Some artists’ work, like certain wines or cheeses, doesn’t
travel. Why is unclear, although it seems to have less to
do with merit than with such intangibles as connections,
relationships with dealers and collectors,
self-presentation, the state of the art world, and national
interest. Even in today’s apparently borderless world of
websites and assiduously attended art events in places you
have to look up in your atlas, there are still artists,
however celebrated at home, whose reputations remain local.
David Milne, an inventive modernist painter whose career
spanned roughly the first half of the twentieth century, is
a case in point. In his native Canada, he is a major force
who figures prominently in any account of the country’s art.
His vibrant, pared-down landscapes, interiors, and still
lifes are prized by Canadian museums; discerning collectors
compete for them. Yet in the U.S., Milne’s name elicits
blank stares from just about everyone but specialists in the
early years of American modernism, and some of them may look
a little vague, too.

This is probably the place to admit that I am not entirely
objective about this. For complicated reasons, my first
curatorial position was at a Canadian museum—I was the
only American on staff—with a couple of good Milnes. They
captured my attention immediately because they were among
the only works in the collection that had anything to do
with the art history I had been taught at Barnard and
Columbia. The reason for this, which makes Milne’s