An Ode to Thiebau

In the sixth grade, I discovered, by some great stroke of luck, the works of Wayne Thiebaud. I became obsessed. I researched all about the artist, enough to conceive of a make-believe art academy where he was the headmaster, which I then advertised in a pamphlet that I designed, printed, and submitted to my reading and writing class as my final project. I fancied myself a student at that academy. This was the start of my mentee-mentor relationship with Wayne Thiebaud, and my devotion to his colorful, textural depictions of food. I later discovered that Thiebaud did, in fact, teach drawing at universities in California throughout his life. He was a native of Sacramento and a lover of San Francisco, a place not far from where I would eventually go to study—among other things—art. 

Pies (1961) is a work of Thiebaud’s that I would visit after my art classes during my junior year of college. It was located next door to the art building in the Anderson Collection on Stanford’s campus (unfortunately, it ended its residency there in September of my senior year). Pies depicts assembly-line pies on plates in neat rows. It’s simple, but so satisfying with the precise geometry of the pies, the lush frosting-like handling of paint, the near-perfect tessellation of each piece of pie, and the sense of fullness—with near-identical slices filling the field of view from left to right and front to back and their implied continuation beyond the bounds of the canvas.

Looking at Pies has the ability to comfort and reassure me. I love it because it is playful, yet peaceful, all the while being undeniably pretty. 

Thiebaud’s work has always had an interesting place, I think, within the context of postwar America and the Pop Revolution of the 1960s. The repetitive, mass-produced elements in his work are evocative of the bold iconography forming part of the sharp and ironic commentary on mass production, advertising, and consumerism of the time (think Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans). But the feeling of Thiebaud’s Pies is considerably more personal, sensitive, and subtly nostalgic. This feeling hints at what separates Thiebaud’s authorship from that of artists like Warhol, and reveals the intricacies of his message: a hidden reverence for the everyday. Thiebaud’s choice to paint working-class food scenes—rows of sweets, trucker’s fare, and corner store gumball machines—is a deliberate acknowledgement of the social significance of the facts of daily life. For me, his works also contain instructions to love the everyday objects in my life, and to perceive the labor and complexities behind such acts like manufacturing, foodmaking, and artmaking. “These foods [that I depict],” Thiebaud once declared, “are only revolting to a gourmet, others of us lap them up with considerable enjoyment... I believe anyone who doesn’t like hamburger is a food snob.”

In the art library at school, I sifted through books containing Thiebaud’s sketches and interviews with the artist, getting to know him and his motivations better in this way. In one interview, Thiebaud summarized the importance of making drawings in a single word: “research.” I fell more in love with Thiebaud. My Instagram followers know my profile picture has long been a painting of his: Bread and Butter (1962).

I was at home when I read news of Thiebaud’s passing at the age of 101 on Christmas Day, 2021. Only recently did I decide to create an artwork, Sponge Cakes, taking inspiration from Thiebaud’s signature style, to pay respects to my mentor. The subject matter are sponge cakes from the bakery section of the Asian grocery store, which are made to be as light as cumulus clouds. They come in a couple of notable forms: triangle slices sandwiching a thin layer of salty cream, and giant cupcakes that resemble puffball mushrooms.

Questions to ask yourself:

What art speaks to you and why?

What are the subtle, beautiful facts of your daily life?

Who are your unlikely mentors?