Oil Painting

A few months ago, pressure to create enough work for an upcoming solo show and several group shows meant I needed a lot of art in a hurry. I thought if I could work in a series the art would flow faster and have a cohesive look for my show. But the journey to start my series was not easy.
In the Beginning
Procrastination sets in if I seek ‘the big idea’ too long and I was getting there fast. A good long talk with a close artist friend luckily intervened and led to inspiration. I realized I wanted to explore important moments from my life, and re-create a distilled memory of that emotional response with a visual image. But what exactly would my visuals be?
Dig Into Memories and Sketches
I tried something new to brainstorm for my future paintings. Since I was starting with only an idea, I sat in my studio and recalled strong memories with no reference in front of me. I thought of sunrises and sunsets during family vacations at the ocean and how happy I was; or childhood memories growing up in France and what it felt like to revisit and sketch in Monet’s garden again 30 years later. I thought of a period of artistic growth during a workshop near marshlands. I thought of things I really wanted to paint!

I tried photos for further inspiration of these places and moments, but they were a dead end. Looking for a photo ended with disappointment: often I passed right by a photo of my chosen moment. My memory had morphed the moment into something visually different so my memory and the photo didn’t match anymore! In fact, looking at photos distracted me with a flood of extraneous details and confused me (‘really – the scene looked like THAT?’). It didn’t help that I have thousands of photos on my computer to sift through. I got overwhelmed and discouraged.

Since photos didn’t work, I turned to sketches to support the memory. During the process of reviewing studies, I learned that if material was new I felt too attached to the original scene, or I wanted to blow up the sketch verbatim for larger work. There was no room to play with the material. The key to getting everything going and producing a large body of studio work finally came from unlocking the hidden potential of old studies, not new ones. There was liberation in ruthlessly reworking old stuff I had put away on a shelf and ignored. Finding the artistic potential in these old studies was fun. I was not surprised to see water images repeatedly in my studies. I knew that water scenes would be the main focus of my paintings.
Ideas and Abstraction
An open mind to the new direction a painting would take was important, as the studies did not solve all the design, value and color issues needed for working larger. Interestingly, I could ‘see’ the flaws more easily in older sketches; maybe because I’m (hopefully) a better painter now, or perhaps because so much time passed I no longer was so firmly attached to the literal scene. As I worked, I realized intuition was allowed to guide many of my choices by taking the work into abstraction with merged shapes and random texture to imply detail. I often repainted large areas with no reference. This did not mean that I skimped on accuracy if needed, however. I frequently sought new information while creating paintings (this could take the form of a new plein air study if needed, or new photos). So I did end up using photos for reference, but only after I had decided what element or detail to find in a photo. Paintings were done only after they ‘matched the memory’ in my head. Some took a long time; some were done in a week.

Forging Ahead Without Judgment
The whole series could have been derailed early on by fears of what others would say when they saw my work. Such as ‘haven’t water lilies been done to death already?’ I took courage from the fact that I felt very passionate about my scenes, as they were intensely personal. For example, my water lily paintings are inspired by my years living in France, my love of natural areas, and my knowledge of plants as a gardener. My dark fears I tried to suppress were put to the test when it was time to show my gallery the first few paintings, but they were very enthusiastic and supportive. Then there was the yearly angst of submitting to the OPA National Show. Did I trust what I was doing enough to submit this personal artwork? Would it be dismissed as only a pretty image? I took the risk and was very honored that my lily painting “Blues and Gold” was selected for this year’s OPA National Show at the Steamboat Art Museum.

By becoming less literal and not ‘copying’ things, I am playing with ideas, merging my experiences, and combining my past and present into something new. Persevere when thinking about what might be said in a series. Make it personal. Old studies can be the key to fresh ideas, so dust off the old sketchbooks and have some fun with memories. Who knows what hidden gems are in those old sketchbooks?

I had a very interesting conversation last month with two aspiring artists, still in high school. Both were concerned about competing in an art world where, to their young eyes, all the art had already been made. Why try to make a Mona Lisa when ‘its been done’? Michelangelo defined Renaissance painting and sculpture, Brancusi modern sculpture, Picasso modern art, Weston and Adams twentieth century photography. The students wanted to know how they could possibly compete in a world where it’s all been done, and done to perfection?
That concern might be valid if art were a competition. But if we treat art as a competition then few of us would ever have the courage to add our voices and vision to the world. Just think of all the incredible work that’s been done since Michelangelo. If art were a competition, we might not have Rembrandt or Vermeer, no Rodin or Giacometti. And while Beethoven’s 5th and Handel’s Messiah rock my world, so do Elton John and Paul Simon. Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” may cover everything from soup to nuts, but I want more than just that one perspective. I need more variety, alternative voices, and points of view. The same subject in a painting is not only made new by the medium and the brush strokes, but also by the back story, the moment in our cultural timeline, and the voice of the individual artist. So perhaps we should see art not as a competition, but as a contribution to the long history of human experience.
Here are four paintings of a goldfinch. Each one expresses something totally different about the bird and our relationship to it. We wouldn’t have three of these if we believed that Fabritius had done the definitive “best” Goldfinch back in 1654.

It’s easy to get caught up in the competitiveness of winning: a gallery, a show, an award. In part, winning translates into money, and we do like to eat. And, as we work mostly alone, we appreciate the validation and accolades that competitions bring. It is my belief, though, that if I don’t try to compete with other artists I will have greater success. Finding my own path and doing what I love helps me to create my best art. Not The best art, but My best art. When I put my work out in the world I’m not saying that my work is better than another artist; I’m saying “Here. This is how I see a rabbit – or person, or landscape. I hope it gives you a different way to see it too.”

Art isn’t a competition: it’s a contribution to the collective experience of humanity. Please contribute yours.

I am fortunate to have been given, several years ago, some 50-70 year-old American Artist magazines. Browsing through one of them recently, I came across an article about direct painting…meaning, paintings created directly from life or nature. In light of the current fascination with, and gushing acceptance of all things done en plein air, the writer of the article brings a little sanity to the topic. I think you’ll find it helpful. All images shown in this article were done en plein air.

“Direct painting, when practiced by an expert, gives wonderful results; it also imposes stringent rules upon those who practice it. An error of judgement may, probably will, ruin the whole work. For this reason, much knowledge must back up the brush. What must this knowledge comprise?

1. The power of visualization must be developed in order that the artist may see, on the canvas, what effect he is aiming for.
2. Ideas of color must be worked out before ever touching brush to canvas.
3. The ability to draw, not only with the pencil but also with the brush, is mandatory.
4. The ability to decide the importance of every object painted, in order to put it down in proper relationship to the whole, is a must.
5. Must have a clear understanding and knowledge of masses, of tone, and of design.

“Maybe this long list of requirements will bring disappointment to many; it should not, for every true artist desires to base his work on knowledge. He can only paint what he knows. His development, therefore, depends upon the amount of knowledge he imbibes. That knowledge must be based upon close study of the moods of nature. Never, until nature is thoroughly understood, will an artist paint direct works successfully.”

“Nature shows her precious moods for short periods, and only the artist who understands those moods can seize upon them and put them down in paint, with certainty. That glorious period, for example, when the world is flooded with gold, just before the sun begins to set, must be understood to be painted; the artist must have observed this effect often before ever he can paint it in the time nature provides. The mind must be stored with those observations so that, when a scene presents itself opportunely under such conditions, he can set to work, backed up with the information provided by earlier study.
“Knowing the characteristics of each mood of nature enables him to apply them to any scene. If he puts down those characteristics, he has seized the mood, however roughly objects are drawn.”

“The beauty of the subject relies not upon detailed delineation of the objects in the scene, but on the effect of a certain light upon them; hence, direct work must seize upon the object, arrangement, and effects of light, but mainly upon the last two. Nature will not allow the artist sufficient time to draw everything perfectly; indeed, if it did, detail would be so intricate that it would surely kill the fresh, pure effect the artist desires to incorporate in his work.”
“The “bloom” of color put down in one stroke and left, is something well worth striving for. Few can do it well. Success in this means certain mastery not only of brush and color, but of knowledge.”

I have great admiration for the work of the artists represented here; they each possess the knowledge required to do exceptional work, and because of that, have attained the freedom to express their unique vision.
How does one become an accomplished landscape painter without direct study of nature? The simple answer…you don’t. Painting and sketching directly from nature, and spending time just observing, are probably the most important habits of the landscape painter.
 
 
 

Here are additional benefits of creating paintings or studies when working directly from nature:

1. They’re a perpetual record of where you’ve been, what you’ve directly observed, and what can always be referenced when needed. They also help recall the moment it was painted and all the circumstances involved.
2. Direct observation becomes more deeply ingrained and remembered.
3. They create a deeper learning experience because more time is spent observing and attempting to faithfully represent the subject.
4. Compared to working from photos, more senses are involved; not only sight, but also sound, smell, and touch. Even with improved photo technology, the eyes still are able to discern subtleties that the camera cannot.
5. They provide a direct interaction with the subject; it’s like speaking to someone face-to-face versus reading something someone else wrote about them.

The next step is yours…assemble your painting equipment, head outside, set up, and get after it. Your efforts, over time, will be well rewarded.

Sometimes it seems that painters look for answers anywhere except from where they can most readily find the truth… personal observation. I get loads of emails asking about everything, literally, from what kind of brushes I use to where to eat in Rome. A recent question came in regarding the different colors for painting snow versus those for painting white sand. I love this question! It seems logical and that it should have an easy answer.
The problem is, there are no easy answers. Sure, I could spout all sorts of physics equations and present scientific research on the reflective and refractive indexes of surfaces. Any of you can look online and read the same. (Search Albedo Measurement just for fun.) Of course, what we are really talking about are the differences between snow cones and grits.
Percentage of diffusely reflective sunlight relative to various surface conditions:

The combination of reflection and refraction of an ice crystal is such that the snow can appear to be sparkling different colors. Snow is translucent (whereas water is transparent), and when there are a g’zillion tiny snowflakes laying on top of their hexagonal selves, the light is reflected back toward the light source and the viewer. A snowflake has such a complex, intricate structure that light hits internal crystal faces and bounces around inside the crystal, refracting the light wave and causing it to change angles (refract).Since all the colors in sunlight add to give white, what we see when we look at snow is white: the sunlight that has reflected off and refracted through the water (ice) crystals to come back at us. So, what’s that color in the shadow, then? It is the sky and surrounding objects’ colors (not white light, but say blue, violet, or whatever). Because it is in its purest state, it may appear rather saturated.
If we are looking at white sand, however, we need to remember that it is comprised of different particles such as silicone dioxide (in the form of granite) and other gems and minerals filled with particles of impurities. The light hitting these tiny grains scatters about, some absorbing more light, others very little, and at differing speeds. The appearance to the novice may be similar to snow, but after much observation it becomes more apparent that one is an opaque surface and the other a translucent one. Just as in any situation, the same theory applies to the shadow color, which is reflected sky and surroundings’ colors, but is now relative to a totally different surface condition.

Do you need to understand all of this to be a painter? No. Simply take the time to go out and truly observe. Any time that we as artists rely on some other artist’s color formula, we are merely poor imitations of the other artist. Will it work? Probably. Will it get really boring to you after a while? Absolutely. I believe that if we keep an open mind and an open eye, our powers of observation continue to get better and better, with or without a scientific understanding for what we are seeing. What we once saw as gray, suddenly looks blue or violet. As we continue to progress in our development, we begin to notice the effects of nearby buildings, trees, etc. into that blue shadow as well. That is usually when our sometimes overly chromatic purple shadow actually becomes more beautiful due to other colors we choose (or not) to put in as well. Instead of just looking intense, the color is now alive and vibrant.
Wait! I just asked you to learn to observe and now I’m asking you to make a decision about those observations. Yep. You’re a big boy/girl now and you get to make your own decisions. You choose what to put in and what not to put in. You choose how chromatic or neutral you want your painting to be. You are in control of the painting, rather than the other way around. This is where science, personal observation, and creativity collide and you are a full-fledged artist. Congratulations.
Here’s my challenge: Find out where you think you are along this path, and be open to growth into the next phase. Never just settle for someone else’s answer; find your own.
A final word: Yellow sand, good; yellow snow, not so good.

I think we’re all suckers for one thing or another in painting. That tantalizing scene that we’re drawn to over and over even when we know we should be “trying something new” or “pushing ourselves”. For me it’s the “Radiating Line” composition (from Edgar Payne’s essential reading: “Composition of Outdoor Painting”).
As I look at landscapes, especially in Plein Air, the “Radiating Line” is my go-to composition and one that I see readily when I’m out painting. One of the reasons I’m so fond of its power to enhance depth and pull you into a painting. It’s also a great way to use these “lines” to force the viewer to go where you want them to look. It’s basically one-point perspective and I love the effect of creating three-dimensionality on 2D surfaces.
Here are some examples below. All were painted en Plein Air. Each time I see these scenes on location, I’m always looking for ways to use landscape elements and position them to work in my favor. Most of the time it takes some adjusting when you’re not in a comfy studio and have multiple photo references to explore or manipulate.

In each instance, all of the objects are consciously placed, using the actual landscape as a reference only. I rarely see a scene that has everything in the perfect spot, so I always try to position myself in the best place possible where I have to move the least amount of elements. But inevitably something needs to move, change or be eliminated. I’ll analyze my scene from many angles to find the best one instead of just showing up and begin painting. Sometimes I’ll see the scene that I want to paint, but spend 20 to 30 extra minutes choosing exactly where I’ll stand. I feel the extra time scouting can definitely make or break a good composition.


In the painting with the hay bales. All of the bales were placed to lead you back to the distant buildings and two larger trees. I took time in setting up to find the best angle, but most of the stacks were painted with intent to lead the viewer where I wanted. I try to keep it as natural looking as possible, although it seems blatantly obvious when pointed out.

In the painting “roasted reds” (done on site during the “Maui Invitational”) I felt the red dirt road leading you in from the right wasn’t strong enough to push you back to the small structures in the distance. I decided to add the other tire tracks in the golden grass to enhance my point. Those “tracks” were there but I had to adjust them to the position shown in the painting.
I think there are many ways to add depth to your work with values and temperatures, but strengthening it with subtle object placement radiating and angling inward can enhance the composition. I love to play around with these angles, pushing something a little more this way or that can really improve your statement and enhance the drama of the painting.
Best in painting!
Greg Larock
greglarock.com