Technique

Some Thoughts On Plein Air And Photos

Mr. Charles Cox · Sep 3, 2012 · 5 Comments

The photo shows me sketching in the Dorsoduro section of Venice. In my time I have sketched and painted from the subject, from imagination, and from photos. There are advantages and disadvantages to each. If you are interested in very accurate realism, then working from imagination is probably not a good option. There have been artists who had the ability to work realistically from imagination up to a point, but even Michelangelo, Velasquez, Titian and Rembrandt worked from models. And with the invention of photography, many artists, including more well-known artists than you might suppose, used photographs as aids.
Take Monet’s large water lily murals for example. There are photos showing these paintings being executed in his studio at Giverny. There are also photos in existence which he took of the water lily pond, and since the pond isn’t visible from the studio it’s likely that he used them as reference for the murals.
The American Impressionist, Theodore Robinson, left photos with grid marks on them which are used in transferring more accurately the photo to the canvas, and also left paintings which are almost exact replicas of the photos.
And in some of Corot’s later work figures appear which could only have been arrived at through the use of photographic reference. For instance, there is a horse and rider which appears in more than one of his later paintings. It is a small figure, but it is photographically accurate, even though the horse is in motion and could only have been in that pose for a fraction of a second. And we know both from his sketches and from his own admission that he could not capture such details in so limited a time working from the subject.
So, well-known artists have worked from different types of sources, but which is best?
Working directly from the subject out-of-doors is called “plein air”. It is good practice, especially for beginners, because it forces you to work rapidly under less than favorable conditions, and this brings your instincts into play and causes you to learn more rapidly and to paint more spontaneously. It has the disadvantage of lighting which is always changing, bugs in your paint and comments from curious passersby. Most artists who paint this way solve the first problem by taking a photo early on which they later use in the studio to make corrections and apply finishing touches.
If you do want to use photos, here are some pointers: Use only your own photos. Photography is an art form and the photos you take represent your personal knowledge concerning what makes a good picture. Never use published professional photos. These were not your ideas, and in some places there are laws against their use. Don’t slavishly copy the photo. All good artists develop their own ideas about color, composition, etc., which they impose on the subject.

Paint From Life or Photos?

William Schneider · Aug 27, 2012 · 12 Comments

"Alone In Warsaw" by William Schneider OPA — “Alone In Warsaw” by William Schneider OPA

Especially since the advent of good, inexpensive digital cameras, the debate about whether to use photo references has become almost sectarian. Purists admonish us to paint “only from life.” Yet the instructional art magazines regularly feature artists whose methods start and end with a photo reference. Certain subjects (squirmy kids, transient light effects, horses in motion etc.) almost demand photographs. Even great masters like Fechin and Zorn clearly used photo references for some of their paintings.
There are a host of good reasons to use photos:

They’re convenient
The light doesn’t change
You can blow up small details
You can be comfortable
There are no bugs, wind, interrupting strangers etc.
The model doesn’t move or get tired

There’s only one really good reason to work from life – it will make us much better artists.
Over time, we representational artists become skilled at rendering what we see. The problem is that even high-quality digital photos lie to us. Think of the four elements of a realistic painting: shapes (drawing or proportion), values, color temperature relationships, and edges. Three of the four are always wrong in a photo… and sometimes it’s all four.
The two or three darkest values turn into black and the lightest values become white (photographers call it “blowing out” the lights). The color temperature relationships are limited by the dyes used to make the prints or the phosphors in our computer screens. Also, the camera sees edges as equally sharp (not at all like the human eye which focuses on a sharp area in the center of our visual field surrounded by fuzzy shapes on the periphery).

"Platinum" by William Schneider — “Platinum” by William Schneider

Even the shapes may not be accurate. If you photograph a person six feet away, you will probably get an image of a normal-size face but legs and feet that appear tiny. In other words, the foreshortening distorts the proportions. So, if we work exclusively from photos, we become extremely proficient at painting subjects that don’t look real. We don’t even notice the errors.
When I critique portfolios at various art events I often see paintings where the shadows are black, the lights are white, all the edges are hard, and the light and the darks are the same temperature. I ask the artist, “you work mostly from photos, don’t you?” I often get the astonished reply, “how did you know?”
The pros work primarily from life: For one, it’s much easier to develop good edge control. Also, our sensitivity to nuance of color and temperature improves exponentially. We just can’t see those nuances in photos… I know; I’ve tried! Working from life, we learn to see the elusive, sparkling color in half tones. Our shadows start to have a sense of light and air in them instead of being dense, opaque blobs.
So, if you’ve decided to go the extra mile, how do you break free of the photo? The still life is easy. Just set it up and start painting. Likewise, there’s little excuse for trying to paint a landscape from a photo. If you’re nervous about going out alone, find a painting buddy or group. There are Plein Air groups in most areas now. OPA sponsors paint outs all over the country. Seek, and ye shall find.

"The Mercenary" by William Schneider OPA — “The Mercenary” by William Schneider OPA

It’s a little more challenging to find place to paint the live model but a little digging will yield results. Local colleges or art centers may sponsor open studios. I paint with a number of groups in my area. In fact, I started hosting a group in my studio. We all chip in to pay the model. If you can’t find a group, start one. Finding models is relatively easy. Most people are flattered if you ask them to sit for you. There are even model websites.
Once we start to see the benefits in our work, we want more. The little bit of extra effort to paint from life, pays off tenfold.
Happy painting!

Make Preliminary Drawings The First Step In Your Portrait Process and Get the Painting Right the First Time

Joyce Pike · Jul 23, 2012 · 3 Comments

Every portrait painting is the result of a series of steps. Some artists have fewer steps than others, and most artists are eager to grab their paints and dive right into the color process. But those who simply pose their model and start painting are taking a lot of chances, such as improperly placing the model on the canvas or discovering a more interesting pose once you’ve already begun. After many hours of your hard work and your model’s patient posing, you don’t want to wipe it all off and start over again.
That’s why preliminary drawings are such an effective portrait tool because they help solve problems before they happen. Drawings let you map out your subject and get acquainted with all the hidden things you’ll need to know about him or her. Take bone structure, for instance — every skull is similar, but there are always subtle variations that can make a big difference in the portrait. You must be as aware of the unseen side of your subject as you are of the visible side. If you’re guessing, the viewer will know it.
Use drawings to get to know your subject before you begin the actual portrait. For some artists this may take no more than a few sketches and suggested values.
This kind of familiarity also pays off because with a live model, no matter how good a model he or she is, your subject is frequently changing. There are many muscles in the human head, more than in any other part of the body, and nearly all of them move when the expression changes on the subject’s face. If you can learn some thing about what muscles made the expression you want, then you can compensate for subtle changes (A smile, for instance, consists of much more than just upturned corners of the mouth.)
Put a little preparation into each portrait you do by starting off with preliminary drawings. You’ll soon find that a little investment up front can save you a lot of trouble later on, and it brings an important step closer to making your portraits the best they can be.
I have a good friend, Frank, who has wonderful bone structure. Every bone is right up front where I can see it. I snapped two photos of him, not pretty, smiley photos, but character studies. I wanted to show his bones and wrinkles off to their greatest advantage.
Portrait Pointer: when you can’t find a model who is willing to sit for several hours, go for photography. Be ready with your camera when a great face comes your way. Just remember, don’t just copy the photo, study the bone structure and value patterns the same as you would when using a live model. Measuring is very necessary. Remember, every skull is different. Don’t generalize. Drawing is not only necessary to portraiture but a beautiful and fun form of art.

Uber Umbers and Other Colors from the Earth

Margret Short · Jul 16, 2012 · 3 Comments

"Cleopatras Garden" by Margret Short OPA — **Cleopatra’s Garden** 28×22 oil Margret E. Short

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.

"Metamorphosis" by Margret Short OPA — **Metamorphosis** 12×12 oil Margret E. Short

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.

"Feluccas on the Nile" by Margret Short OPA — **Feluccas on the Nile** 7×5 oil on silver leaf Margret E. Short

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.

"Secret Life of Iris" by Margret Short OPA (detail-cinnabar, madder, white) — **Secret Life of Iris** 30×30 – Detail (cinnabar, madder, flake white)

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.

"Nefertitis Garland" Margret Short OPA (detail - Egyptian green frit) — **Nefertiti’s Garden** 12×5 (detail) (Egyptian green frit) Margret E. Short

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.

"The Golden Age" by Margret Short OPA — **The Golden Age** 12×12 oil Margret E. Short

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.

How deep is your space?

Charles Movalli OPAM · May 28, 2012 · 8 Comments

At one of my always stimulating dinners with my late friend Zyg Jankowski, he said to me that the first decision a painter has to make about his work is a spacial one: how “deep” do you want to make the picture? John Carlson felt that every foot into nature counted; Ed Whiney had no interest in such realistic depth and recommended a student plan the composition on-site but walk around a corner to paint it. Over the years, I’ve been schizophrenic about the question. Under Emile Gruppe’s tutelage, I naturally followed Carlson’s path. Later, I experimented with a flatter approach , one which, carried to an extreme, can make the subject disappear in a series of flat planes.

I rather enjoyed the broken, lively look of such surfaces. but felt that, after awhile, my pictures all began to look alike. They lacked mood. Now moderns like Hans Hoffmann despised the idea of mood; in fact, he called it a “swindle”– an easy way to make a pictorial statement at the cost of the more important and thoughtful thing: composition. My flat pictures, on the other hand, were all composition. I wandered back to a more “realistic” approach under the influence of artists like Sargent–who has undergone a publishing boom in the last twenty years–Sorolla, and the slew of recently discovered Russians.

I also encountered a Timkov at the old Fleisher Museum which astonished me, since it had both mood and a selective flatness in its approach. Indeed, all the artists I’ve mentioned knew when to go flat and when to add modeling. Gruppe, for example, would make fun of still-lifes whose pots and bottles were so roundly-modeled that you got “dizzy” looking at them. I also had an important lesson from him early in my career. I’d done a rocky hillside with trees against the sky and bushes in the foreground. He came along with a big brush, eliminated a distracting silhouette by pushing the trees out of the top of the frame and mushed the foreground bushes into insignificance. He then drew a few dark lines in the rocks, emphasizing their structure.

Done! That night, I jotted down his criticism: “In full light, you saw only the masses–as the sun went down, you saw the details and put them all in.” Of course, it took a while for this lesson to sink in! Sargent’s famous Lake Louise painting consists of similar flat smudges, and huge, dark-and-light compositional planes, all set off by a minimum of modeling in the foreground water. Such magic is possible when you give up any attempt to copy a subject photographically and instead focus on the large, simple masses that give the scene its visual interest . Once these planes are defined, very little modeling is need to bring “realism” to the subject. That’s why I don’t feel that the time I spent on my “flat period” was wasted: on the contrary, it made me even more aware of the importance of simple planes. It taught me how to summarize what I saw, how to make a precis of it–after which, I could put in as much “detail” as I wanted. In short, by adding very little, I could see how much I could get away. When entering a museum, I’m always anxious to see how this sort of slight-of-hand is practiced by the Masters. Not their manual skill, you understand; not, for example, how well they’ve painted the wings of a fly on a flower. But rather, how they’ve summarized that flower, reduced it to a few basic planes — and then brought it all to life by an edge or two and a few subtle shifts in value.
Note: for a further discussion of these points, check out YouTube:

Technique

Footer