Oil Painting

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

The doorway to defining your own artistic, expressive voice lies within yourself, and your own intuition. Intuition is “immediate understanding,” the direct apprehension of something without the conscious use of reasoning.
We’ve all asked, “How can I make my art more remarkable? How can I make it more creative, personal, and expressive? How can I keep from overworking it in my journey to make it right?” Here’s the point of this article, right up front: JUST DO IT! Sure, it’s oversimplified, and is borrowed from the sports industry. A workshop instructor wouldn’t get very far with students by pronouncing this at the outset, then not backing it up, or demonstrating how to “just do it.” At university, my own art education was based on the principles of Abstract Expressionism as the faculty taught them, and summed up by “do what you feel.” Even then I was asking, “Don’t I want to know more to be more?”
Knowing involves our reasoning powers, and the type and volume of information that we already know. But to apply only our knowledge in creating an artwork is to miss the opportunity to enjoy the process of discovery relating to events that happen along the way. Planning first, then constantly second-guessing whether one has chosen wisely during creation, can rob the artistic experience of enjoyment, impede or even block the flow of feeling, obliterate the goal to express what is most meaningful about the chosen subject, and doom a piece to an oily, overworked grave.

Picture yourself at a painting demonstration, or viewing other artists’ work on Facebook or Instagram. What are you looking for, or hoping for? The author and art critic Jed Perl has an insight into that psychology: “What an artist makes of painting is not so much a matter of freely choosing among a variety of options, as it is a matter of making the most of a few intuitions that are absolutely one’s own. Every time a painter paints, we want to see what those intuitions are.”
Fact is, we need both our intellect and our intuition throughout life, and in the creation of anything that might be termed artistic: for example, in dance, cooking, building, sculpture, and certainly painting. Intuition is the sister of reason and the mother of innovation. Even a man whose foremost abilities lay in dealing with numbers, did so creatively: Albert Einstein observed, “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift, and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”
Dan Beck, a contemporary painter, carries this idea into art-creation: “Painting is a balancing act between opposite ideas—direct observation and instinct, control and spontaneity, even between the literal and symbolic.” Fritz Scholder, another artist, adds “You must walk the tightrope between Accident and Discipline. Accident by itself…so what? Discipline by itself is boring. By walking that tightrope and putting down something on a canvas coming from your guts, you have a chance of making marks that will live longer than you.” A noted plein air painter, Debra Huse, sums it all up with a workshop mantra, “Put it down and leave it alone.”
Fear is the foe of the creative process. Practice and repeated, focused work is its friend. How then, can I as an artist personally banish self-doubt, and create work that is more creative, more remarkable, more “me?”

Number One: I would do so much work that many decisions would become automatic. I would “know” what to do simply because I had done it so many times before. At that point, I begin to “feel” the process unfolding rather than think about it, analyze it, and/or break it down moment-by-moment. I would take risks…and I would draw and paint from life as much as possible. As John Burton advises, “Don’t be afraid to draw anything!” There may be some things to be afraid of in life, but painting isn’t one of them.
Number Two: I would trust in my instincts, based on the experience of practice. I would begin to rely on my own intuitions for direction, rather than worrying about what X or Y Famous Artist might do. After all, an artist’s goal in singing, acting, playing an instrument or painting is to do it in such a way that it is remarkable because it is unique, expressive and emotional. The sum of those intuitive decisions— which rely upon one’s God-given unique and personal characteristics—points one in the direction of a personal style, an expressive way of communicating, and most of all, an exciting way of working. Producing results becomes more fluid, more dynamic, and less time-consuming. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if every painting of yours seemed like it was painting itself?

Number Three: Of course, it’s not that easy. Just because someone throws paint at a canvas doesn’t make the result beautiful, meaningful, or even expressive. An artist needs to have an idea about what he/she is doing, or there is no significance. Salvador Dali achieved a high place in the roll call of Surrealism by combining elements that had previously not been seen in paintings. Picasso wondered what a three-dimensional object would look like if you could simultaneously see its multiple sides. James Whistler imagined how he could best communicate the essence of a thing by not fully describing it. Landscape paintings can inspire ideas about beauty and wonder–and our place in the universe–that are more intuitive than they are intellectual. As the poet Paul Bouret offered, “Ideas are to literature what light is to painting.” Ideas are not only generated in the mind, but in the deeper part of ourselves, the spirit.
Good design—great design—is a combination of intelligence and intuition, both before and during the creative process. But rather than continually interrogating yourself with “How do I know if what I am doing is right?,” try checking yourself with “Does this feel right to me?”
Then Just Do It.

Drawing under a little bit of pressure is one of my favorite things. Get the gesture fast because that person is going to leave or move! It is a skill that enhances studio work greatly! However, here is something I’ve noticed over years of drawing in airports, coffee shops, restaurants, etc. People have stopped paying attention. I have been busted drawing someone many times in the past and it usually results in the end of that sketch because the person gets uncomfortable or leaves. This doesn’t happen much anymore because people have stopped looking around. The average person has stopped being an observer. They immediately look at their phone, iPad, computer, book, and the almost obsolete newspaper as soon as they sit down. They rarely notice me anymore so I get long drawing times on many of them. Excellent practice!
I have a recommendation for artists even if they are not drawing. Avoid burying yourself in a distraction. Open your eyes. Sit and observe! People are wonderful and you will see the most beautiful gestures and facial expressions that you will never see if you are staring at your phone.
And besides, staring down at your phone gives you a double chin. Remember that because even if you don’t notice it, I’m drawing your double chin while you sit in the airport!

When faced with a disaster, what would you save? Who hasn’t considered this classic rhetorical question? What would you rescue as you ran out the door in an emergency?  Obviously the people and pets. But then it gets harder, and personal.  The computer? Financial paperwork? Family heirlooms? Photo albums?
At the end of September, the question became real for me.  
My husband Jack and I live on a boat about half the year.  Having spent the summer aboard in Maine, we planned to take ‘Seadragon’ south for the fall and winter. Delayed by hurricanes Irma, Jose, and Maria, we were anxious to get underway and decided to do an overnight run from Portland to Provincetown.  Fully fueled, we left about 5pm, a bit before sunset.  As we approached the Cape Elizabeth lighthouse, I heard a soft ‘pop’ and a change in the engine sound.  After checking with my husband at the helm, I headed for the engine room below deck.  The porthole viewing window into the engine room was full of smoke and dripping from what I guessed was our fire suppressor.  I didn’t open the door.
Running back up to the flybridge with the bad news, we began doing the things you hope you never have to.  Jack shut down the engines and called a mayday to the Coast Guard, letting them know we might be abandoning ship.  I got our life jackets and ‘ditch kit’, which holds some survival gear.  We deployed the life raft. Then: are we ready? What else might we need? What was I not willing to lose? I grabbed our wallets – ID and a credit card would be nice if we were going to be ashore without a home, clothes or food.  Still time? Glancing around I rejected clothes, medicine, and souvenirs. Those could all be replaced.  Then I remembered – my Painting! The one I had ready to ship to OPA’s Eastern Exhibition in a couple of weeks! No question, that had to be the one thing I would grab. And there was time – barely.  
As I stood on the deck, painting tucked under my arm, ready to jump, I was so sad to be leaving our boat, perhaps forever.  Rescuing the painting eased that sense of loss and I knew I had made the right choice for me, on that day.  Another time maybe it will be different.  Of course, I’m actually hoping there won’t be a next time.
What happened next?  Well, as I stood there, the Coast Guard arrived, my heroes!  We had a scary transfer, jumping from our deck to theirs – but we all made it.  Me, my husband, and the painting.  The Coast Guard guys wondered what on earth they were protecting, ‘Must be really valuable’ they said.  Yes. To me, it was.
And the rest of the story: The Portland fire boat arrived and our boat didn’t sink – it was towed back to the docks.  We lost our life raft, had damages to repair, and weren’t real sure when we would get underway again.  But we were fine, got to celebrate a warm welcome back to shore by wonderful people, and I still had a painting to show.  It’s called “Potions” – but I’m thinking “Lucky Charm” might be its subtitle.

There were many lessons tucked into that day,  from the Boy Scouts “Be Prepared”, to the philosophical  “it could have been worse”.  But the one I want to share is that while possessions have little value in a life-threatening situation, the work that we do as artists is more than an end product.  It is a representation of how we spend our time, how we see the world, and what we want to share with the world.  Our work is important, and worth saving.
We are so fortunate to have had only a close call. Our boat didn’t sink, and our situation pales in comparison to the stories of thousands of people who lost everything to the recent hurricanes and the west coast fires. For each of these families the question of what to save was real, and many didn’t even get the chance to answer the question. My heart goes out to all those who’ve lost their homes.