Charles Burchfield was an artist who made lush, evocative, dare I say it, pretty paintings. But why are they so resonant? It feels like something is pulling at his trees from the bottom and top of the canvas, stretching them, that the colors he chose were not on the nose, that the scenes he depicted were drawn from reality and yet other-worldly. My mother, who was a Sunday-ish but accomplished painter did some work mostly influenced by him, and she was able to carry over this attenuated sensation. The retrospective I saw at the Hammer some years ago has stayed with me. I often see Burchfields for sale at tony art fairs as they do belong oddly enough on Park Avenue as much as Main Street, so elegant are his renderings.