Oil Painting

I had the privilege of meeting Suzie Baker, briefly, at the Oil Painters of America (OPA) National Convention, held in Dallas, a few years ago. However, the first time I became acquainted with her work was when she won the Artist’s Choice Award during the 2014 Outdoor Painters Society “Plein Air Southwest Salon”, of which we are members.
The painting, “A Negative View of Saloons”, was surely a runaway favorite, as it is phenomenal.

 

 
 
She is a woman of high energy and enthusiasm; you can see it in her work. She’s also the newly elected OPA Vice President.
I wanted to interview Suzie a few years ago, but she refused…giving some lame excuse like, “Not qualified, not ready”. Well, in my book she was ready then, but now, even more so. She’s won a ton of awards…wins something in just about every competition she enters. She has plenty to offer. You’ll enjoy this.
 
 
 
How has your advertising background helped you as a fine artist?   Working as a designer and then an art director, the “real world” gave me exposure to a professional environment as an employee; then, the stakes were not as high as going it alone as an independent artist. The value of working in a professional environment, using design and photo editing software on a daily basis, prepping jobs for print, meeting with clients, and directing illustrators and photographers were all valuable tools I could bring to bear as I segued into being a full-time artist. My design work and painting overlapped some too so that I could supplement those early lean years with design income.
Your landscapes reflect an absolute joy of painting, is that because they are rapidly painted or is it something else?   I’m glad you see joy in my work. It is an intention of mine that my work have a spontaneous, confidence to it, but like Dolly Parton says, “It cost a lot of money to look this cheap!” Similarly, it takes a lot of planning to look this spontaneous.
Do you believe one’s style of painting reflects their personality; if so, what’s your style say about you?   I suspect one’s work must be an amalgamation of personality, life experience, training, social/historical trends and market forces. I first landed on my preference for direct painting in college. While we learned to paint in the layered approach of the old masters, we also learned to paint in the direct manner of Manet and the Impressionists. I can point to one assignment that had a profound effect on my painting style. My professor, Peter Jones, arranged two still life’s of simple flower cuttings in glass jars. Once our palettes were loaded and brushes were ready, we had 30 minutes to finish each painting, one right after the other. I didn’t have time to overthink, I just painted. The result of which was a revelation of free and expressive mark making that I strive for even to this day. I feel like I need to qualify this experience with a note that I had already had extensive drawing experience and instruction, many painting classes, as well as color theory and design, and so forth. If my professor had given this assignment on the first day of Painting 101, I suspect my memory of it would have been one of discouragement rather than exhilaration.

 

 
Continuing with that thought, do you think one’s personality can be a limiting factor in the type of work they’ll create?   I can only speak for myself here, but I would have to take medication to paint in a hyper-realistic way, or as the old masters did, with layer upon layer of glazes. I feel overwhelmed just imagining myself painting that way. However, I sure do admire when others do it well. I think the primary limiting factor in the work we create is not our personality, but rather the junk we throw in our path that stops us from creating in the first place. Steven Pressfield calls all that junk, “resistance”, in his book The War of Art. This book should be dog-eared and highlighted; if an audio book, it should be a part of every artist’s bookshelf or digital library…and listened to regularly. It’s a good ol navel-gazing romp that leads to the kick-in-the-pants we need on a regular basis. Also, check out, Art and Fear, by David Bayles and Ted Orland.
There are many differing opinions as to what qualifies as a plein air painting: in your mind, what qualifies?   I think the definition matters most in plein air competitions where painting in the open air from life is the stated, or at the very least, implied expectation. They stamp blank canvases for a reason after-all! “En Plein Air Texas” specifically stipulates in their rules that no photography may be used in the production of competition paintings. An artist might however touch-up or minimally fix a troubling passage in a painting, away from the scene. I have no problem with that, but I do take issue with an artist who substantially paints their canvases in the comfort of their host home. If I’m out freezing, or sweating, or up at the crack of dawn, they should be too!!!!
When you paint en plein air, what do you hope to accomplish?   I’ve got two answers for this question, depending on the circumstances. While painting at a plein air event/competition, first and foremost, I want to paint a worthy painting, a painting that I would be glad for a collector to purchase and hang on their wall, a painting that requires no qualifier of, “It was painted in 2-3 hours.” The long-term merit of a painting will not be judged by how quickly and in what circumstances it was created; all that matters, in the end, will be its merits as a piece of artwork. Its distinction as a “plein air piece” may be just an historical footnote. Plein air painting, with its challenges and potential limitations, should not be an excuse for substandard artwork, rather, it is incumbent upon the artist to create quality paintings within those limitations. I’ll expand on some of the strategies I use to combat these limitations in some of the other questions. Secondly, if I am on a painting or hiking trip with friends, or out scouting, my goals will be to collect information, experiment, and practice. In those situations, my panels are usually small, 9×12 or less, and might end up going into a frame or just serving as a color study for something larger.
Many of your landscapes involve very transitory lighting/moods; how do you capture that en plein air?   The light at dawn and dusk is particularly appealing but exceptionally transitory. I would typically choose a smaller canvas in this circumstance, but there is a trend in plein air competitions to paint larger. I face these challenges in a few ways. I paint small oil sketches while scouting to get the idea, composition and colors sorted. I use an app called “Lumos” to see where the sun will rise and set…to take out some of the guesswork. I tone the surface ahead of time in a way that will support my idea for the finished piece. I arrive early to block-in the major shapes of the painting so that when the moment arises, I can quickly paint the most fleeting light effects, and finally, I often return to the same location with the same canvas for multiple passes.

 
Please explain your painting process.   Let me answer this in terms of my plein air work, since that has been what we’ve talked about most here. I’ve found the following habits to be just as important to my finished paintings as the actual brush to canvas steps. Here goes: If it is my first year at an event, I try to arrive early and scout out the area. The first year is always the most intimidating, and scouting allows me to come up with a loose plan of where and when to paint; I say loose plan, because I allow myself to diverge from any charted course if inspiration presents itself. If I am returning to an event, I will review my photos from previous years and think about what I might like to revisit or check out anew. While scouting, I often do quick field sketches in oil or in my sketchbook, making note of the time of day and thinking through compositions. These habits, along with getting enough rest, eating well, and generally taking good care of myself, help lower stress and make me a happier painter! Before getting on location, I prep my backpack and squeeze out/freshen up my paint so that I’m ready to hit the ground running. The painting itself starts with a toned canvas and block-in of major shapes. My common painting method, whether en plein air or in the studio, is to work big shape to small shape, general to specific, big brush to small brush, dark to light, thin to thick.

 

 

 
How do you promote and sell your work other than through galleries and website?   This is a good time to ask that question, as earlier this year I assessed how income was generated in 2017. Last year, 72% came from painting sales and 19% from workshops with the remaining 9% coming from prize money and various sources. Those painting sales came from: plein air events, workshops students, direct sales, commissions and galleries, in that order. On the expenses side, travel took the top spot at nearly 30% with art supplies (including framing) at 20%. File that under the category, “It takes money to make money.” Making a living as an artist is a bit of a snow ball effect. You start small and build up as you roll along. Sometimes you have a nice slope to roll down and sometimes it’s more of a slog. As far as self-promotion goes, I have my website; I stay active on social media, including Facebook and Instagram; I send emails out to my distribution list; I have a public profile through Artwork Archive, and I run occasional ads. I enter competitions and consider the cost of submitting to shows a marketing expense. I think attending exhibitions and conventions is a significant element of self-promotion too. These events allow artists to meet and network with magazines reps, vendors, other artists, all while seeing great artwork and presentations.
Here is a quote that, years ago, my mentor Rich Nelson shared with me, that his mentor shared with him. I hope it strikes home with you too. “Making it in this business is a two-step process: Step one, get good, step two, get out there, the better you are at step one, the better step two will go.” Bart Lindstrom

 
Have you set career goals; is that an important thing to do, and how do you go about achieving them?   Yes! I cannot overstate the importance goal-setting has had on my career. Starting in 2010, I began setting yearly goals related to making progress in my business and artistic development. Early on, those goals revolved around getting my digital house in order and advancing the weak areas of my artistic skills. I set goals to enter shows and attended openings and conventions. In doing so, a quick glance at the level of work being produced on the national level in shows such as the OPA National Exhibition and the Portrait Society let me know that I needed to raise the bar in my work. I took a sober assessment and asked myself what was between me and that bar, then set to the tasks of lifting the level of my work. Even now, I look at the year ahead and develop some strategic objectives to complement those earlier goals.
Thanks Suzie for a great interview.

What makes you fall in love with a piece of art? At the 2017 Cowgirl Up! show in Arizona, I was smitten with a painting by Phoenix artist Jessica Garrett.  Jessica’s rosy, lit-by-the-sunrise-mountains reminded me of watching the morning sun kiss the eastern face of the Bighorns at my home in northern Wyoming.  I regretted not buying the painting before someone else did.  I told Jessica later how much it moved me, and she said it actually was the Bighorns (sigh).  I still think of that painting.
When I read art magazines or peruse galleries and see an image I love, I try to define what artist did to make it speak to my heart.  I’ve written in previous blog posts (at www.sonjacaywood.com) that my most successful paintings are honest, thoughtful attempts at expressing my feeling about a subject.  This was the case with one painting last fall:
The distant “drive-by” reference photo snapped years ago from a gravel road didn’t reveal the reason I’d taken it: a group of horses were standing on a hill, catching a breeze on a warm afternoon.  I remembered that they seemed “grounded” under a hazy sky, yet somehow they soared over the rest of the landscape.

I edited the photo to reflect the way the scene made me feel, and sketched it with oil and mineral spirits on a linen panel.  The composition came easily, and careful but expressive strokes in dusty greens and browns brought it to life quickly.  I proceeded cautiously, as when a painting’s working with a limited number of brushstrokes, I mistakenly think I’ll improve it if I keep going; many of my paintings lose their “life” in this manner, regressing from something alive with movement and space for the viewer’s imagination to “fill in the blanks” to a contrived and over-worked piece that “tells all.”  I’m better at “telling-all” in print than in paint.
Pleased, but not sure it was finished, I shared the image on social media.  Within hours, several people inquired as to whether it was for sale.  Had I put a price on it that day it would have been a bargain, as it didn’t take long and I hadn’t fallen in love with it yet, but I chose to wait.
By the time I pronounced it “finished,” the list of potential buyers prompted me to exhibit the painting on a broader scale and to have it scanned for prints.  On a whim (normally I submit more detailed, complex paintings to national shows) I entered it in my first Oil Painter’s of America National Exhibition and it was accepted!  This was an enormous honor- that such a simple painting could hang with the grand, glorious works at this prestigious show makes me wonder what it communicated to the juror and the person who eventually bought it there.

Did the painting say the same thing to everyone who admired it?  I don’t think so- some saw it as a rainy morning, not a hot afternoon.  My husband never did like it.  To me, it relayed my original impression at seeing those horses years before and also left room for others’ interpretations.   This painting taught me that it’s not about replicating a photo, portraying a perfect sense of place or mood, or making a painting “look alive,” but making it elicit a “feeling” that communicates with viewers.
I hadn’t known that the mountains in Jessica Garrett’s painting were actually the Bighorns, but she painted it in a way that made me feel like I was home, marveling at my view opposite the sunrise.  To perform that magic, she must be inspired by a love for her subject.  This is why commissions take me so long- I’ve told clients that I have to fall in love with their subject in order to make the painting “work.”  I hadn’t applied it to every day studio work, but from now on I will.

Everything works together as it should; after several months of health issues kept me out of the studio, I needed the sale more this summer than I did last fall.  Besides teaching me not to sell a painting right away, this experience informs me to be true to myself at the easel: for my art to communicate effectively, I must express– in my own artistic voice- what inspired me to paint it, without the intent of moving a potential buyer or juror with flourishes of unnecessary information.
 

I love to paint most everything but my passion is doing figurative work, especially portraits.
Nothing is more satisfying than to first capture a person’s likeness and then catch at least a glimpse of what I think of as his or her spirit or soul.  I relish that moment where I stand back and realize that I have done what I set out to do.  Sometimes, of course, I fail.  However, I succeed every now and again.
I have been working on a quick portrait study of my son’s girlfriend, Amanda, a woman who does not see herself to be as beautiful as she is.  As I have worked on the painting, I have been thinking about vulnerability and self-confidence.   My goal in this portrait is to show it all:  the beauty, the vulnerability, and the immense spirit that this young woman possesses.  As I paint, I worry that I can’t pull it off.  And thus, arise my own issues of vulnerability and lack of confidence in my own abilities.   I did catch Amanda’s likeness in the underpainting which was done in a rub-out technique on a panel.  I was then able to solidify the likeness as I put more color and dimension on the portrait.  But can I make her spirit shine through?

I think many artists struggle with these same self-doubts and look in many places to find coping strategies.  I mention a few of my own in hopes that they might resonate with you.
First, I want to continue to learn about techniques and materials.  I graduated from a wonderful comprehensive atelier program that was really focused on drawing skills, techniques and materials.   But, I continue to search for more.  I have found along the way, that for an endeavor as intensely personal and subjective as painting, a staggering number of experts give hard and fast rules dictating what they believe is the only way to successfully paint.
That leads to general questions:  Who do I listen to?  Why should I listen to anyone?   If painting is a way that we artists can express the passions and emotions in our souls and hearts, why should any expert be given the power to tell us how to express ourselves?  For every book I have read on portraiture that stresses that you must know anatomy, there is another one that sets out measurement rules for the length of the head and placement of eyes, etc., not to mention those that use a sculptural approach to narrow down the masses until the portrait emerges.

So what do I do with all of this conflicting advice and information?  I love learning.  I use many of the techniques at different times depending on my mood and what I am trying to accomplish in a particular painting.  Learning about someone else’s method always yields something new that I can explore and adapt to use in my own work.  But, at the same time, I do not think there is a best way to paint or an only way to paint as long as basic conservation procedures are followed so that the painting will last over time.  I do not find the conflicting advice confusing as much as comforting.  Artists have found so many different ways to communicate their visions.

I also study paintings in museums and online.  How does a particular artist paint eyes or lips?  What do they do to make the person’s spirit shine through?  I watch videos and sometimes attend workshops particularly if the artist’s style or technique takes me beyond my comfort level.  Learning is energizing but what I learn is not gospel.  I do think limited palettes lead to color harmony, but I do not always use them.  Sometimes I want to add a color or a lot of colors.  Why not?  Just because pigments were severely limited for the early masters does not mean that we must limit our own choices.  I like starting with a live model and then working from photographs before finishing the painting with the model.  Photographs are great for capturing the likeness but leave a lot to be desired in terms of capturing light and emotion.  But I use photos and I am always glad to have the opportunity to take them.  I like candid shots that show expressions and typically use several photos of the same person to get a sense of their expressions as well as their features.  Some artists say “never work from a photograph.”  I say why not if it helps me achieve my goals for the painting.

Sometimes I do quick portraits and other times I take my time.  Is there a right way?  Not for me since what I want to do is to reveal emotion.  I think the most important ability for an artist is to be able to draw accurately.  I have to constantly draw to maintain and improve my skill level.  It is a case of use it or lose it.  So where does my self-doubt come from?   Is it from my quest to always get better and the fear that I might not be able to do so?  Is it because I worry that others will not like my work?  Is it that I compare my work to others and find mine lacking?  Is it because every painting can’t be perfect?  Is it because so many people are better artists than me?  Is it because the painting process is satisfying but not always fun?  I think my self-doubt stems from all of the above and much more.
So what do I do about my fears and worries?  I put them aside and I paint.

Attending my high school class’s fiftieth reunion this past June has me in a reflective mood. Home, back then, was South Florida, and I had not been ‘home’ for many years.

It was a good school, Coral Gables High. A large and diverse student body; integration came in ’65––our class was the first to go all three years together––but South Florida was already a melting pot and that was no big deal, at least at our school.
A moment ago I was listening to a song on Pandora; one I often heard played years ago: Thanksgiving, by pianist George Winston. He made the recording in the late seventies I think, and then went on to sell literally millions of albums. Triple Platinum. To help out I bought several; still have them, awaiting vinyl’s inevitable return.
George graduated a year ahead of me at old Gables, captain of the varsity in basketball and baseball his senior year. So who suspected he also played piano? Not me, certainly. In my own class, a skinny kid, Winston Scott––in my mind I see him clearly, playing trumpet in the middle of our school band’s brass section––became an astronaut. What the––! Another boy I knew chalked a cartoon on the blackboard each week of football season, lampooning the opponents in our next game. Between classes everyone would peek into that classroom to see what he had drawn. Frank wound up in Hollywood and was Artistic Director for Shark Tales and Sinbad. Okay, I should have seen that one coming––didn’t––I was not even aware my school had an art club. I could draw––could even cartoon––but so what? Couldn’t lots of people? No? Really? Well, never mind––no one makes any money at that anyway.
My younger self put so much effort into being unremarkable­­.

My point (and I almost always have one): like many young people, I had talents or, at least I had a talent. What I lacked was the imagination to develop it, the confidence to follow it. George, Winston and Frank saw doors and went through them. All I saw was a room. Rooms are comfortable places. Safe.
Imagination, creativity––drive; these are all ‘muscles’ inside us that have to be exercised and developed to reach our potential, just as an athlete builds up and trains his/her body. In 1968 my imagination was the proverbial ‘ninety-pound weakling,’ and I was not into exercise.
I did not take my first art class until my junior year in college. I immediately switched curriculums. My talent was evident––but I could not see the career steps to follow, and no one was offering advice. Still in my ‘room.’ It was not until I was out of college that my imagination finally kicked in, and I found my first door. I can even identify the moment: seeing John Singer Sargent for the first time. “I have to learn how to do that!” My job at that time had me on the road, so I visited museums regularly––the L.A. County Museum, the Gilcrease, the Amon Carter––and examined the early work of famous artists. I noted some of it was not so good––which was actually encouraging: “Why, I can do better than that!” I began to read and to learn––calisthenics if you will––something just as important as ‘exercise’.
Long story, short: I did not pursue art professionally until I was thirty-four. Just one year later I got very lucky: horses.
I am from among the ‘bootless and unhorsed’––I am not, have never been (and never will be) a horseman––yet I stumbled through a wonderful door into the field of painting horses: “We make brown look good.” Ahem.

By happenstance I fell in with horse people who took the time with me to explain the subtleties of their particular sport (which are numerous) or the characteristics of a particular breed (even more numerous) When I was shown paintings by Munnings, I (again) said: “I have to do that!”
Now I say to others: “You have to do that.” Don’t suppress your talent. Find the doors. Every question of subject matter, composition, technique, is a room you are placed in. It is your job to find the exit doors. They may lead only to another room. But there you will find fellow travelers: ask lots of questions, that you may be prepared to leave many answers.
It is the way it is done.
I would not change a thing, if I could turn back the clock. (Once I became an artist that is––who wouldn’t tinker with their high school years?) Painting horses and equestrian venues exercise and combine all my (current) artistic desires. Horses are the most varied, versatile, nuanced, and aesthetic animals on the planet, the most difficult to ‘bring off’, presenting a never-ending challenge for figurative painters, or for painting landscape, historical events, materials, textures, equipment, lighting, action, motion.
Not everyone thinks of ‘horse painters’ that way––I know that.
It is just the room they are in.

Most painters today think of Sargent as a realist; an artist who was capable of painting extraordinarily life-like portraits and beautiful landscapes with ease and fluidity. While both points are true, there is another aspect to Sargent that began to appear after he stopped painting the aristocratic portraits which made his reputation. Sargent began to push the compositions in his work beyond what was normally accepted by the audience of his day. (It is important to note, as we discuss this aspect of his work, that Sargent was well aware of how the Impressionists, Post-Impressionists, and Modernists were also challenging the established norms of the time, and likely, he was responding to their efforts in his own inimitable way.)
To put it simply, in the post-portrait period of his career, Sargent often consciously manipulated and violated many of the established rules and formulas of painting to create a compositional problem he could resolve in a novel manner.

This is one of my favorite paintings by Sargent. It isn’t one of his better known works, but it is a fine example for us to analyze here. Sargent painted Home Fields when he staying at Broadway, a quiet village in the Cotswolds of England while recovering from a disastrous rejection of his portrait of Madam X in Paris. While there, it is possible all the vitriolic furor that erupted over his outrageous portrait encouraged him to reflect upon painting for himself first, and others second. With that context being understood, analyzing the composition of Home Fields becomes more interesting because it suggests something about Sargent that few people appreciate. Sargent was a experimental formalist, who, if he had been born fifty years later, might have felt perfectly at home working as an Abstract Expressionist during the mid-20th Century. Yes, this is a big assertion to make, but signs of that kind of thinking are present in this painting and others. When Sargent pursued his own work for his own ends, via the landscape, he liked to cloak his unusual compositions with a power of descriptive might, perhaps to make the odd experiments more palatable to the public, or simply because he could. However, if we strip away the narrative elements and detail we are left with a fascinating interplay between abstract shapes, directional lines, and the physicality of his paint.
But, before I go further please allow me a moment of self-indulgence…
I first encountered Home Fields in 1983 as an undergrad at in art school. I stumbled across it in a monograph being sold in a museum shop. (I starved for a week to buy that book, hoping it would still be there when I came back for it.) I didn’t know much about Sargent then, as few people did. He wasn’t included in my history classes and when I showed Sargent to my painting instructor he dismissed the work as being manneristic. I struggled to accept what I was told and eventually decided it was best not to bring Sargent up in his studio again. This was at a time when the art world was beginning to turn back to more academic ways of working, and the primacy of Modernism was being reassessed.
Sargent’s Home Fields converted me into a plein air painter before I ever set an easel up outside. The fresh and direct handling of paint, the keen observations of light, and the outrageous graphic composition triggered something deep within me. I had been studying 20th century art that semester and Home Fields, and Sargent, seemed to bridge the gap between the traditional and the modern. I stared at that reproduction for weeks before finally seeing something I had missed. Sargent had literally put himself into the painting. (Do you see him?) Yet I did not read anything that pointed to that fact for years afterwards.
But back to Home Fields…Does it really imply Sargent was a nascent Modernist?
In a word, yes. The underlying force that gave rise to Modernism can be summarized by two things; an artist’s desire to be recognized as a member of the avant-garde, and the influential opinions of the 20th century art critic Clement Greenberg, a man who achieved cultural authority thirty years after Sargent’s death.
So what is, or was, the Avant-Garde? By itself, it is a fairly self-explanatory term since it loosely translates to ‘the vanguard of the main troops’. Applied to painting, it was used to identify any artist or movement that led the way from something old to something new. During the 1950s Greenberg rose to prominence by emphatically arguing the most pressing concern of the Avant-Garde was ‘flatness’ and ‘the dissolution of form’, an obvious appeal to break away from the timeline of European Art and setting up something uniquely American in its place. Greenberg was largely successful in his goals, turning US academic painting towards his interpretation of art, and his influence and pressure was felt by any artist who wished to be considered relevant. Up to that point, for over four hundred years, one of the most fundamental aspects to painting had been about creating the illusion of form and space behind the picture plane. But late-stage Modernism demanded the painter now relinquish the illusion of form and depth and place everything ON the picture plane. Nothing into. Nothing out of. Make it flat. Make it abstract.
(Side Note: I’m sharing this background in the hope it will encourage you to consider how you fit into the traditions we all love. Why? Because knowing this kind of stuff can guide you to a deeper, more meaningful destination.)

Sargent presented us with a flat front face. This aligns the shed with the front of the picture plane. (Perhaps I should explain what the picture plane is. You can think of it as the actual surface you paint on, the canvas or panel. In a traditional composition the artist treats the picture plane as a piece of glass set into a window frame, through which you can see the world. Whatever the subject might be, it would be placed behind, or rarely in some circumstances, in front of the picture plane. (Sometimes, using extreme foreshortening, Caravaggio would try to the viewer to believe parts of his figures were projecting out in front of the frame in 3-D. So the idea of the picture plane is not a recent concept.) With late-stage Modernism, the goal was to have everything set ON the picture plane – neither behind nor in front.)
However, there are more things to consider than the shed. Sargent deliberately placed the shed so that the right side abuts against the right side of the painting. That placement is unusual. It attaches the shed to the edge of the painting and inhibits our ability to visually push it back. As a result that shed becomes a foil to everything else Sargent invests into his composition.
Next, look at the row of trees and distant hills Sargent has arranged along the horizon line. (The yellow lines.) They are dark and soft and vary in size. But when massed together with similar values they create a strong horizontal force that spans the picture plane. Plus, the base of the trees and hills have been arranged to be in-line with the shed, again further flattening the picture plane. Taken together, the virtual horizon line, the shed, and the trees and hills contradict the illusion of deep space.

Take a moment to appreciate how he designs with whatever falls within his view. One set of diagonals make their appearance as cast shadows (blue lines). Following the principles of classical Renaissance perspective those shadows correctly converge towards a common point along the virtual horizon line. Don’t let any slight variance in the convergence confuse you. This was a quickly executed painting and I don’t think Sargent was overly concerned about maintaining mathematical precision. Sargent used this convergence to generate a powerful visual push into the picture plane – creating what many of us today call a ‘lead-in’ – and interestingly, those diagonals point us away from the shed. (Convergence is a time-honored way to direct the eye towards a specific area of a painting.) Due to Sargent’s amazing ability to capture light, shadow, and color, we can feel the exact time and position of the sun. It is behind us. It is late fall or winter. It is the end of the day.

And even more diagonals… To design with the shadows would have been enough for most painters, but not for Sargent. He chose to include another diagonal movement within his view: that rambling fence (red lines). The fence itself echoes what the shadows are doing, but the figure/ground relationship has been inverted as a counter movement. (The fence is light against dark and the shadows are dark against light. Plus, the fence is a fixed object and the shadows are ephemeral and remain in constant movement.) The fence provides a similar repeating motif to the shadow, yet is different. Just like the shadows, the fence moves diagonally into space. But this time the fence points us towards the shed, and in doing so, effectively balances out the shadows that are pointing us to the left. When combined, the fence and shadows form a downward “V” which points directly to the feet of Sargent – and thus our feet as well. (So perhaps now you realize how Sargent inserted himself into this painting, using his own shadow, and perhaps you can better appreciate how this turns you, the viewer, into Sargent himself. We are seeing what Sargent saw, from exactly where he saw it – another nod to classical Renaissance perspective, when the fixed position of the painter’s eye becomes our own.)

But there are even more, subtler diagonals to consider… When Sargent included those wispy trees in the middle ground he threw up another barrier to deep space. Yet he also uses the base of each of those trees (the pink line) to provide a series of stepping stones that lead us to the shed again. He is simultaneously encouraging our eye to travel into the picture plane again, and impeding our path to get there.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

And finally, as if anyone could run out of things to say about this painting… There are additional simplified shapes and contours created by various elements in this painting to consider. Shapes that continue to line up in such a way to lead us relentlessly back to the shed. That d*mn shed! I can’t think of a single classical painter who would have put it there – certainly not one who lived and worked before the advent of Modernism. Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Poussin, Rembrandt, Fragonard, Watteau, Reynolds, and the rest of the usual suspects would never have put an orange rectangle against the side of their painting and then expended so much effort trying to push it back into space with all these diagonals. (And it bears repeating, Home Fields was not an anomaly for Sargent.) Traditional painters were far more likely to place their point of focus, like a building, towards the middle of their painting, about one third up from the bottom, and then lead our eye up to, and around the area in a circular fashion. The old masters would never have done something so quirky as to place a building against the edge of the canvas. They would have considered that a nutty thing to do, or worse, a terrible error of judgement.
Arguably, how much of the composition in Home Fields was calculated vs how much of it sprang forth directly out of Sargent’s intuition is anyone’s guess, especially since he left few personal insights into his methods or technique. But the obvious things he did to flatten this painting, and the diagonals he introduced to penetrate or contrast that flatness are there for everyone to see. If Home Fields was just an aberration we could dismiss it as a happy collision between a genius and an unusual subject. But after years of studying Sargent’s oeuvre, I think not. Everything in this painting feels calculated, and if you look at it long enough you may come to the same conclusion I have – that Sargent intentionally set up tricky compositional problems and then enjoyed finding novel ways to resolve them. In other words, Sargent experimented with some abstract ideas that would not be explored in greater detail until after WWII, when Abstract painters such as Kline, DeKooning, Pollock, Motherwell, Still, Nevelson, and others took the stage.