To The Boys Of Normandy

Today marks the 69th anniversary of the Allied Invasion Of Europe, on June 6th, 1944.  We know it as D-Day. 

By the way, did you ever wonder what the D stood for in D-Day?  Well, the truth is--- nothing.  The military loves double-speak; Every operation has a day it is planned to start and that day is called the D- as in Day.  But you didn't say, "Hey, when is the D?"  It would be said, "When is D-Day for the operation?"  Likewise with the hour.  It is called H-Hour.  So every invasion during WWII had a D-Day and an H-Hour, but history has designated June 6th as the ultimate D-Day.  It's kind of like how Civil War buffs know all about places like The Cornfield (Antietam) and The Peach Orchard (Gettysburg), like no other peach orchards and cornfields ever existed.

War is a game of cat and mouse.  If you are on the offense, your job is to surprise the enemy.  If you are on the defense, your job is to try to figure out every possibility the enemy can use so you won't be surprised.  We had a little secret against the Germans.  Actually, it was the Ultra Secret.  We had been intercepting German communiques for years, which meant we knew exactly what they were expecting of us.  Our job was to do the opposite.


The Germans expected us to cross the English Channel from Britain to France at its narrowest point: We chose a longer route.

They figured we'd choose a nice, flat area to land:  We chose bluffs and cliffs.

They thought we'd cross at high tide:  We chose low tide.

They were thinking we'd come over at night with no moon:  We chose a full moon.


The military brass also planned the invasion to the Nth degree.  The millions of young U.S. soldiers who'd been milling about England for two years were trained over and over again on scurrying into landing craft and storming beach heads and rocky cliffs and bluffs.  Each unit had a designated spot to land in Normandy and were given specific training for their spot.  After all, you couldn't just dump a few thousand soldiers on the beach and then say, "There you go, boys-- have at it!"  Each soldier had his responsibility, and it was drilled into him time and again.  So, that and figuring out boat assignments, air strikes, Naval bombardments and targets kept the Allied High Command busy for months.


The planners knew that they only had a three day window for the moon and tides to be just right.  If they missed that chance it would be months before they could try again.  What they couldn't count on was the weather.  After the troops had been loaded into thousands of all kinds of vessels, a storm blew through the Channel, stalling everything for two days.  But at the last possible moment, the weather broke for a spell, and the attack was on.

And from that point on almost nothing went right.

Ships had drifted off-course and landed the troops in the wrong spot.  Even after a shelling that was supposed to drive them out, the Germans put up a killing fight.  The soldiers who had been tossed about in their boats for two days, and who were mostly sea-sick, were weighed down with ninety pounds of ammo as they tried to wade through the bone-chilling water to get to the beach.  Many drowned in the attempt.  By the time the men got to the beach, they were disoriented, soaked, exhausted, and in many cases leader-less.  They were also pinned down by a murderous fire from German machine guns.  In essence, thousands of young men had been thrown on the beach and told, "Have at it, boys!"

What they did next wasn't a testimony on how preparation and training makes all the difference, but more on how quick thinking, initiative and bravery can overcome a seemingly hopeless position.  Quite simply, they did what they had to do to win the battle, whether they were trained for the task, or not.  Soldiers who had never been trained with certain weapons had to figure out in a hurry how to use it.  Dozens of men who didn't know each other, or have a moment of training together, coordinated their efforts to take out German bunkers.  It was as remarkable a feat as any trained Army ever accomplished.  Oh, and did I mention that for almost every man there, this was their first combat experience of any kind?


The rest, as they say, is History.


The generation who did all that-- for us-- are almost all gone now.  It dates me I know, but when I was a kid they were our school teachers, cops, barbers and such.  I remember playing a game of catch with an uncle and his buddy who were WWII vets.  They have since passed on.  If I live to a normal old age, I will see a day when there will be no World War II veterans left alive.


We observe and honor veterans on Memorial Day, Armed Forces Day, Veterans Day and all, but I've always felt we should remember the dates that mean so much to our history.  Days such as Pearl Harbor Day, V-E Day, or V-J Day don't really mean much anymore.  But they should. 


And for what they did, we can thank the boys of Normandy.
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Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe...

Every once in a while I feel the need to add even more steps to my usual burdensome technique.  So aside from conceptual sketches, full value under-drawings, grisaille, etc., I will occasionally throw in a color sketch for the fun of it.  A color sketch should be used to work out potential problems that may arise in painting the picture.  It doesn't have to be a mini-masterpiece, just something that points you in the right direction.  Maybe you want to try a different value pattern, or color scheme.  I know I should have those things worked out before I paint, but invariably I don't.  My problem, if truth be told, is that my color sketches are generally damn well useless.  I just paint them without really giving them much thought.  Just think of them as a spelling exercise where I continually practice spelling CAT as K-A-T.  The exercise doesn't do any good if it doesn't resolve an error.


So for my latest picture, I thought I'd give the color sketch a little more effort and importance.

The following is the concept sketch followed by a few color sketches.  I really had a lot of fun working on them, and trying different ideas.

I'm going back to my lobstering days again.  Charlie, the Captain of the boat, used to lean against the hauling block as he cruised around looking for the next trap, or "pot" to use the proper jargon.

This photo is washed out, but I was thinking mostly abut setting my shadows against light to provide a more dramatic contrast.

                        I had a steel-blue sky before this one, so I tried a different, hazy sky.

                                       ...But with a warmer sky, I needed cooler shadows,

           I wasn't in love with the sky, so I went a little more naturalistic.  I think I'm gaining on it...


Of course, now the problem will be to choose one.  Any suggestions? 


Or will I just have to play, Eenie, Meeny, Miny, Mo?

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Call Me Mr. Fussy Pants

I use to think I was unique: one of a kind, no one like me, no sir!  When they made me they broke the mold.  I was disabused of that notion when I went to a support group for unique individuals.  I thought I would be alone, but the room was packed!  Then it dawned on me: We humans are like snow flakes-- no two are alike; but taken together, we are a clump of amorphous sameness.

So I know what I'm feeling isn't unique.  Anyone who has ever spent more than two days as a painter will know what I'm talking about here.  You see, for quite awhile I just haven't been all that pleased with my paintings.  Don't get me wrong-- I still love going to the studio every day.  I'm still engaged and engrossed in the act of painting.  I still am inspired every day to paint.  It's just that lately, as soon as I sign my name to a piece, I want to pitch it into a fire pit.

You ever feel that way?


I think what I'm experiencing is the same fussiness a baby goes through right before they learn something new.  Those who've had children will know what I mean.  Watch a new born; they will act fussy for a few days before they learn to roll over.  Then they are all kinds of happy.  Until they want to sit up.  Then they get cranky until they accomplish that feat.  Then, they're all grins and giggles.  Until they want to learn to stand...  And on and on it goes.

Until they move out.  Then they are all cheerful and optimistic-- until they want to move back in.  Then they get all cranky again until you finally break down and say--   But I digress...


Where was I?  Oh yeah-- painting.  So, I think I'm teething or something.  But the hell of it is-- I don't know what the next step is.  What is it that I want to accomplish?  Is there a plateau I'm standing on?  But where is the way up?  I guess it's through my studio door.  Because, truth be told, I've been there, done that; I've had this same overwhelming feeling of Meh before, and I've come through it.  It's all part of that individual growth challenge we all must face in our own way.  Maybe it's one of the things that make me unique.


Just like everybody else.


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See It Now

Here ya go Charlie.

I remember it like it was just yesterday, or damn close to fifty years ago-- whatever.  It was the day I took my first toddling steps on my way to becoming a Realist Painter.  My First Grade class was lined up in front of our little easels ready to have "Art Time".  We had three paint pots of primary colors in front of each of us, and a big puffy brush with which to paint our masterpieces in our chubby little hands.  We all paid rapt attention to our teacher (except for Brian, who was hiding in the corner, eating paste) as she said, "Now paint something!"  I didn't have a clue what I wanted to paint (a bad habit that persists to this day), so I looked over at the easel of my classmate Beth (we had boring names back then; no Tiffany's or Amber's in the bunch) and saw she was painting a house.  It looked like this:

Why is it that every kid under the age of eight draws houses this way?  Anyway, I started to do the same when I stopped and said to myself,

But houses don't  look that way!


So I drew a house the way I was accustomed to seeing them:

Since then, I have spent my life trying to draw it the way I see it.


For a little over a month now I have been going to weekly life drawing sessions.  I won't say classes because no one teaches, we just draw from a model.  It has been extremely fun.  The group is composed of folks from beginners to those that have attended Ateliers.  We may have differing ideas as to what we want to get out of the class, but what we all have in common is our love of drawing.  What I have been working on is sharpening my ability to observe.


You've probably heard people say, "Oh, I can't draw at all.  Not even a stick figure!"  But I honestly think that drawing can be learned.  I don't want to sound all new-agey and everything, but if you can hold a pencil and draw a stick figure, you have what it takes to be at least competent at drawing.


You see, like Beth drawing her square house, we have an expectation about how things are supposed to look.  Boobs are round.  Eyes look like fried eggs.  The struggle comes when we try to draw objects the way we think it should look, and then compare it to the way things really look.  We throw up our hands and say, "I can't draw!"  But listen:


It takes the same amount of time and effort to draw the wrong line as it takes to draw the right line;  The difference is Observation.

That arm you just drew; Does it really hang straight, or doesn't it have a slight bend at the elbow?

Is that head really round, or actually kind of rectangular in overall shape?

Is the model sitting straight up, or kind of leaning to the left?


Before I put a line on the paper, I ask myself, "What am I seeing?"  And to tell you the truth, quite often I put the wrong line down first.  I constantly have to fight my urge to draw it the way I think it should be, and really look at it.  That's why I'm attending these sessions.


Now, I know that line drawing isn't the be-all and end-all to drawing.  There's trying to show mass and form, shading and highlights, and all that.  (But shading a poor drawing doesn't fix it.  It only gives you a bad drawing that's shaded).  And it takes time and tons and tons of practice.  But getting better can be done.  And it starts with throwing away preconceived notions, and seeing what's there.


Before I go, let me give you some examples of how good drawing really looks:

Incidentally, the number 7 on this picture denotes that out of about 25-30 students in this class, this drawing came in seventh.  I'd love to see the six that were deemed better!

And to think that these artists probably started out drawing those square houses...

So grab your sketch book and have at it!  Just remember to see it now!

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The Trials Of Infidelity

It's a slippery slope really.  I mean, I was faithful for so long, but temptation set in.  What is the line from Don Henley's song The Heart Of The Matter?

What are these voices outside love's open door,
That make us throw off our contentment and yearn for something more?


Yeah.  I've strayed.  After years of the same ol' same ol', while casting condescending, self righteous glances at those who just couldn't stick to their one true love, I went and did the same damn thing---

I went and changed my painting technique.


Faithful readers of Maine-ly Painting (And stop bothering me, the check is in the mail!) will know that I've used up tons of precious internet space describing my routine of draw it, do a monochrome grisaille, then glaze layer after layer.  But for the last few paintings, I've done the opposite:  grab a brush and have at it!  Push that paint.  Don't like that passage?  Change it completely!  Just go with the flow and see where the painting takes you.  And do you want to know a little secret?


I don't like it at all!


One of the problems I have with having no plan, is not knowing how the picture is supposed to look. I would rather have an end point to work toward than just paint along and then decide, "Good enough!"  I mean, do you just jump in your car and drive just to see where the engine takes you?  Do you cook a meal by throwing random foodstuffs in a pan and seeing what comes out of it?  I, for one, have a Cook Book.  With Recipes.  But I digress...


Check out this picture of Ellen's grand daughter, Paige:

This is still a work in progress.  Mainly because I haven't a clue on what to do about a background.  I've tried various concepts, but nothing grabs me.  And that's another problem with "Just paint it:"  It's a throw-whatever-at-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks approach.  I'd be done with this painting long ago if I had only used my regular method.  As it is now, I'm hoping to finish this in time for her to give to her own grand kids. 

Oh, you foolish, foolish wandering heart!

Lastly is this painting a a bridge above the Neshaminy Creek in Langhorn, Pennsylvania:

This is another, "Paint 'til you're happy" piece.  I can't begin to tell you the number of changes I've had to make on this bad boy.  Among other things, I've re-painted the bridge at least three times trying to fix the perspective.  If I had done an underdrawing to begin with, I wouldn't have had to do that.  But that's the price I've had to pay by following my wandering eye.


Look, I have spent years and years working on developing a technique and style that best fits my own sensibilities for a reason:  It works for me.  Every time I stray from my tried and true methods, I look back and say to myself, "That would've been so much better if I had used my usual technique!"  Allowing myself to listen to the siren song of other techniques has humbled and shamed me enough to admit--


The heart knows last what the head knew first.


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Open For Interpretation

I  remember having a conversation with a fellow painter recently -- or maybe it was awhile ago, whatever-- where I said that my goal is to paint scenes, not interpret them.  I've also mentioned the same thing here in Maine-ly Painting.  Since then I have received number-less requests to explain myself.  (Number-less because there actually hasn't been any...)  So I thought I'd nip this whole thing in the bud and clarify my personal painting philosophy about artist interpretation.


For the fun of it, let's say that a few of us painters are standing out in a beautiful tree lined field on a gorgeous June day;  The puffy white clouds are drifting lazily across a pure blue sky, the trees are lush and deep green with sunlight gently casting shadows on the wildflower filled meadow.  Ahhhhh.....  Beautiful, isn't it?  Feel the gentle breeze and warm sunshine?  What's that "Cheep! Cheep!" sound?  Oh, baby robins!  This must be preserved in paint!


Now, an Impressionist-leaning painter viewing this scene might be thinking mostly in terms of color and light, not necessarily form.  Their painting would be more about the variations and interplay of different colors as they sit side-by-side.  To them, details aren't the point, it's the over-all effect of the scene that is important.  Fair enough.


A more Representational type of painter might gaze upon this scene and feel all warm and fuzzy, and want to portray their feelings in the colors they use.  The overall shapes and form of the field and trees might still be quite recognizable in their painting, but the blues and greens might be replaced by warmer, softer tones, because those are the colors they equate with their emotion.  Again, nothing wrong with that.


Maybe someone whose a bit more abstract might be enthralled by the irregular shapes of the various components of the scene, while also feeling warm and fuzzy.  Their picture may not be recognizable as a meadow in Spring, but that's not even remotely what they were after, anyway.  Hey-- whatever floats your boat.


Three artists, three different interpretations, and more importantly-- none of them wrong.  A painter has to go with what moves them, after all.  But I would argue that anyone viewing those paintings are seeing what the artist felt, more than what they saw.  And let's face it; I know full well that most of contemporary art is predicated on that viewpoint.


For myself, when I look at this scene, I might feel all warm and fuzzy, (and it may come as a shock to those who know me, but I am capable of feeling warm and fuzzy!) and I could be just as excited by all the different colors and forms as well.  But here's the thing: I want the viewer of my painting to feel the same emotions I felt, too.  So I will try to portray this scene as accurately as I can.  My thinking is that if what I see makes me feel peace and tranquility, then maybe my accurately portraying it will make the viewer feel that way as well.


Then why don't you just take a picture?  I hear you say.  To that I say, "where's the fun in that?"  (And if the truth be told, the closer I get to mimicking a photo, the worse my painting becomes).  Look, I have no intention of painting every twig, leaf, blade of grass or flower I see.  The game for me is to see how much I can include or leave out and still make the picture look like what I'm seeing.  Kind of like the TV show The Price Is Right-- closest without going over.  So yeah, I'll paint leaves and blades of grass-- but hopefully just enough to honestly convey what I see in front of me.  Then, maybe the viewer will say, "My-- what a beautiful view!"  As opposed to, "My-- what a pretty painting!".


Maybe it's just a matter of semantics-- but that's open to interpretation.


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Let There Be Light

Several years ago-- or maybe it was last month, whatever-- the Portland Museum of Art here in Portland, Maine (known as "The Big City") held a wonderful retrospective of Impressionist Art.  All the usual suspects were there; Monet, Renoir, Sisley and Cezanne.  To the museums credit, they also had some other greats: Metcalf, Twachtman, Weir, Hassam and Benson.  In short, it was a stunning display of art--- except-

(And there's always a "But" isn't there?)


The lighting was horrendous!


It was so dim, I kept thinking the movie was just about to start.  Some paintings were displayed in complete shadow, while one had a solitary spot light shining down on it from the ceiling about ten feet up.  The light on that piece lit the top of the typically large, ornate Victorian frame.  As a result, the frame's shadow obscured the top third of the painting.  The work was also done in heavy impasto, which in turn sent more shadows dripping down the paintings surface.

Look, I get that light is the enemy of paintings with their fragile and fugitive colors and that they must be carefully conserved so that future generations can see them for themselves in their own dimly lit museums.  But when I go to a museum to see paintings, I go to see an image rendered in paint, not an object on a wall.


That rant reminds me of a story about Thomas Eakins.  He was all upset because some colors and values he labored over on one of his paintings was lost because of the poor lighting where it was being displayed.  But that's just another one of the Two Million Things To Keep In Mind When Painting, isn't it?  Is the painting going to be seen in the same lighting as how we painted it?


Here in my studio, I don't have a North light.  I do have a bank of windows on the south side, though.  The light streaming in is usually warm, as opposed to the steady, cooler North light.  I try to offset that by having cool "daylight" bulbs shining down on my work space from the ceiling and a lamp clamped onto my easel. 

In the corner I have another easel with two spots with more daylight bulbs.  I place the painting on that one so I can stand far enough back to get a good look at my picture.  (It's the photo at the top of the page). I will take pictures there, but I prefer using real sunshine whenever I possibly can.

But wait!  There's more!


Every day I lug my painting up to the house and set it in the living room.  The lamps there are a warm, yellow light because I still have incandescent bulbs.  (Sshhhh.. don't tell anyone!)  I will also drag it into the kitchen, dining room-- even the bathroom.  All have different types of light.  I think it's important to see pictures in as many different light settings as I can.  I figure somebody, somewhere is going to use the same light I'm viewing the piece in.  You might be surprised to see the difference warm and cool light can have on a painting:  

The above was taken in warm light.  All the warm pinks and yellows and such are amplified one thousand fold, making them blisteringly hot.  Below, here's the picture in cool light:

I'm not even going to get into whether your monitor leans to the blue or red spectrum, so Lord knows what you're seeing here.  But this is how I'm going to present this painting until I get outside and take a photo in the sun.  Anyway, I call it "Off Season", it's oil on panel 24X20.  It's highly doubtful, but gee, wouldn't it be great if someday this piece is in a museum?--

Maybe they'll have the lights on!

  

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Inch By Inch



Last week-- or maybe it was five or six years ago, whatever-- when I was dropping off a painting for a local juried art show, I saw a picture that stopped me dead in my tracks.  It was beautifully conceived and excellently done.  I found out later that it was done by a well-known professional artist who has been featured in a couple of art books I own.  (Her name is Loretta Krupinski, if you want to google her.)


But this isn't about Ms Krupinski, but what made her piece stand out to me;  What I noticed was that every square inch of that painting was carefully thought out and given the same amount of effort as every other square inch.  Not detail, mind you, but execution.  Nothing was haphazard or an after-thought.  You could plainly see the care with which she painted the piece. 

And then I looked at mine... 

You know, when one goes into an upscale art gallery or museum, we see fine works of art, but nothing makes a painting truly stand out as good as when it's hanging next to bad art.

(Side note:  No such thing as "bad art", you say?  We can have bad chefs, bad cops, bad teachers, even bad doctors, but we can't have bad art?

Please.

And before you think I'm smugly above the fray, -- I've perpetrated some horrendous art on the world myself.)


Anyway, I resolved then and there to give my future works the same amount of care and thought as she did hers.  What the hell, if it works for her...  But you know, I've also come to notice that trait in other fine (in my opinion) artists and their paintings.


Let's look at one of my favorite artists, Tom Lovell:

Tom was a student of the Haddon Sundblom school of painting; bold, decisive and colorful brush strokes.  Seemingly done in a swish, swish-- there's a painting!  manner.  You can see it in this picture-- thin here, impasto there.  Not niggled and over worked.  This painting is about 25 or so inches long and about 15 inches high.  Not large at all.  Now, check out the guy on the right.  Look closer at his left hand and the pencil he's holding:

Day-um!

Who says detail has to be tight?  Tom didn't take some yellow and swish it on and call it a pencil.  He lavished just as much thought and effort on this maybe two-square inch of canvas as he did on the nurse and soldier.  That's why his work is in books to be studied, I guess.  


Another of my favorites, and a guy I don't mention much but will in the future is Maxfield Parrish.  I think Parrish was probably the most creative artist of the Twentieth Century.  He combined fantasy and realism in a way that wasn't done before, and really hasn't been done since.  If 1900 to 1950 were the "Golden Age" of illustration, Max was a Sun God.  He retired from illustration work and painted landscapes for 30 years.  His subjects were mostly inspired by the New Hampshire country side where he lived.  Here's one I particularly love:

He used a glazing technique that was straight out of the Renaissance.  But what looks super-tight and detailed at first glance can be a bit misleading.  Look at these rocks--

Geez, it looks like an abstract painting!  (Note to self: try to make every picture a series of abstract vignettes that when put together look realistic).


OK, one more, while I'm on a roll.  I have no idea who did this 19th Century painting, but I really like the sensation of a perfect Mediterranean day it evokes.  Classical paintings of ancient Roman and Greek times from that era were done in the studio, and no matter how much blue the artist put in the sky, it always looked like a gloomy day.  This one shows sunlight and color beautifully- just don't ask me what the hell the people are doing...

I don't know the dimensions of this piece, but I'm sure it's huge.  But still, look at how this artist thought out every element.  Again, while this is no swish-swish technique, it doesn't mean it's stiff.  The upper right hand corner could be a Monet street scene:



By the way, the little detail at the top of this blog showing a porch rail post and rocks are from my latest, but it's not quite ready to be unveiled:

I have a few inches left before it's done.


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Steps

This painting of my neighbor's place as viewed from my river has nothing to do with the following post, other than I'm a wee bit tired of seeing this sight.  Not that I'm tired of seeing my neighbors, but I'd rather it looked like this:

It's March!  You know what that means in Maine?  Mud Season.  I can't wait to see that dirty, gray snow melt into that dirty brown ground.  Mud will get tramped on the floor, the walls and ceiling. Then, before you know it comes my favorite time of year:

Black Fly Season!

Bring it on...


In the meantime, I've been holed up here in the studio (It looks like this):

I'm showing you this because I got a new (to me) easel recently!  Thanks Mr. Cornell.


Anyway, I've spent the better part of two weeks so far working on a winter piece.  Here is a little step by step progression bringing us up to where I stand at the close of today.


On Valentine's Day this year I took a trip to Pemaquid Point Lighthouse.  It was a gorgeous winter day, and I wanted to get some inspiration for an ocean scene.  Pemaquid Light is a twin to the more famous Portland Head Light, but it's a lot less crowded with tourists even in the midst of summer.  And especially so in the middle of February.  I cruised all over the property by myself as the sun was setting, and while I was on the porch of the Light Keepers House, I was struck by this scene:

I'm a sucker for porches.  So, I did this sketch to think out the picture on paper:

I printed this sketch and used it as a template for a very rough color sketch:



Then came the under-drawing on a 24X20 masonite panel:

Touch of glare on that picture, sorry.  Now, for those who say "Wait a minute, Kev-- aren't you just copying a photograph?"  I say, "You're point?"  Actually, if you look closer you'll notice I took out the far railing, the picket fence and added snow on the porch.  I also turned the brick building a bit while I pushed it back

Apology accepted.


Alright, next came the grisaille--or monochrome under painting.  I used Silver White and Mars Black to do this:

I did all of this because I need to keep my values in check, or they'll go wandering all over.  And I hate wandering values.  Give 'em an inch and they'll take a mile. They need to be controlled, reigned in and mastered.  But I digress...  I used the original photo, but switched it over to black and white as an aide.

Finally-- Color! 

This is a color lay-in.  I use very thin washes of color which allow the under-painting to show through.  For intance, the rocks on the right were given a wash of orange over the grey under-painting.    Subsequent sessions of glazing will deepen the colors.  I seal off each coat so that the colors rest on top of each other as opposed to mixing and blending.  The idea is that light will shine through each layer and blend the colors as it goes.  I will eventually go over some areas and add some impasto details here and there, (like on the rock pillers) but I've plenty more steps to go until I get to that point. 


Well, that's what I've been up to while I wait for the mud to make its springtime appearance.  Then the floor will show my every step-by-step.

If you know what I mean...


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Want Becomes Done

Stoking The Fire

Ever notice that frequently there is a lag time between Want and Do?  I have.  For instance, Ellen might want me to take the garbage out, but it will probably be awhile before I do.


In painting, Want and Do usually follow the same M.O.  Everywhere I go, I am bombarded with visual sights that make me say, "I want to paint that!"  And sometimes I run home and paint the picture.  Other times, I eventually paint the scene, but not right away.  Case in point:  Driving home one late winter afternoon, I spotted an old Maine barn perched atop a hill.  The snow was in purple/gray/blue shadow leading up to the barn, while the red barn was all aglow as the last few rays of sun lit it beautifully.  I was struck by the sight, and eventually made a painting of it.

Fifteen years later! 

Hey-- sometimes, Do takes time!  Like taking out the garbage...


Here at the house, we have an old antique parlor wood stove that I have wanted to paint for the last three years, or as long as we owned it.  I love the design of the thing, the gun-metal gray cast iron combined with the chrome bumpers and ornaments.  Man, those Victorians made things look pretty!

 

But while I love the look of the thing, I never could come up with a painting.  It was that fight between Want and Do.  Then a few weeks ago, early in the morning, I saw Ellen putting more wood on the fire.  It was just dim enough in the room for the fire box to cast a warm red glow on her face.  I felt like Charlie Brown having a Eureka moment:

                                                       THAT'S IT!!!!!


A couple of sketches later, and an evening photography session, and I was off.  As usual, I drew my picture out on a panel prior to painting:

I lit the scene with an oil lamp so that there would be some warm ambient light, and not just the light from the stove.  I didn't want to have a color scheme that was the same old warm light/cool shadows.  Although, truth be told, it was a fight.  Anyway, the stove is a side loader with the door opening out left to right.  Which you can't see.  My hope is that I made it obvious.  And frankly, in retrospect, if the door opened toward the viewer it probably would have made the light shining on Ellen more obvious as to the source.  But such is the scourge of realism, I guess...

So, there you go-- another one off the bucket list.  There's a lot more pictures I want to paint, but I think maybe I need to take the garbage out.


Even if I don't want to.

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From The Sick Ward--

First Light, Fresh Snow

Truth be told, I've always disliked the type of people who are always blathering on about how sick they are, and how their cold was so much worse than yours, or their flu wasn't the ordinary flu, but the super-duper flu bug.

So I'm filled with a sense of self-loathing right now...


Honest to God-- I've had an upper respiratory, walking pneumonia with the boogy-woogy flu for almost a solid month, and man has it gotten old!  That last week it was near 60 degrees, and this morning the thermometer rests at 3 below zero hasn't helped.  But painting needs to be done, dammit!


So the picture above was done this year.  It's a scene from my old neighborhood in Cundy's Harbor, Maine.  We rented a small cottage there for about three years, and this was the view from the front lawn.  I love where I am now, but I have to admit-- it sure was pretty there.


I mentioned in my last post how I was going to glaze this in a slightly different manner in that I was changing my palette for every color pass.  That meant if I used Ultramarine Blue and Alizarin Crimson for a purple color on one go, I'd go over it with a purple made from Cobalt Blue and Cad Red on the next.  These would be very thin, transparent glazes, so it would allow both colors to shine through.  I did the same thing for all the other passages.  I had no reason to do this, other than the age old-- "why not?"  I kept in mind to keep the temperature of the colors the same.  It is possible to have a warm blue, or a cool red, and I didn't want them fighting with each other.  In some areas it worked, others not, and had to be re-painted.  But the fun was in the trying.


Outside of my opinion that maybe I keyed the whole thing down a smidge much, I'm okay with it.  I really enjoyed the color mixing challenge it presented.  Quite often, I get stuck in mixing my colors the same way, and this got me out of that rut.

River's Edge

After a few weeks of painting bright yellows and pinks, I then banged this one out.  This is another scene from my property.  We were having a "January Thaw".  In Maine, that means gray skies and fog.  As I was out stumbling around, I saw this scene.  I liked how the only spot of color was the dead marsh grass we let grow up on the river bank.  If you see this picture in person, you'll notice the trees on the right are much more subdued than what this photo shows--- but what can you do?  That's photos for you.


I've two more paintings on the easel.  One is another snow scene, and the other is an interior.  This super flu bug isn't keeping me down! 

Even though it is alot worse than anybody else's...


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This Year

2-0-1-3





Well now, here we are in 2013 (pronounced Twenty-Thirteen) and how does it feel?  I'll tell you in a minute.  To me, it's always a bit of a mind-bender when Next Year becomes This Year.  But I just wanted the year to sink in a little bit before I make any kind of assessment of it.  So far?

Meh.

I made a vow to Re-Use and Recycle more, so my New Year's Resolutions for this year are from 1976.  Couple of things I can cross off that list are, "Get a new Cheryl Tiegs poster", and "Learn to do the Hustle".


Now, a lot of us painters are keen on coming up with resolutions concerning their artwork.  You know, stuff like, "Take more workshops", or "Learn how to [fill in the blank]".  Not me.  I kinda feel I'm already on the road less travelled, and I want to see where it takes me this year.  I believe that staying the course can be more difficult sometimes than making changes.  While my road might have a whole lot of blind curves, I'll spend the year trying not to jump on the highway.


I've been working on a new painting already in this still blossoming year.  Regardless of what I just said about staying the course, I'm using a slightly different technique on this one.  I go on and on in these posts about my glazing technique, but let me clarify something;  To most people, glazing is done after a painting is done, and used to modify form, or highlights-- maybe even change a hue or reduce chroma.  What I do when I glaze is more like a silk screen process.  If I want a green tree, I first slap down some blue.  Over that I glaze a yellow.  Voila-- green.  Then repeat the process over and over to achieve depth.  Yeah, it's as exciting as watching paint dry.  Because mostly it is watching paint dry.  But I like the results.

The picture I'm working on I will glaze in the manner stated earlier;  Paint it, glaze over it.  But I was thinking that it would be fun to change things up a bit.  Let's see if I can explain it:  Wherever I have a passage I'm going to glaze over, I will use the same color, but made with different combinations.  So, for instance, where I have a purple made with a blue and red, I'll use a different blue and red to glaze over it.  See?  Why would I do this?

I dunno.  Seemed like a good idea at the time...

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I remember December 4, 2012 very well.  It was the last day I was healthy.

Since then, I've been living with a sore throat and upper respiratory congestion that eventually got me an ambulance ride after I collapsed and passed out in my studio last week.  And since then I feel like someone has taken a dirty, scratchy gym sock and stuffed it behind my left eye, taken a red hot ember and lodged it in my throat, then crammed a brick into my lungs.  My voice has become a twitching, wheezy lamb-like bleat.  Which isn't so bad, except I have to constantly repeat myself.

• Me: "I am gOing down to The stUDio to work on my pIcture."

          Ellen: "What?"

          Me: "GoinG to worRK.

• Me: "I nEed to juMp on The internet and orDer that KlausSen's Linen at $1,000 a rOll".

          Ellen: "What?"

          Me:  "Nothing..."

 Happy This Year!

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Rear End Year View

Champ the wonder dog sits patiently awaiting the New Year to come through the door.  And feed him.

Wow, can you believe it's time once again to reminisce about the year gone by?  2012 was a year unlike any other. 

Not really.  But I heard that it's customary to say that about departing years.

It started the same way as every other year-- in January-- and progressed through the calendar in usual fashion.  I remember having a New Year's Resolution to achieve world-wide acclaim as an artist, and sell my work for millions of dollars.  I'm pretty close to achieving that goal, if you disregard the fact that I'm still totally anonymous as a painter, and my pictures are traded for Pokemon cards.  But I'm so close, I can smell it...


Looking back through my efforts in 2012, (pronounced Twenty-Twelve) I can see good times and good art, along with mediocre times and so-so art.  But isn't that why we look so eagerly to the coming year?  To start afresh?  To right the wrongs of the previous year?  To grow, and learn and finally achieve our potential? 

Or is it to breathe the same sigh of relief as when we narrowly miss having a car-accident?  You know, "Man-- I'm glad I made it through that!..."

So, allow me to skip through some memories; the sights and paintings of the year, and end the chapter of life that was 2012.


The year started with a trip to Hollywood with my daughter, Leigh.  We were participating in a show about ghosts called My Ghost Story.  I've blogged about it here.  The best part was getting to the Getty Museum with Tess, an old Air Force friend I hadn't seen in 30 years.  Fame is 15 minutes long.  Friends last a lifetime. 






Leigh at the Getty checking out a Medieval pop-up book.

Then it was back to work in Maine.  Here's some stuff from early in the year.





Morning Reflections



Birches-- I've never posted this one.



Appleton Hills

Then I finished up a big one;  After years of 12X16's and 14X18's, at 3ft high and 4 feet long, it was my largest painting to-date:

Horse Pull

Sometime in the Spring, I got interested in doing my pictures vertically.  Before, I always laid down to paint, but then I decided to stand up.  And that made my compositions become vertical, too.

Up River



Noon On The River

 

 

The two paintings above show the Eastern River, near my home in Pittston.  The painting on top depicts a lovely spot a short hike from my home.  Below that is a picture I did from the edge of my back yard.  It may not be great, but that one I did plein air. 

 

 

Below is one of many scenic spots in the Boothbay Botanical Gardens, in Boothbay, Maine.  

 

 

 

Garden Falls

 

 

Garden Falls, and Noon On The River where done plein air in anticipation of the summers plein air events.  At the height of this blisteringly hot summer I hit the road to New Hope, Pennsylvania to a paint-out hosted by the inimitable Howard Cooperman and his lovely bride, Edye.  Howard owns the Bucks County Gallery Of Fine Art, (where I have a few of these pieces hanging) and I couldn't wait to slap some paint with about 20 very admirable artists.

 

 

I found this painting along the river, and added some touches before the artist got back..

Wondering where I can get more punch.

 

 

On the way back, I had to stop in Stockbridge, Massachusetts to say hello to  my hero, Norman Rockwell:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let's see.  On to Fall, and more surf and turf:

 

 

 

Sebasco, Maine views

 

 

Then I thought, "I know-- let's do portraits!"

 

 

Luke

 

Homecoming

But, you know, I also had some fun whipping out the old pencil--

From life

 



From a photo

And that brings us to my latest picture, and probably my last for this year.  It's called December Fields.  I've wanted to paint a picture of this house since the day I moved here.  I finally got around to it:

So, that's my year in paint and pencil.  I'm really looking forward to what lies in store for 2013. 


Anybody have any Pokemon cards left?


Have a Happy Holiday!


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