vitaminCreativity

Clearing again

There comes a time for all of us, I'm sure, when we must put away our toys and clean up our mess before starting the next game. That's where I am in my creative process this weekend. I'm wrapping up two classes - one oils, the other acrylics - and I have two different painting "kits" filled with all the various supplies that go with me to classes. Time now to unpack, clean up, review my inventory, and prepare for the next project.

I used to look at this as a waste of creative time, but now I'm seeing it as part of the creative process. It's an opportunity to think creatively about reorganizing my space; about re-using some leftover materials; and about that wonderful space (literally and psychologically) that is ready to be filled with something wonderful.

It's also a good time to review the business plan, including attention to framing and preparing for fall exhibits. 

If you have any clearing rituals between projects, I'd love to hear about them.

Cemetery Painting - the last chapter

I was back in the cemetery at 8:30 this morning, setting up my paints in the same spot I found on Tuesday. This time I took a few minutes to explore those mysterious grave makers and discovered that each one has a raised name and Mason's emblem. No dates. And each name is different, so it doesn't appear to be a family. The mystery deepens.

The painting was tricky to work on because instead of Liquin, I had used walnut oil, which doesn't dry as quickly. So I was painting wet into wet, trying to add a bit of definition in some areas and some bolder brush strokes in other areas.

It was a big day for visitors - two grave diggers in an adjacent area; a sweet lady taking a walk; a young deer; numerous spiders; a dragonfly and other flying things. Nevertheless, I felt alone, serene, and totally absorbed in my painting.

This was the last painting session for my plein air class; on Tuesday, we'll meet indoors for a final critique. But I plan to continue the plein air work, along with the studio improvisations of similar scenes.

In the Daily Art album, I'm posting "Cemetery Row," as well as one of my studio improvisations of a plein air painting I posted before.

Meditation in landscape

On Tuesday I went back to the cemetery to paint. I drove around for a while looking for a "good" spot. I found myself thinking about what constitutes "good" for me. I'm not drawn to the biggest, fanciest grave markers, whether they be stones or statues. Nor am I drawn to the sometimes symmetrical rows of stones. It seems I'm drawn by the unusual, the ironies, the implied stories, which will remain mysteries unless I also take the time to go to the cemetery office to do some research.

So as I drove around, I was attracted once again to the dead trees in this place of the dead; the duck family, squirrels, deer and birds (the full-time living visitors among the dead); and, finally, the odd row of almost two dimensional markers made of rusting metal, marching down a slope toward a huge tree. Since I'd already painted a dead tree, and I couldn't count on the living creatures to sit still for me, I opted for my mysterious row of markers.

As I had planned, I took about five minutes to feel the place: the cool shade of my vantage point, the near silence, the way the morning sun turned the rusted metal markers near white, the long shadows on the grass, the birds that liked to perch on the decorative balls atop the markers. I wondered about the stories these markers, now devoid of writing, might tell. A family site? A poor or miserly patriarch who couldn't or wouldn't afford stone or marble? Deceased related in time or cause of death as well as family ties? Is no one left on earth to care for or about these humble markers except an artist who happens to feel attracted to their simplicity, irregularity, and mystery?

I sketched, executed a very rough acrylic value painting, and took it back to my studio where, last night, I painted the first layer of oil. Tomorrow I'll return to my family of mysterious markers and, hopefully, complete the piece. Stay tuned.

As for the experimental meditation, I believe it definitely helped me make that connection to sense of place. We'll see if/how it affects the painting.

Connecting with the spirit of the land

If you're a landscape painter, presumably you have a love of the land, a passion for the way light and form makes shadows, a fascination with colors at different times of day, and a determination to rise to the challenge of atmospheric perspective. But is that all there is?

That's a question I often ask, especially when I produce a landscape painting that is perfectly, technically excellent but lacking in spirit. Is it because I'm not really connecting with the spirit of the place? Am I so focused on the mechanics (including sunscreen, bug spray, and the nearest bathroom) that I'm not really feeling the place? Does it make a big difference when I am en plein air (on site) vs. working from a photograph?

I do love landscapes. I am awed by the beauty of God's creation. I also love the man-made elements of landscape, especially when a building seems to nestle into the landscape as though God himself put it there. But I'll admit, I often don't take the time to drink up the scene; to smell it, feel it, and consciously consider what's special about it (other than the artistic considerations of composition, light and value).

Maybe that's what I'm missing. So, here goes another process experiment.... Tomorrow, I will take five minutes to meditate in place, allowing the setting to register with all my senses. Then, we'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I'm posting my latest plein air piece in the Daily Art album.

Restless in Salt Lake City

OK, I found my groove and now I want to get out of it. I couldn't sleep last night, only God knows why. In fact, as I lay there, alternately tossing and turning, fighting my pillow into submission, I said, "God, there must be some reason you won't let me sleep...give me a clue." Then I began ticking off the usual suspects: Caffein? No, none late enough in the day to make a difference. Chocolate? No, besides, that doesn't usually keep me awake. Worried? Who, me worry? No, not this time. Cats? No, the one inside was well behaved.

I finally realized my head was churning with ideas for paintings. I had looked at a book on California impressionism just before turning off the lights and my mind was reviewing the images and taking off in jazz-like improvisations of "what ifs...." 

So today, I'm no longer satisfied with that groove I found earlier in the week. Today, I want to go to my studio and do a riff on imagined landscapes based on those I've painted plein air. I want to "feel there" without being there. I want layers of paint, mysterious dimensions, and a new level of meaning that comes through memory and reflection.

Stay tuned.

The Groove Continued

In my last post I described what I thought would be a "groovy" new process for combining plein air and studio painting to get closer to my goal of a landscape painting that not only captures "place," but also the "feel" of the place. At that point I had not yet followed the process to the end, so here's the rest of the story.

After doing a sketch and acrylic value painting in the field, I went to my studio and laid on oil paint in a thin, smooth layer. The next day, I took the painting back to the field and laid on more oil paint, this time in bolder strokes, to capture more of the feel of the place.

This painting spot happens to be in Mt. Olivet Cemetery near the University of Utah campus. The first day I went there to paint, I picked out a spot with a beautiful little Madonna and Child statue. I had no sooner begun sketching when I was run off by the grounds crew mowing and trimming the grass. I loaded all my stuff back in the car and drove around the cemetery some more. I was hoping to find a place where I could also see some mountains in the background, which was difficult because the cemetery is dense with trees. But finally I found a spot that had great potential: mountains, trees, tombstones, and a poetically appropriate dead tree. The sun shone on the dead tree making it as white (or whiter) than the lightest granite stone. I was fortunate to be in the shade of a large pine tree. I was not bothered by the mowers this time. Nor did I have a close encounter with any of the deer family that inhabits the cemetery. 

A quiet resting place makes a quiet painting place. See the results in my Daily Art.

Finding my groove

I may have had a creative breakthrough last night. If "may have" sounds tentative and lacking complete confidence, that's right. But of this much I am confident: I'm on a positive path. My frustration with plein air painting is somewhat resolved with this latest experiment with process.

See, I thought I should be able to go out to paint and complete a small, if somewhat sketchy, painting in one session. I was never really happy with the result even if I spent several sessions attempting to perfect the piece. There were two competing voices in my head: "Paint fast...capture the essence, the feeling of this scene...don't sweat the details." and "Paint what you see, get those colors right, take time for the details." And while these two characters were battling it out, I was also paying attention to my big, juicy brushstrokes (see previous blog).

I decided to experiment with a different process. I am only part way through the process, hence my hesitation to declare victory, but I'm willing to claim it shows promise. Here are my steps:

1. Stake out a painting spot. Here in Utah, I'm attracted to the mountains, so I'm happiest in a spot that includes mountains on the horizon.
2. Use my viewfinder to frame the part of the scene I want to paint, and do a small value sketch, usually with gray scale markers.  
3. Draw the key shapes with a watercolor crayon onto a prepared canvas or panel. (I use several layers of gesso and a coat of acrylic paint in a warm color.)  
4. Using tints of purple/blue/violet acrylic paint, lay in the shapes and values of the painting. 
5. Take photographs of the scene for reference. 
6. Back in the studio, cover the acrylic underpainting with thin layers of oil paint, using a medium (liquin) to thin the paint and hasten drying. Brush back the painting for a smooth surface and soft edges.  

 That's where I am in the process so far and I'm happy with the result and with the freedom I feel to take artistic license with the image. I'm not quite so glued to representation, though I haven't yet given myself permission to be as expressive as I've been with my imagined landscapes. Today, I'll add another layer of thin paint in the studio. Tomorrow, I'll take the paintings back outdoors and lay in some big brush strokes. At least, that's my vision today. Stay tuned.

Who has the juiciest paint?

Tonight I went gallery strolling in Salt Lake City. At the gallery where I exhibit, the featured artist is Debra Marin, a wonderful painter of landscapes in oil (see her work at www.artatthemain.com). She's one of those accomplished artists who make it look so easy - wonderful atmospheric perspective, naturalistic-but-not-boring colors, and good, juicy paint.

The quality of the paint is something I've been looking at in others' work. It's not that I'm crazy about thick, impasto paintings. But I like to see the brush strokes. I like to stand back and let my eye blend the strokes and then stand closer and be surprised at a bold stroke, in just the right color, and placed just right. 

I visited several other galleries also looking particularly at landscapes with that wonderful paint quality and I learned something from every one: Rick Graham's work at the Avenues Art Gallery; Kate Starling at Williams Fine Art; Susan Gallacher at Williams and at Patrick Moore and King's Academy galleries. 

In addition to looking at the paint application, I looked particularly at trees. There's a real skill in making trees look real without trying to paint every leaf. There's also a skill in mixing greens so that you can tell one type of tree from another, separating the foreground trees from mid-ground and distant trees, and getting the trees to visually overlap to create depth. Susan's work is a particularly good primer on this skill.

So now I'm thoroughly inspired and can hardly wait to get outside in tomorrow's 100+ degree heat and see what I can do!

Mind Games

The Utah monsoons are finally over and I've been painting outside for the last week, mostly on the university campus. I set several goals for myself in this class: paint loose, paint colorful, learn to use juicy brush strokes, paint my emotional connection to landscape.

What this means to me is that I want to make my plein air landscapes more like my imagined, abstracted landscapes. But my head gets in the way. My mind tells me that when I'm outside painting I'm "supposed" to paint what I see. That leads me to get rather tight and detailed. But when I'm in my studio painting my imagined landscapes, I let loose with form and color in a more exciting and emotional way. 

So, to get where I want to be, I must first play a mind game. I remind myself there's no "supposed to..." in this class (Fortunately, the instructor is very helpful and accommodating.). Then, I take away other barriers to create the same feeling outside that I have when I paint inside. For example, on Tuesday I painted on illustration board coated with acrylic soft gel, just as I do for my imagined landscapes. And I used my acrylics loose and watery. The result was much closer to my goal and I was encouraged.

Next, I'll switch from acrylics to oils and practice those big juicy strokes. I'll return to the same painting spot so that I don't have to start over with the value sketch. Familiarity with the scene, the forms, lighting, and challenges will give me the confidence to paint big, loose, and free.

I'm posting one of my abstracted landscapes in the Daily Art album. Let me know what you think.

The "Doppelganger" effect

Recently I was browsing artists' web sites that were posted to a Linked In group. I like to see the art as well as how the site is designed. I stumbled on an artist whose work is very similar to some of my recent abstracted landscapes that I bragged about not long ago. The artist's web site had a way of slightly enlarging the thumbnail images as you slid the curser over them. While I've seen this used effectively on some sites, on this particular one, the images did not enlarge by much and they all sort of flowed together in a way that made all the images look very similar. And they were very similar in color palette, style, and subject. 

I might have liked one or two of the paintings had I seen them separated by a little time (a couple of seconds) and distance, but run together as they were, the result was boring. And then I wondered if this was perhaps a handy test we might use as we look at our own art. Art instructors are always advising us to turn the painting upside down, or look at it in a mirror, to better see the bones of the composition. 

At the same time I was making this sort of academic assessment of web site design and presentation effects, my inner critic was screaming, "This artist's work is so similar it's boring. My work is a lot like this artist's work. Therefore, my work is boring, too!" Have you ever been told by a friend, "I saw this woman who looks so much like you she could be your double, your doppelganger!" Then, you see the other woman and you're horrified.

That was the unfortunate effect of seeing this other artist's web site. After telling my inner critic to take a hike, I went back to my academic assessment. Yes, flipping through my images quickly might be a useful tool for spotting the too similar, predictable, boring aspects of my work; or, on the other hand, making sure there's an interesting sort of unity that runs through the body of work, without being boring.

And I also made a note to self: Don't use a web site effect that makes images run together so quickly that the viewer does not see the unique qualities of each piece.