He was probably the most successful painter with low-amateur level talent, ever. His work made motel rooms look cheeper if hung on the wall of a truck stop crash room. The fact that his work found such broad appeal in Tennessee is indicative of the lack of exposure to real art we have in this area. We seem to like art that appeals only to our most base sentiments... cozy cottages with windows glowing as if a nuclear explosion was taking place therein, surrounded by shaggy trees draped in artificial pastel lighting. All his work needed was a unicorn and a wizard casting glitter spells... oh wait, he did do that Disney series, so I guess his body of work was complete.
Terrible, kitschy, wall-vomit. Paintings so atrocious that even the home shopping channel and the mall carts on which his work found a venue were debased and reached a new level of tackiness.
It's difficult to imagine an artist who could actually hurt the world by using his brush, but this guy actually pulled it off. His work was so contrived and repetitious that I can close my eyes, even though I have tried to block out the memory of his work through intensive memory regression therapy, and imagine a thatched roof house by a waterfall with a rainbow and some cute farm animal, and Dale Earndhart/Jesus playing poker in the background. The fact that he had many technical skills as an artist made it all the worse. He found a market niche and rode it hard: a market of borderline retarded people who like their art to be of the same quality as their Kentcucly Fried Chicken value bucket, and he milked it like a pastel, sunset-hued cow, under a rainbow, by a sparkling brooke, in front of a cottage so brightly lit and candyland-esque that comes off as a honey trap set by a child molester in the forest primeval.
For his family, I am sympathetic for their loss of a father and husband. But to the world as a whole, we just found a cure for the artistic version of herpes....a terrible artist that seemed to just keep giving and giving.