Richard Stout’s new landscape paintings look unabashedly nostalgic. Their misty radiance and near resemblance to classical examples of the genre seem to rebut any cognizance of the threatened state of nature today. Yet each vista resembles a familiar place whose precise source eludes us, whether through partial veilings of mass or contour, elisions of detail, blurrings of tactility, or some arresting contradictions of logical placement. These serene and luminous scenes of deep waters, cloud-scudded skies, and fenced fields resist identification. Stout is disarming us with reveries and at the