
but the kitchen sink." This metaphor is, however, wanting and wrong.
In Mr. Winkfield's pictures, no object or motif is superfluous. Each
of the artist's heraldic doohickeys, however transmuted, has a formal
and iconographic import. There's not a wasted moment in his paintings,
even if every moment is a veritable cornucopia of flux and incident.
For all I know, the artist has already given the kitchen sink an indispensable
place in his oeuvre.
Winkfield's canvases are hard-edged and clean, colorful and cartoonish.
They are divided into abutting geometric planes, within which a transhistorical
array of stuff rollicks and tilts. Tubes of paint, ice cream cones,
brushes, fish, pipes, beakers filled with color, postcards, bubbles,
books and kitch landscapes are a few of the items featured in the artist's
theatrical, crazy quilts. One of Mr. Winkfield's canvases may resemble
some kind of arcane game board; another may recall the stash of notes,
photos and oddments affixed to a refrigerator door or the wall of an
artist's studio. Imagine the archetypal depictions of royalty in a deck
of cards put through a slicer-dicer with Kasimir Malevich, Yellow Submarine,
children's book illustrations, a healthy dollop of Dada and Surrealism
and one gets a hint of what Mr. Winkfield's art entails. He makes a
precise enchantment out of a cosmopolitan clutter.
There is a collage-like sensibility
to these topsy-turvy compendiums, and Mr. Winkfield delineates them
with a patiently empathic touch. When he approximates the grainy texture
of a newspaper photograph, it's not only a play on the quotidian nature
of everyday images, but a droll addendum to his distilled and deliberate
paint handling. Mr. Winkfield orchestrates his imagery within a kaleidoscopic
structure that amplifies its pictoral punning.
In the painting Ice Cream (1999), he pries a Suprematist scaffolding
away from its Utopian leanings and turns it into a lumbering drizzle
of rain. The artist's jokes expand geometrically and take on unexpected
guises. Mr. Winkfield's style doesn't settle for one-liners.
In the pictures he has done
in the last 10 years or so, Mr. Winkfield has sought- and, in his best
paintings, achieved- an equilibrium between a surfeit of symbols and
compositional necessity. One can get a good idea of how the artist has
developed by comparing the paintings at Tibor de Nagy with his works
on paper, dating from the late 1970's and early 80's, in a concurrent
exhibition at the Barbara Ann Levy Gallery of Contemporary Fine Art.
True, the artist's stylings have been, over the past 20 years, constant.
Mr. Winkfield, one might say, was ever thus. But the early works are
all seams and no flow. In them, Mr. Winkfield's gallery of goofs calls
attention to itself too strongly. Consequently, the viewer trips up
on cute bits of shtick-like the comic book scatology of Father and Son
(1982)-and the work doesn't get beyond a devilishly genteel brand of
illustration. This is where marginality gets a bad name.
Mr. Winkfield has sharpened
his art by all but becoming an abstract painter. It's evident that he
has profited from looking at classic geometric abstraction, although
what Mr. Winkfield does with neo-plasticism (and color) would have given
Mondrian conniptions. The recent still-life paintings are his most integrated,
if not most ambitious, canvases. This doesn't mean that the artist is
immune to the occasional dud, however. Studio Still Life (1999) is a
flat-footed cataloguing of curiosities, and his less complicated images
feel designed rather than inhabited. But pictures like Ice Cream, Trophy
(both 1999) and Still Life With Fish II (1998) hold tight without sacrificing
an iota of Mr. Winkfield's discombobulated vigor. The artist's maturing
powers as a painter have bolstered his art by forsaking its bits-and-pieces
specificity for the fulsomeness of an encompassing whole.
In Mr. Winkfield's paintings we get a reflection, albeit as seen through
a fun house mirror, of our own overextended epoch. I don't mean to encumber
Mr. Winkfield by positing him as a history painter that, or imply that
his art is a kind of anthropological documentation. His paintings succeed
on their own terms. Yet who could fail to recognize the pace and fragmentation
of the late 20th century in these rebus like pictures? And who doesn't
recognize the delightfully befuddling logic Mr. Winkfield has made of
it? His elaborate tinkerings with history, culture and memory encapsulate
our chaotic era while pointing forward, looking back and getting sidetracked
by bizarre and revealing byways. Mr. Winkfield's is an art of reach,
optimism and cheek.
