Oil Painting

Saying the last two years have been difficult is an understatement. It has been a dark period and for anyone that lost a loved one or was financially affected, you have my deep sympathy. 

I have heard many people speak about silver linings and positive outcomes like connecting with friends, family, or hobbies too long on the back burner. Challenging times can bring with them unexpected gifts, and I’d like to share with you how the past two years have helped me re-align with my deepest values, create a fresh business model, and find new forms of community. And while I don’t want to minimize the challenges we face, I find that I need to hear stories that inspire hope. That little bit of light gets me through the darkness. Perhaps my story will do the same for you. 

“Adversity introduces a man to himself.” – Albert Einstein 

As the pandemic swept the globe we were all thrust into a strange new world. One week I had a full teaching schedule for the year, and the next week everything was cancelled. My family and I had just bought a house and I worried how we would pay the mortgage in the coming months. 

Before the pandemic, I had experimented with doing private lessons online, but was underwhelmed. I saw the potential, but could never find the time to learn about cameras, microphones and streaming software. However, losing all of my in-person workshops made me realize I needed to come up with a new business model, and forced a time of intense learning. My goal was to create an online classroom for my students. It had to be simple and easy to use, but more importantly, it had to be a great learning experience for them. Easier said than done! 

Over the coming months, I spent 12-14 hours per day learning about A/V, video editing software, online classrooms, schedulers and payment processors — all the ways they work and don’t work together. I was in over my head and deeply outside my comfort zone. However, with persistence, the pieces gradually fell in place and I launched my online classroom and started teaching. The hard work paid off.  There was a lot of interest, my classes were full, and students loved the experience. The right tech solution was a must, but what made it special was the sense of community the classes created. Many students told me that this community, and our classes, have helped them get through the pandemic. Even though we were thousands of miles apart, we found a way to be connected, and joined together in a shared experience of learning to paint. 

“A man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather he must recognize that it is he who is asked.” – Victor Frankl 

Creating community and contributing to others’ wellbeing through teaching is very fulfilling and touches on my core needs for contribution, meaning, and purpose. However, there was something still missing. When people asked me what I did for a living, I would tell them I was an artist’s assistant; when they asked who I worked for, I said, Dominique Medici. My days were full of admin, tech troubleshooting and customer support — very few hours per week were actually spent painting. As months passed, this problem only became more acute. Fair enough I suppose, making any business thrive is an all-encompassing endeavor. That said, the relentless pace of it all came at a huge cost to my well-being. 

This past spring was the end of a hard-core sprint. I had just finished making three instructional landscape videos to release over the summer months in order to give my students a way to practice while allowing me to take time off. I taught my last class, dropped my partner and kiddo off at the airport, and after returning home, collapsed exhausted on the sofa. I had been feeling unwell for a couple of weeks but was too busy to stop. Now however, I found myself too sick to get up for over a week. 

This was a real wake-up call. It gave me time to reflect, and I realized that even pre-pandemic, everyday was an incessant stream of needs, obligations and events to attend, and Covid just pushed it into an even more extreme mode. I was doing what I loved and grateful for it, but not feeling replenished in my daily activities. As an introvert, I derive a lot of my energy and inspiration from meditation, doing retreats and painting, precisely the things that were put on the back burner when the pandemic had me putting out fires in all other aspects of life. 

I habitually said yes to everything, be it an article or a presentation for an art school. While that was a good strategy at the beginning of my career, I realized that I had been working as a professional artist for many years and needed to start being more selective with what I take on. This meant cutting back on teaching, smaller commissions, events and anything that wasn’t a top priority aligned with my core values. I like being busy, but not if I abandon myself in the process. With that insight, I reestablished my daily meditation, walking, reading and painting practice. The things that ensure that I will able to offer the very best of myself in the years to come. 

“If you are quiet enough, you will hear the flow of the universe. You will feel its rhythm. Go with this flow. Happiness lies ahead. Meditation is key.” – Buddha 

As part of my painting practice, I started painting people I admire. One of them is Dr. Gabor Maté who is internationally renowned for his work on trauma, stress and addiction. In an interview he did with Russell Brand, I was struck by his humanity, wisdom and compassion. The authority and sincerity in his voice spoke to my heart. I painted him as I listened to the interview and it was one of the most effortless and joyful paintings I’ve had the pleasure to paint. 

Incidentally, one of my private students interviewed Dr. Maté for her charity. She shared a photo of my painting with him. To my surprise, a couple of days later I received an email;  Dr. Maté and his wife Rae loved the painting and wanted to acquire it! It was my great pleasure to hand deliver the painting and visit with them for a few hours. The conversation was meaningful and by the time I had left, I felt we were old friends. A couple of days later I was also pleased to learn that the painting won 3rd place in the Portrait Society of America’s members show. 

Perhaps we can’t avoid getting lost and losing sight of ourselves when challenges come, but finding our way back home has a way of distilling and clarifying what is most important, a process that can replenish our inner well. If we want to contribute to others, we first must take care of ourselves. We all know this and yet it is so easy to forget in practice. When we do remember, we are more ourselves; we are healthier and have more to offer. 

The past 2 years were an intense journey filled with hard work and challenges, some of which surprisingly brought me deeper self-connection and alignment with my values. Paradoxically, scaling back on external commitments and focusing on what I loved doing helped to increase my exposure in ways I found deeply meaningful and satisfying. We are not out of the woods yet, for many of us the struggle continues. But my sense of purpose feels clearer and this makes the journey manageable. My hope is to continue supporting my students by offering classes and instructional videos. If my students feel uplifted and inspired along the way, and continue to gain skill and insight, then I am doing something worthwhile with my time. 

There’s no painting like snow painting! Ever tried painting snow? …While also standing in snow? …Outside?

A few years ago, my family and I spent several days in California’s Eastern Sierras. We stayed in the town of June Lake which had snow on the ground when we arrived, and a few more inches fell during our stay. Temperatures were in the 20s (F) so we bundled up the kids (and ourselves) and enjoyed a little white before Christmas.

I managed to paint three small pieces while exploring the beautiful area. And let me be the first to state the obvious — painting in the snow is cooold. Beyond recommending that you dress as warmly as possible, I have a few, quick tips to share that might be of help when painting snow outdoors.

1. Prepare for the extra brightness, especially if the sun is out and reflecting off the snow. Set yourself up in the shade if possible. Lay down a black garbage bag or dark-colored blanket below your easel. It can reduce the brightness that’s blasting up from behind your palette and canvas. 
2. Pay attention to your feet. Waterproof shoes are great. Also, bring along something to insulate your feet from direct contact with the snow as you paint. Try standing on a piece of thick cardboard or plywood. For you coastal-dwellers, a boogie board works great!
3. Pay attention to your hands. Fingerless gloves (perhaps even more than one pair at a time!) will allow you to grip your brushes as usual.
4. Try hand and foot warmers inside your gloves and shoes. They can be great for those extra cold sessions. 
5. Bring your easel inside overnight (or at least your paint and palette). You want to keep your paint warm so it doesn’t get cold and stiff (and lonely) in the car. Stiff paint is tough to use. 

Painting snow outdoors is the best way to study its variety of colors and effects on the landscape. Plus, your friends will think you’re extra tough. So give it a try sometime. Hopefully these tips will make your next snowy painting session a little easier.

–Dan Schultz

Editor’s note:

We thought you may enjoy this bonus advice from Richard Schmid, from his book Richard Schmid Paints Landscapes, Creative Techniques in Oil:

“I have encountered three problems in winter painting. First, because the day is shorter, an early start is important. Second, it is often necessary to work with warm gloves, which can be cumbersome. I usually alternate, working with gloves for the block-in and broad areas, then removing the gloves for detail work. Third, the consistency of oil paint changes in low temperatures, causing the paint to lose its plasticity and rendering it stiff and unworkable. Adding small amounts of turpentine will usually restore the paint’s working qualities. The rule, of course, is to use the least possible turpentine especially in heavy, impasto brushwork. Rather than add too much turpentine, it might be better to substitute a knife for the brush. It is sometimes suggested that alcohol be added to the oil paint in cold weather. To the painter, perhaps; to the paints, never.”

The Pandemic changed everything.

I’m sure this is true for many artists; the prolonged social isolation became a period of self-reflection and soul searching. There was a sense of uncertainty that permeated every aspect of our lives. Yet we still had to produce artwork, even though there seemed to be much more important things to worry about.

Not surprisingly, my creative juices stopped flowing and I hit a wall. Slumps are no strangers to an artist, but this one seemed different, maybe because the whole world was in crisis mode.  Try as I may, I just could not work through it as I normally do. 

I began to question the work I was doing. Soon, I was no longer sure about my choice of subject matter, tools, materials, or process. I’ve always worked hard to gain control of these things, with the firm belief that one must have a command of the language in order to communicate effectively. And painting is a visual language. 

But during this mother of all slumps, I found myself equating control with predictability, and not in a good way. I began to think, maybe I’m playing it too safe; maybe I’m not taking risks with my painting; maybe I’ve become complacent!

Before long, these doubts became truths, and at that point, I felt like I was having an identity crisis. Drastic action was in order. So, to shock myself into a new way of thinking and doing and to tear down my comfort zone, I destroyed about three hundred paintings and thousands of drawings that had accumulated in my studio. It was absolutely terrifying, but ultimately, cathartic. 

What followed was a series of experiments and studies where I deliberately used unfamiliar materials and approaches, essentially denying myself the old way of working.

I started painting with acrylics and mixed media on hard surfaces primed with gesso, other times I used black house paint. I painted on different kinds of paper, plastic, and metal. (Previously, I had always been an oil painter, and my go-to substrate was linen.)  I put away my nice brushes and picked up cheap house painting brushes and putty knives.

I painted tiny pictures, a couple of inches wide, and also much larger works several feet across, both with the intention of doing something unfamiliar and uncomfortable. 

Because I wanted fewer things to think about and to work more intuitively, (as opposed to working methodically and controlling everything) I eliminated color, and only used black and white paint.

I decided that thumbnails and other preparatory studies allowed me too much room for analysis, so I abandoned them. Carefully drawing on my support prior to painting was giving me too much of a safety net, so that had to go as well. 

I did away with all reference photos. I wanted to work spontaneously and freely. I did not want to be hindered by what I saw in photos, so I chose to paint only from memory and imagination.  I wanted to see where it would lead. I really had no idea what to expect, and I guess that was the whole point. This uncertainty and the lack of predictability was such an adventure. 

As expected, it was a huge struggle. Dozens of studies went straight into the trash, but wouldn’t you know it, I found the struggle really exciting! I felt like I was back in school making fresh discoveries.

Eventually this exploration led to a series of larger, monochromatic, urban paintings. I learned to embrace the state of not being in control, of not having an expectation of outcome. It was all about the doing, and the pleasure of the discoveries.

I would gesso (or not) a big sheet of birch plywood and start slapping gobs of black and white paint on it, without any reference or preconceived notion of the result — no preliminary drawing, no thumbnails, no clue. The start of a painting often looked like a bad imitation of a Franz Kline painting.

One of the central blobs would remind me of a figure or a car, and I would start to shape it to make it more recognizable.  From there, a context would emerge, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. I would find other shapes and fit them into this visual space. 

During the process of creating a believable environment on my panel, I would make drastic changes on a whim. A building would be demolished, figures moved around, cars would come and go. I made a point to just follow these impulses, especially if it meant destroying perfectly good passages. Why? Because it meant that I’m doing it for the sake of expression, not the end product. Not without trepidation and second thoughts, but I almost always found it very liberating and satisfying.

Many paintings from this series have a very noir feel to them, owing to the fact they’re black and white, and also, probably, because I like hardboiled crime novels and 1950’s jazz. The moody, atmospheric qualities of the works of James Cain and Miles Davis are clear influences. The improvisational nature of jazz is something that resonates with me especially. In fact, these paintings to me, feel very much like jazz improvisation, only using paint, rather than sound. 

One aspect of this process that I find fascinating is the role of narrative. When a painting includes figures, often a narrative develops, whether intended or accidental. In my case, it plays a large role in this series because of the noir influence. I start thinking about the figures in my painting and their story which naturally, plays a role in how they develop. 

Because I don’t have a plan when I begin a new piece, the narrative is hidden from me. I watch it materialize and change as I paint the picture. It’s like reading a book and I am finding out what happens as I turn the page. Even though I am the creator, I’m also a spectator, a reader. I come back to the realization that NOT knowing what happens next is the crux of this series. The mystery and uncertainty keep me engaged, and pushes me to make drastic changes on a whim. If I want to find out what happens next, I have to write it.

To get over my pandemic slump, I had to find ways to disconnect myself from thinking too much, planning too much, and following the rules too much. It allowed me to pursue immediacy, urgency, and intuitive expression.  And because the process is more visceral, I feel I’m closer to touching upon my authentic voice. 

The pandemic is a terrible thing, but if there’s a personal silver lining, it is that I’ve gotten to know myself better, and I’ve always felt that that’s the ultimate purpose of making art. 

Over the past several years I have written posts for OPA about different painting fundamentals. I would like to continue with a few thoughts on light. 

As a representational painter, much of my technical work boils down to understanding how light behaves in the natural environment.  Theoretical knowledge of how light works, plus observation of how these principles play out in real life, combine to provide the basis used to communicate a story, emotion, or idea (along with other design principles of course, such as composition, etc.).  This concept is often put more simply as “we paint both what we see and what we know”.  

Since most of us deal with the concept of light in our paintings, I’m sure these ideas are neither new to you nor novel. And it’s perfectly okay if you think about light in a completely different way (that can be fascinating).  But sometimes hearing a familiar idea stated in a new way can expand our understanding.

With all of this in mind, I would like to share a few perceptions of how I think about light as a painter:

PRIMARY LIGHT SOURCE AND SECONDARY LIGHT SOURCE 

The interplay (push-and-pull, tug-of-war, etc.) between these two forces is nearly always at play in nature.  Understanding how the two interact within a scene is the key to understanding the color theme or ‘thrust’ of a piece. Typically, the sun is the primary light source and the sky is the secondary source, but that can be different depending on other factors (for example indirect light, moonlight, car lights, etc.). Multiple secondary sources can definitely exist simultaneously (such as street lights, house lights, moon, etc.), but I find that these usually need to be simplified to a dominant secondary light source (i.e. choose one).  One of the only places where there is no secondary light source influence is in outer space (though sci-fi artists usually cheat and add one anyway). Thus, even in small and subtle ways, most things in nature have a gradient of value and color as they get either further away from, or closer to, the primary light source and consequently more or less influenced by the secondary source. That’s a heady way to say that, on a sunny day, the surface of an object is either being hit by sunlight, or it’s being influenced by whatever else is in the sky. 

WHEN THERE IS A PLANE CHANGE THERE IS ALSO A CHANGE IN VALUE AND TEMPERATURE

This seems obvious, but it can be both tricky to observe and easy to overstate. Sometimes the value change in a plane is so subtle that forms can be turned simply by changing color temperature.  The idea is that if a plane can be observed, then it’s because it’s being affected by light and thus has a value and temperature based on either a primary or secondary light source.  If that plane is less influenced by the primary light source, then it is by necessity being more influenced by the secondary light source (and vice versa).  A good visual to understand this relationship was created by Joseph Buenning:

TYPICALLY, OBJECTS LOOK BETTER WHEN THERE IS UNEQUAL PROPORTION OF LIGHTING

Even if beautifully rendered, having equal amounts of light and dark in a painting is typically less dynamic and engaging then having one side of the value spectrum, or the other, dominate. (Granted, this may be more about composition, but it is important so I am including it in our discussion.)  For example, when I’m walking around a tree deciding what angle to paint, I usually avoid painting the tree with the shadow right down the middle. It’s about making a choice as to what is most engaging and committing to it. My students often hear me say this boiled-down version: “Mostly light with a little bit of dark, or mostly dark with a little bit of light”.  

LIGHT AND TEXTURE ARE INTRINSICALLY LINKED

How light affects the appearance of an object generally depends on the material and texture of that object.  Generally, the smaller and more varied the planes of the object, the more light becomes fragmented as it bounces off, creating a matte appearance.  For example, a patch of dry grass is composed of many little parts which fragment the light, giving the grass a matte appearance. The opposite is true for a flat pane of glass, which has very little surface variation, and thus appears shiny.

SATURATING UP THE EDGES OF A LIGHT AREA 

Doing this allows one to pull back the saturation within a light area while still maintaining a feeling of vividness.  This is especially helpful in areas that get really light, and due to the limitations of our paints, a choice between value and saturation must be made.

ALTERNATING OF TEMPERATURE 

This can give a painting rhythm and pleasing color.

ORANGE IS THE WARMEST COLOR, AND BLUE IS THE COOLEST  

The idea is that on the color wheel, either way that you shift away from Orange it cools down, and either way you go from Blue, it warms up.  The same is not true for any other color. (Special thanks to William Maughan for explaining this to me once). 

COLOR AND TEMPERATURE ARE RELATIVE AND BASED ON CONTEXT 

Thus, “warm light, cool shadows” doesn’t mean orange and blue, it means “warmer than” and “cooler than” what they are next to.  Understanding this key principle, was for me, the beginning of painting believable local color, the ability to differentiate of time-of-day, and subtle color harmony. It is the difference between having a rock that looks like it’s painted orange, and a rock that is being hit with warm light. 

THE MORE INTENSE THE LIGHT SOURCE, THE MORE INFLUENCE IT HAS OVER WHAT IT TOUCHES 

This is true until it eventually overwhelms a scene entirely. For example, an intense sunset is going to put a stronger wash of warmth and unifying temperature over everything than a mid-afternoon sun.

Well, there you have it. As I mentioned before, there are as many ways to think about light as there are people, and I love it when I see paintings which have approached light very differently than I have explained above (more emotionally, for example). As with most things, there is Truth, but also infinite variety and so many ways to create beauty. I wish you the best in this coming season of work, may the joy of Light fill your life!

-David Dibble OPA