Scott Burdick, 1967 | Figurative painter

Scott Burdick was born in Chicago, Illinois where his mother and father early on encouraged his interest in Art.

"I spent a lot of time in hospitals as a child and remember my mother showing me how to transform simple shapes like circles, triangles, and squares into objects like planes, helicopters, and fish. It seemed such a magical thing and made spending so much time in casts and on crutches much more bearable".

In high school, Scott began taking life-drawing classes at the American Academy of Art under the legendary Bill Parks.

Michael Malm (American, 1972)

"My purpose in painting is to communicate the emotions and beauty that I experience to the viewer with the hope that the painting will trigger a similar emotional response in them. Ultimately, I hope my work uplifts and inspires" - Michael Malm.

Michael lives in the beautiful Cache Valley of northern Utah with his wife, Juanita, and their four children.

The surrounding rural communities and setting provide backdrops for his figure paintings and inspiration for his landscapes.

His serious study began under Del Parson at Dixie College where he completed his associate’s degree.

Steve Hanks (American, 1949-2015)

“I’ve tried to be responsible and put positive images out into the world", says Steve Hanks.

“I hope that my work brings comfort, pleasure and insight into people’s lives".

Steve Hanks grew up playing tennis and surfing along the beaches of Southern California. “The ocean made a strong and lasting impression on me. It was good for the soul to be out in the water - surfing, swimming, or simply getting in touch with its mysterious power".

Edna St.Vincent Millay | This beast that rends me in the sight of all, 1928

Marina Podgaevskaya, 1963 | Venetian

This beast that rends me in the sight of all,

This love, this longing, this oblivious thing,

That has me under as the last leaves fall,

Will glut, will sicken, will be gone by spring.

The wound will heal, the fever will abate,

The knotted hurt will slacken in the breast;

I shall forget before the flickers mate

Your look that is today my east and west.

Edna St. Vincent Millay | Time does not bring relief / Non da' sollievo il tempo

Gustav Pope🎨 | Awakening spring, 1877

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side

Vincitori del premio Nobel per la Letteratura, 1901-2020

Il premio Nobel🎨 per la Letteratura è uno dei cinque premi istituiti dal testamento di Alfred Nobel nel 1895 ed è attribuito all'autore nel campo della letteratura mondiale che "si sia maggiormente distinto per le sue opere in una direzione ideale"; è stato assegnato per la prima volta nel 1901, come gli altri premi istituiti da Nobel stesso.

Un premio considerato il più prestigioso e il più mediatico del mondo, il Premio Nobel mette in evidenza un autore ed il suo lavoro.

Edna St. Vincent Millay | When the Year Grows Old / Quando l’anno invecchia

Edward Cucuel (American Impressionist painter, 1875-1954)🎨 | In autumn sunlight

I cannot but remember

When the year grows old -

October - November -

How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows

Go down across the sky,

And turn from the window

With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves

Were brittle on the ground,

And the wind in the chimney

Made a melancholy sound.

Giorgos Seferis / Isaac Levitan | A word for Summer / Una parola sull'Estate, 1936

Isaac Levitan (Russian landscape painter, 1860-1900)🎨 | Autumn day, Sokolniki, 1879

We’ve returned to autumn again; summer,

like an exercise book we’re tired of writing in, remains

full of deletions, abstract designs,

question marks in the margin; we’ve returned

to the season of eyes gazing

into the mirror under the electric light

closed lips and people strangers

in rooms in streets under the pepper-trees

while the headlights of cars massacre

thousands of pale masks.

We’ve returned; we always set out to return

to solitude, a fistful of earth, to the empty hands.