Southwest Frame
There’s a particular kind of frame you see in Taos, one that carries with it a history as rich and layered as the paintings it holds. It doesn’t merely encase art; it belongs to a tradition, a movement, a way of seeing the world. These are the Taos School frames—hand-carved, subtly adorned, and built to echo the sweeping landscapes and bold brushstrokes of the American Impressionists who first brought the art colony to life.
The story of these frames begins in the early 20th century, when a group of painters, captivated by the northern New Mexican light and the striking scenery, established what would become the Taos Society of Artists. Joseph Henry Sharp, Ernest Blumenschein, and Burt Phillips were among the first to settle in Taos, later joined by artists like E. Irving Couse, Oscar Berninghaus, and Herbert Dunton. They painted the landscapes, the people, and the spirit of the Southwest, and with them came the need for frames that would complement their work without overpowering it.
Enter Jean Woolsey, a craftsman who arrived in Taos in 1928. Seeing a need for locally made frames, he established a workshop that quickly gained recognition beyond New Mexico. His frames weren’t ornate in the way that gold-leafed Santa Fe frames often are. Instead, they were more organic, structured yet simple, drawing inspiration from the Arts and Crafts movement while adapting to the rugged aesthetics of the Southwest.
Woolsey’s frames were practical but expressive, often made from pine or basswood, with soft carvings that mimicked the rolling hills and distant peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He avoided elaborate ornamentation, favoring subtle contours—cascading rails, rounded corners, and stepped profiles that seemed to rise like the mesas on the horizon. His shop adhered to a “carve-only” standard, shunning decorative compo in favor of true hand-carving, giving each frame a distinct presence.
Over time, Woolsey’s frames became as much a part of Taos’s artistic legacy as the paintings they housed. They found their way into homes, galleries, and museums, their craftsmanship appreciated by collectors who understood that a good frame doesn’t just support a painting—it becomes part of the story.
I once stood in a Taos gallery, staring at a painting that seemed to radiate light. The landscape—a wash of ochres and soft pinks, the dusty hues of the high desert—was exquisite, but my eye kept drifting to the frame. It was sturdy yet graceful, with a finish that had softened over the decades, its patina speaking to years of sun, dust, and admiration. When I asked about it, the gallery owner smiled. “That’s a Woolsey,” she said, as if that explained everything.
And in a way, it did. A Taos School frame isn’t just a border; it’s a legacy, a quiet but steadfast testament to a place where art and landscape are forever intertwined.
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