Oil Painting

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

Throughout the ages, since the very first scrawls were made in caves and tribal hunting events were recorded on walls, people have been using colors made of ochres, umbers, madders, bugs, mummies, minerals, shells, iron oxides, and plants. These pigments decorated sheets of papyrus, vellum, paper, faces, bodies, fabrics, clothing, tools, leather, weapons, walls, ceilings, and stones far and near.

People perhaps just hacked a chunk off the cave wall and started noodling, or charred a bone from last night’s dinner, or took a stick from the fire and began to make marks. The earth itself for thousands of centuries has created a harmonious palette of archival and readily available colors to create some of the most beautiful and enduring art in the world.

Today, artists around the world are still using many of those same pigments as used in the past. Thanks to specialty companies, we know more about the composition, archival quality, rarity, cost, permanence, transparency, opacity, toxicity, saturation, drying times, and source of these pigments — issues which are enormously important to artists.

This topic has become a passion for me over the recent years, and I have experimented with most of the available historical pigments in one way or another, creating several in-depth projects that involve both artistic and cultural research. The most profound characteristics discovered are that these pigments are splendid to work with and endlessly beautiful.

Mother Nature herself has done the palette preparation work for me, as the natural, subtle, muted quality is all ready to go. Time has aged the ochres into dazzling arrays of warm and cool yellows that, when placed side by side, are instantly pleasing to the senses. The umbers work in the same way and come in stunning varieties of light, medium, and very dark, depending on the source. Lapis lazuli, azurite, malachite, and ivory black comprise my list of favorites. Technically not an earth color, but manufactured by the ancient Egyptians, Egyptian blue frit is a clear crisp color used to decorate the dizzying riches of the Pharaohs.

Natural cinnabar, my favorite red mineral pigment, formed eons ago by a perfect marriage of mercury and sulfur is mined in Spain, Russia and the west coast of the US, including Oregon where I live. You can see the beauty in the muted hue, which is not garish at all.

To my eye, the modern cadmiums are so highly saturated they overpower my canvas and are difficult to handle on the palette. I find this true also of other modern colors such as phthalo greens and blues. Occasionally, when my mad-scientist self gets restless, I break out of this mold and experiment with some of the modern azo, turquoise, and quinacridones, but I usually will spend time muting or graying them down in some way.

Contrary to common knowledge, making hand-made paints is relatively easy once safety precautions are in place. All you need is a mask, a little oil, pigment, a grinding slab, and a muller. The dry pigment powder is mostly ready to go and just involves mixing in the oil to make sure all of the pigment disperses with the oil.

Another common misconception is the natural pigments are too toxic to handle carefully. Actually, there are only a few that have warnings and with caution, those can be handled too. I always use a respirator and gloves while wearing a smock, and most importantly, I grind the paint in an area with no breeze such as a fan or blowing furnace vent.

Rather than using orpiment, which is problematic and toxic, I use chrome yellow at the suggestion of Eric Hebborn, the infamous art forger. (He implemented this ploy when repainting over old canvases that he intended to sell as fakes). You can see chrome yellow mixed with cinnabar here on the tangerines in The Golden Age. The range of colors is amazing when using just a few earth colors. Rembrandt had about 20 in his repertoire.

It really is a process of elimination. I use just the colors that are safe after they are encased in oil and toss out the fugitive (many of the plant-based colors) or toxic colors. I use caution and strict hygiene habits while painting. Most importantly, the mere fact of having a few select colors on my palette to deal with allows easy and quick decision color mixtures.

More and more interest in hand-ground paints made from natural pigments is surfacing lately. I invite you to choose a few colors, (even if you do not grind the paint yourself,  purchase the ready-made), and experiment. Do some studies and see the difference in the surface quality of your canvas. Make that connection between you the painter, the aesthetic of your art, and your materials. The results just might be profoundly gratifying.
 

If you’re like me, seldom do you emerge from an art-supply shop without having bought a new brush.  New brushes are too tempting.  Their bristles are clean and tight, unsplayed and springy—they promise sparkling new paintings to come.  So, I cannot resist a new brush or two, or three.  Years ago, a small-town art shop was going out of business, and I found they had the old Langnickels 50% off — I came out with two full fists and a minor sense of shame.

But we should feel no shame or guilt for giving way to temptation.  None at all.  I have it on good authority that a painter needs at least 72 brushes! That authority?  Daniel Burleigh Parkhurst, a student of Bougereau, who wrote The Painter in Oil in 1898.  It’s a classic treatise on the subject of oil painting.

Parkhurst is emphatic on the subject of painting materials, and the need for quality tools:

In painting there is nothing that will cause you more trouble than bad materials. You can get along with few materials, but you cannot get along with bad ones. That is not the place to economize. To do good work is difficult at best. Economize where it will not be a hindrance to you. Your tools can make your work harder or easier according to your selection of them. The relative cost of good and bad materials is of slight importance compared with the relative effect on your work.  The way to economize is not to get anything which you do not need. Save on the non-essentials, and get as good a quality as you can of the essentials.

Parkhust explains why we need at least 72 brushes:

Don’t look upon your brushes as something to get as few of as possible, and which you would not get at all if you could help it. There is nothing which comes nearer to yourself than the brush which carries out your idea in paint. You should be always on the lookout for a good brush; and whenever you run across one, buy it, no matter how many you have already. Don’t look twice at a bad brush, and don’t begrudge an extra ten cents in the buying of a good one. If you are sorry to have to pay so much for your brushes, then take the more care of them. Use them well and they will last a long while; then don’t always use the same handful. Break in new ones now and again. Keep a dozen or two in use, and lay some aside before they are worn out, and use newer ones. So when at last you cannot use one any more, you have others of the same kind which will fill its place.

Have all kinds and sizes of brushes. Have a couple of dozen in use, and a couple of dozen which you are not using, and a couple of dozen more that have never been used.

What! six dozen?

Well, why not? Every time you paint you look over your brushes and pick out those which look friendly to what you are going to do. You want all sorts of brushes. You can’t paint all sorts of pictures with the same kind of brush. Your brush represents your hand. You must give every kind of touch with it. You want to change sometimes, and you want a clean brush from time to time. You don’t want to feel that you are limited; that whether you want to or not these four brushes you must use because they are all you have! You can’t paint that way. That six dozen you will not buy all at once. When you get your first outfit, get at least a dozen brushes. As you look over the stock and pick out two or three of this kind, and two or three of that, you will be astonished to see how many you have—yet you don’t know which to discard. Don’t discard any. Buy them all. Then, if you don’t paint, it will not be the fault of your brushes. And from time to time get a half a dozen which have just struck you as especially good ones, and quite unconsciously you acquire your six dozen—and even more, I hope!

Thank you, Mr. Parkhurst.  I think I need to do a little shopping now.

(Note:  This post is not sponsored by Rosemary brushes, but, Symi, you know where to find me.)

Did you know that OPA has been sharing artists’ blog posts for over ten years?  We have an extensive collection available to the public on our website. This fall, OPA will be taking Deep Dives into our archives and sharing our favorite posts from years past. Please enjoy this Deep Dive by Adam Clague OPA.

In many ways, making a good painting is like walking a tightrope. The particular tightrope I am thinking of is the one with the Abyss of Unbridled Creativity on one side and the Chasm of Static Rendering on the other.

If we ignore the gravity of technical accuracy, we risk plummeting into “There-are-no-rules-so-I-can-do-whatever-my-whims-tell-me Mode.” On the other hand, if we traverse the tightrope chanting “Paint what you see; paint what you see,” we can topple into “Gotta-get-this-right Mode” and produce cold, slavish, technical renderings.

I have lost my balance on both sides of this tightrope many, many times. However, I am more prone to tumbling into the Chasm of Static Rendering, and I would like to address this danger.

Accuracy and Vision Should Work Together

I used to think if I could “paint what I see” with 100% accuracy, I would automatically produce masterpieces. Today, I realize a good painting requires more. Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting we abandon technical accuracy in the fundamentals (drawing/shape, value, edge, temperature, color). These compose the foundation upon which good representational art is built. But once we’ve laid a solid foundation, it is time to construct the walls and roof. Truthful observation of our subject should be our primary blueprint. Yet, I propose we use this blueprint in harmony with a secondary blueprint–one I call “getting the vision”.

No, I’m not talking about anything mystical. I am just speaking of having a clear mental image of how we want each picture to look, both before we start and as we work.

The Scope of Our Vision

Within the realm of representational art, it is vital that our vision does not take us outside the boundaries of what is visually understandable. And the only way to learn where these boundaries lie is through persistent, observant painting from life. However, that’s a different topic, and one I feel has been well-covered. Let’s focus instead on the scope of our vision, which can be broad. Our vision may affect every area of painting, including composition, choice of subject matter, technique, and even the fundamentals I listed above. That’s right, even the foundation of drawing may be manipulated slightly if doing so will serve the picture well. For example, a simple gestural line can be more expressive than an unnecessarily complex line in the subject. Asking “How can I make the best picture?” can help temper and direct our vision.

Example 1

I would like to share two paintings that my vision affected. Please understand, I’m not encouraging anyone to paint in my “style”. I only hope you’ll ask yourself “How do I want my painting to look?”

First is a piece that began as a few bad photos (one is below) and an even worse plein air (I’m too embarrassed to even show it). Still, I had a vision for the piece that I liked enough to attempt a small studio painting.

The darks in the photo below are mostly the same value, making the image look flat. To create depth, I painted the darks progressively lighter as objects receded (see painting below). My idea was based on the effect of aerial perspective—atmosphere that causes nearer shadows to appear darker and more distant shadows to appear lighter.

I also wanted to make the photo’s monochromatic color more realistic. I did borrow a few color notes from my plein air, but mostly, I made up the colors (I can hear you gasping now). Still, my color changes were based on effects I had previously observed from life. I have noticed that, when one is looking into the sun (as in this scene), there can be a glare that causes darks to appear reddish. Accordingly, I decided to replace the photo’s colorless darks with more reddish hues.

Example 2

I hope my next example will help those wondering how to paint more loosely. Classical painters, please don’t stop reading. Although I like impressionism, this article isn’t about tight versus loose painting. It’s about envisioning our pictures versus copying slavishly—I believe that applies to us all.

Loosening up starts with having a vision. How do you WANT your brush strokes to look? Look at just one small part of your subject. If you could paint that part any way you wanted, what would it look like? Get a clear picture of how you want that area to be painted, even if you can only visualize one stroke at a time. Now, pick up your brush and give it a shot. Determine to match your mental image, even if it takes several tries. Once you lay down a stroke, don’t keep blending it, or you’ll “kill” it. Rather, if the stroke needs to be adjusted, do so with a completely new stroke. Stand back ten feet. Does the area read well? If so, don’t touch it! The bravura strokes in some impressionist works might suggest the paintings were done entirely on some whimsical auto-pilot. On the contrary, loose painting is about vision and careful intent.

Compare the stages of the painting below. My vision was general at first and then grew gradually more specific. First, I envisioned only the basic planes of the model’s head and blocked them in (1). Next, I built upon this foundation by visualizing and painting progressively more specific shapes (2).

In the final stage (3), many of my initial shapes have been softened, but I left a few visible strokes on top for aesthetic purposes. I enjoy doing this. These strokes are usually stylized versions of the shapes in my subject, almost like little graphic designs. You can also see this tendency of mine in “Violist,” below.

Again, this is merely how I like to lay down paint. I hope you will endeavor to learn how YOU like to apply paint. To do this, study great paintings in person as much as possible to see others’ solutions to common problems. Strive for variety in your paint application—thick versus thin, opaque versus transparent, bold versus delicate, etc. Always ask yourself, “How can I capture that most convincingly?” along with “How do I want this to look?”

Keep Your Balance

Making it across the tightrope requires a balancing pole. One end of the pole is weighted with technical accuracy and the other end with creative vision.

Don’t look down! It is scary for me to leave my comfort zone of “Gotta-get-this-right Mode” and allow my vision to inform my work. Likewise, it’s scary to admit I’ve made a technical inaccuracy. But we must do both to create our best work. To maintain our balance, we must keep our eyes fixed straight ahead (and for me, upward as well). As we take one step at a time, our paintings will begin to look more and more like how we first envisioned them.

My paintings don’t look exactly how I’d like yet, but I am determining to press forward. I hope you’ll be encouraged to join me in walking this tightrope. I believe our best work is waiting for us on the other side.

A long-standing wish of mine was fulfilled this summer: to teach at the New Orleans Academy of Fine Arts. I had taught workshops there, and substituted for other teachers over the years, but I had not taught formal classes. Andrew Rodgers, the new director of NOAFA, invited me to teach both portrait and advanced still life painting for the entire eight-week summer session. I immediately accepted! I am grateful to family for graciously housing me this summer.

The New Orleans Academy of Fine Arts was founded by Auseklis Ozols in 1978, and patterned after the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts where he had studied. Luckily for us, both the portrait and still life classrooms have natural north light overlooking Magazine Street. Our delightful view was of unique New Orleans architecture: brightly painted double shotgun houses and a corner po-boy restaurant.

I love to teach and I believe it is a calling. To paraphrase Exodus 35:31-35, the spirit of God gives the artist the wisdom, understanding, and knowledge to perform his or her craft, and gives the ability to teach. Teaching gives me a sense of purpose. It is thrilling when a student has an epiphany as a direct result of something I said. For example, in presenting the idea of a lost edge, I ask them to squint. Then I point out the lost edges on a figure and finally they understand. Many students say they have never heard of this idea before. I suspect they may have heard it, but were not ready to absorb it.  I frequently think of new ways to get my point across. For example, this summer I had students sculpt little balls of clay and told them to insert the orbs into the skeleton’s eye sockets.  I hoped this would help them in the future to remember that eyeballs are three-dimensional and to treat them as spheres. So, through God-given ability and years of studying, I would like to think I am answering my calling.     

Teaching is also a great way to make new friends and to build long-lasting relationships. Initially I was invited by a local New Orleans art guild to teach a workshop. From there, the Jewish Community Center director invited me to teach drawing classes. After my husband and I moved from New Orleans to Texas, I was asked by my fellow artists if I would teach a weekly portrait class. I usually return to New Orleans a few times per year to teach. So after almost two decades, I have taught countless classes and workshops. I have art buddies I have known for decades and new students that have recently taken my classes. As the Girl Scouts’ song goes, “Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold”. I have stayed in touch with many friends through Facebook, Instagram, and my association with the New Orleans Academy of Fine Arts. Teaching is a wonderful path to friendship. 

Back to my summer vacation. I was in New Orleans most of the summer. I visited old friends and family, enjoyed café au lait and beignets at City Park, and ate New Orleans cuisine centered around fresh seafood. On the last day of class, we were photographed by a Times-Picayune/NOLA.com staff photographer. He wanted to photograph our class wearing masks to accompany an article about the mayor’s recent mask mandate. We reminisced about how the local photographers use to send film via carrier pigeons and now it is immediately done digitally.

Now that my wish of teaching at the NOAFA has been fulfilled, I am back home in Texas resuming my normal life. That means attending the Woodlands Art League portrait studio, experimenting with painting, and planning upcoming workshops.