Maine-ly Painting

Whinings

2012-03-01T18:23:00.001-05:00

Sorry for my sparse blogging recently, but I've been as busy as a one-toothed beaver trying to finish some paintings to be scattered about. I've also had some trouble with this blogger thing in that it's been difficult to upload photos. I also have a new computer that I've been trying to get used to, but it hasn't been easy. And my motto is: if it's not easy, why do it?

Well, here we are in March. Now, for some, March is the first month of spring.

Not in Maine.

Here, March is the last month of winter. But for some reason, the big eastern syndicate that controls the calendar has decided that every once in a while we need to prolong February before we start March. Let me tell you: February is the worst month of the year. Cold. Dark. Cold. Snowy. And cold. Why extend it? I for one would be happy to have an extra day in June, wouldn't you? How about an extra fourth of July? You know, July 4th II. Hell, I'd even take an extra day in September. But February? No thanks.

I'm not a paint-slapping kind of guy when I paint. My glazing style isn't really messy, so I stay fairly neat when I'm working. Except when it comes to Prussian Blue. I don't know why, but whenever I'm near that damn color, it leaps off my palette and attacks my hands and clothes. Any stain I have on my clothes is Prussian Blue. I guess it could be worse, it could be Viridian. That stuff's too damn expensive to waste!

I usually work on one project at a time. I've never been much of a multi -tasker. Heck, I remember my ex-wife used to give me a stick of gum for birth-control. But I digress....

Anyway, recently I've been splitting my work day between two paintings. One is a big painting shown at the top of this page which is about 70% done. I work on that in the morning, and in the afternoon I work on this one:

I admit, the amount of detail I've put in this is insane. But to tell the truth, I find it more fun to draw than paint.

A chore I do at the end of my working day is to stock the wood pile in the house by bringing it up from the garage. When I was a teen living at home, my folks used wood heat because they'd be damned if they were going to pay 28 cents a gallon for heating oil! My chore then was to split the wood by hand and stack it it to dry. It was a job that had to be done in the summer so the wood would be dry by the winter. It was a hot, sweaty, brutal chore, and I said to myself then that I'd be damned if I was going to use wood heat in my home! Now, years later, I enjoy a nice fire in the woodstove, and it's better than using heating oil, but it is getting a little old lugging those logs around.

And thanks to this leap year, I get to do it for an extra day...

Why?

2012-02-12T17:48:00.000-05:00

As every three-year old knows, the beginning of every answer starts with the question, "Why?"

Why is the sky blue?

Why is there life on Earth?

Why was there a Porkies two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten?

(Answers below)

For painters, the same thing applies. In my opinion, (which is how IMO looks spelled out) the key to making better paintings is asking "Why?"

Why is that sunset lovely? Because the beautiful red, pink and gold colors reflecting off the puffy clouds are set against the robin's egg blue of the sky.

Why is that nude a beautiful sight? Because of the way that shaft of sunlight streams across her bare breasts as she lays across a Victorian sofa.

Really, instead of just liking something enough to want to paint it, I think you have to dissect what it is you like about it. For me, it's not enough to say, "Ooh, look at that lovely green tree in the meadow", I have to analyze why that tree is lovely to me. I look at the color temperatures, the details, the contrast of light and darks. If I can figure out why it's lovely, then I can incorporate that into my paintings.

But I also think that better painting comes from asking why you don't like something as well. Like, why don't I like that car graveyard? Because I don't find that pile of tires stacked around a rusted hulk of a car appealing.

Another Why? to consider is also the most difficult one: Why would anyone else like this?

And therein lies the trouble.

The problem with creative types is that we can find something beautiful in everything; "Ooh, look at that moist pile of dog poo lying next to that broken bottle! Isn't the way the sun back-lights it and those buzzing flies just exquisite? I must paint that!" But why would anyone else want to see (and therefore buy) that painting? I might find my aforementioned meadow a beautiful sight, but someone else might think it bland and uninspired. A different painter (and collector) may just go wild about the pictorial possibilities of a pile of tires around a junked car. But that difference is what makes the world go around, isn't it? So when I ask myself why would anyone else like my picture, I just answer "because I do," and leave it at that.

I guess not every Why? has to have an answer.

Answers to the questions above:

1) Because that's what we named that color.

2) Because property values are better here.

3) Because the first nine left so many unanswered questions.

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Happy Birthday, Norman

2012-02-01T19:09:00.000-05:00

February 3rd marks the anniversary of the birth of my painting hero, Norman Rockwell. What kind of paintings would Norman be doing if he was still alive? Probably not very good ones, but then he'd be one hundred-eighteen years old. Jeez, cut the guy some slack!

I first fell in love with Rockwell's work before I had even picked up a brush, and I remember well how sad I was when I learned of his death on November 8, 1978. I used to pore over books about him and study his paintings, mesmerized at just how good that guy was at putting paint on canvas. Since then, I have studied hundreds of other artists. I've been blown away, intrigued, inspired and humbled at the great art I have seen. But yet- when I feel the need to ground myself and get back on the track to the painter I wish to be, I always return to Norman Rockwell.

In trying to come up with something to say about him and his work, I could have gone in a hundred different directions; biography, chronological history, a showcase of his art, his influence on others, his place in the "Golden Age" of illustrators-- you name it. But I decided to talk about just one of his paintings. It may not be his best, but it exemplifies all the reasons why Norman Rockwell was loved, and why I like him so much. This was published on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post in 1929. By then, Rockwell had been painting covers for the Post for fifteen years, and was considered one of its best artists. He had another thirty more years of painting for them, and would turn out some real masterpieces such as Shuffleton's Barbershop, Saying Grace and Breaking Home Ties, to name just a few. But I think this was his first great one:

Ever see this one? I thought so. This one has all the elements though, doesn't it? Cute kid? Check. Nice old man? Check. Nostalgia? Humor? Check and check. Great painting? Oh yeah, big check. Let me break it all down.

We can imagine that this little girl goes to her kind old Doctor asking if he could make her dolly better. He's a nice guy and pretends to give it a check up. You can almost hear the dialogue, and you know he'll say she'll be just fine. Just a nice guy making a little girl happy. Every element and prop in this painting is there to aid in telling the story. The girl's outfit and page-boy hair cut puts this as a contemporary (for 1929) scene. The old Doc might have been doing a house call (they did that once upon a time...) but the diploma on the wall makes this his office. Now, when this first appeared, I'm sure there were a few viewers who knew of a Doctor or two who this reminded them of, but I'm betting that there were ten-fold more who might have wished their doctor was like that. That's were the nostalgia comes in. Rockwell has been disparaged for being too saccharine in his portrayals of American life. Well, he's not part of the "Ashcan School" that's true. Rockwell himself admitted that he painted life not as it was, but how he wished it was. That's what he's doing here.

What attracts me to this painting though, is... well, the painting. Every square inch of this is done as well as he could do it. Rockwell used the shape of a triangle in his design scheme. Along with seeing it in the overall design, He repeats it in the doctor's upper body, and the way the girl holds the doll. I also like how Rockwell ties in the black suit of the Doctor with the Rembrandt print over his shoulder, and the red Tam O'shanter on the girl with the red book leaning on the shelf. He also carries that red down to her shoes. Rockwell predominantly painted from the model at that point in time, with the exception of little kids. There is a photo of this little girl posing, but the doctor, as posed by a man named Pop Fredericks was almost certainly done from life. To me, Rockwell was a genius at painting textures; look at how he handled the texture of the little girl's leather jacket.

Damn! That's good. The rubbers on the girls shoes are a tour-de-force of painting by themselves.

Speaking of textures, what strikes me most about this painting is the chair Pops is sitting in.

I'm always blown away every time I study this passage. I love The authenticity of the chair. It was real. It sat there in front of him. Check out the worn legs and the paint peeling from the scratched seat. Note how he lit this chair in both cool blue light from an unseen window in the back, and warm light from the front. The paint handling is loose and flowing, but with just enough touch to make this chair sing. He didn't have to do all that work for an innocuous prop. That is really Rockwell's secret: he used every trick in the book to make his settings as realistic as possible so that the fantasy he presented in them seemed perfectly normal.

Sure, there were other illustrators who painted cute scenes, and some who did marvelously realistic illustrations. But Rockwell was the first to combine the two principles and give it a magic touch that keeps him revered to this day.

So Happy Birthday, Norman! I remember thinking all those years ago, and still do to this very day: When I grow up, I want to paint as good as Norman Rockwell.

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You Only Hurt The Ones You Love

2012-01-30T21:44:00.000-05:00

The Bloggist

John Singer Sargent said this about portraits; "The definition of a portrait is a picture of someone whose mouth isn't quite right."

I remember when I opened up my very first starter kit of oil paints. It had six tiny tubes of paint, a 3X6 inch coated cardboard palette, a small bottle of linseed oil and another of turpentine, and two bristle brushes (one of which I still have thirty five years later.) But no instructions! What was I supposed to do with this crap? How was I supposed to learn to paint if no one was going to tell me? Printed on the back of the box was a cryptic blurb about discovering the joys of painting-- blah, blah, blah. But it did say that if you mixed Burnt Sienna and Titanium White together you get a lovely "flesh" tone.

So I did portraits.

Over the years I've done a ton of them. I've painted friends, brides, grooms and family. Some for free, and some for a fee. Some I wish I had another crack at. Others, I'm sure, the owner's wish they had picked a different artist to do them. Fair enough. There was even a couple that I thought I did okay. But I keep trying. Like all paintings, you never know when one is actually going to come out great. It's just like Hide-And-Go-Seek.

My poor family has faired the worst, in their opinion. I did portraits of both of my children about a dozen years ago. Starting with my son Tom:

The photo I used for this was when Tom was about five years old, but I painted this when he was nine. Everybody said I made him look too old. "Just wait," I said "he'll look this old eventually." So what if it took another five years...

Since I did this to Tom, the next year I painted his older sister Leigh:

She was thirteen, and yeah, everyone said I made her look too old. I do remember trying to down-play the hardware she had on her teeth. She wasn't thrilled I showed her braces to begin with. Ten years later I did another portrait of her.

"Thanks for the green spot in my hair, Dad" was Leigh's comment on this, (apparently, I still have some underpainting showing through,) "and do I really look that old?"

But then I thought I'd give Tom another try. Here is the lad at nineteen:

"Geez Dad, you made me looked pissed off!" Or so thought Tom. He was nineteen, and he looked like this all the time. I thought I got his demeanor nicely. However, I promised to make him look more pleasant the next time I paint him.

I got it in me to try another one recently, so I went after my beautiful partner Ellen. Now really, Ellen is a lovely woman. But she rather dislikes what I did to her.

"I like what you tried to do," she said to me "but don't you think there's something a little wrong with the mouth?"

John Singer Sargent would have known exactly what she was saying...

Leaving Well Enough Alone

2012-01-18T17:13:00.001-05:00

I remember well when my blessed Mother said to me, "Hey, idiot-- if you can't say something nice about someone, then don't say anything at all! Unless years from now someone figures out how to make a computer that'll fit into a house, and then after that people come up with a way for all the computers to interact with each other, and then you start writing a blog-- Then it would be okay. But that'll never happen, so shut up and finish your peas."

So, since I have Mom's permission...

I have lots of interests, but really only two passions: Art and History. I've been studying American History for as long as I've been drawing-- which is entering it's fiftieth year. So, I really love seeing a good painting that accurately depicts history. That's why I admire someone like Tom Lovell so much. He really was "An historian with a brush" in his command of authenticity. Another painter in the same vein is a fellow by the name of Mort Kunstler. I own a few books that showcase Mort's art. He works devilishly hard to get the details right. No one is going to look at one of Mort's paintings and say, "Ah Hah! He's got the wrong Corps Badge on Joshua Chamberlain's hat! What a dope!" Nope-- if Mort painted it as a Maltese Cross, then you know damn well it was. Recently, Mort set out to right a grievous wrong.

Here's a painting you probably will recognize:

It was done in 1851 by a German artist named Emanuel Leutze. It depicts Washington's army crossing the Delaware River on Christmas morn of 1776 to surprise and defeat the British army stationed across the river in Trenton, New Jersey. It was as big a humiliation to the Brit's as Merrill Streep playing Margaret Thatcher. But I digress..

I have always enjoyed this painting. For starters, it's a damn big painting-- it's life size at 12 feet tall and 21 feet long. It also has a marvelous design. The oars mimic Washington's heroic upright figure and American flag. There is life and movement in this painting, along with drama and beauty. Look at the rays of light streaming down from the stormy sky, leaving George back-lit dramatically against the sky, or the pull and struggle of the oarsmen fighting with the ice flows. It really is a masterpiece. This painting was a hit from the moment it was unveiled in the U.S. It now resides in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

But as any history buff will tell you, its all wrong.

First off, Washington's army crossed the Delaware at night during a snow storm. They didn't use row boats so much as flat bottom scows and rafts. The American flag depicted hadn't even been conceived at that point in time. (And Betsy Ross never sewed it). There's also a question as to how ice choked the river really was that December. But Leutze didn't care about that-- he wanted to convey a heroic George Washington braving the obstacles that tried to impede the ray of hope that is Democracy! It's a painting, not a high school text book illustration. And that's where Mr. Kunstler comes in.

This is Mort's historically accurate depiction of Washington's crossing:

With all due respect to a well known and talented artist-- what an un-Godly boring painting! I know it sounds harsh, but this is a good example how not all illustration is art. Yeah, it's accurate. Now what? It seems Mr. Kunstler used up a couple tubes of Prussian Blue painting this one. It's so stagnant in its depiction of movement, I think George is stuck in the ice. I can also detect a fair amount of camera perspective in this design, in how the rear of the flat bottomed boat recedes in the distance. The fellow passengers are also out of scale. If the guy poling on the left stood up, he'd dwarf the six-foot Father of our Country. One thing Mort had to fake are the lamps and torches. I doubt they would have been used if they wanted to sneak up on their enemy, but he needed some device to light George and the scene.

Look, Mort tried his darndest to show a scene that took place during a pitch black night over two hundred-thirty five years ago. A well-nigh impossible task. More power to him, but to me it's a failure of a painting. In my opinion, it would have been nice if he put a little art into his history. I don't know if Tom Lovell ever tried to depict this scene-- I haven't been able to find an example if he did-- but I can understand why if he chose not to: Might as well leave well enough alone.

I'll finish my peas now...

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About Damn Time!

2012-01-12T22:09:00.000-05:00

Some people yearn for Oscars, or Tonys, maybe even Grammies. Some may want Best of Show, or Jurer's Choice. Hah! Not me, when it comes to awards, I want true recognition of my world caliber blog. That's why I was so extremely happy to be notified by SamArtDog that I have been nominated for the coveted Liebster Blog award!

To quote my notification:

                                             The Liebster Blog Award has been given to
                                               Maine-ly Painting by Reform School Art

Liebster is a German word that translates as
favorite or dearest.

The award originated in Germany

and is intended to recognize up and coming bloggers.

Those distinguished by this award have
fewer than 200 followers.

In keeping with its pay-it-forward tradition,

I have nominated the following three blogs for the award:

Warning: I'm being serious here:

Mara Schasteen's blog Expressive Naturalism. Mara is a talented painter of the Richard Schmid School, but gives her paintings a life of her own. Her blogs not only discuss her trial and tribulations on painting, but being a young mother trying to paint. I recommend it.

Next is Virginia Floyd's A Painting Journal. Virginia is using her blog to talk about her efforts with learning how to paint. She's a lovely lady who is busting her butt trying to figure out this painting thing. Follow along.

Lastly, I would give the Liebster Award to Daniel Maidman's Making Art and Thinking About Art. When Daniel says he's thinking about art, he's not blowing smoke. Daniel is a talented figurative painter, and a writer for Artist Daily. He takes you on a trip with every one of his blog posts.

My only regret is that a nominee must have less than two hundred followers. There are so many great blogs that I love, yet have dozens of followers. There's Imaginative Icecubes! And Me and My Corner Chair! not to mention, ur 17 i am 2!

So thank you, SamArtDog for nominating me. It's nice to know that even the little guy can make a mark. I will continue to keep Maine-ly Painting the bar on which all others rest their elbows!

Here's To The Next One

2012-01-02T17:19:00.000-05:00

Last painting of 2011

Happy New Year to all of you who go for that sort of thing. I mean, isn't November to November a whole year? Do we say "Happy New Year!" on someones birthday? Why not? Didn't a year go by since the last one? No, we wait until we get a new calendar from the oil or insurance company before we grasp the concept that we've just moved one year closer to the one they'll notch on our tombstone.

I'm sorry-- all of that was a result of my New Year's Resolution this year to be more crotchety. It's a stepping stone to my ultimate goal of being a curmudgeon.

We just took our Christmas decorations down, and I'm feeling wistful for the holidays already. I'm not a nostalgic person per se, but I do enjoy tradition. I'm "Old School" in everything: I play golf with old-fashioned blades for clubs, not new-fangled "game improvement" irons, I like baseball played on grass under a summer sun, or football on the frozen tundra, not in a dome. Hell, even my painting technique is swiped from the old traditional 19th century types. So for the month of December, I listen to the same Christmas music I've played for decades, and adorn my house with the same decorations year after year. For one month I transport myself to a time and place that's not here and now, but then and always. It's like taking a month long vacation from the world. But now I'm ready to get back at it, and start making something of this new year.

I'm not a huge fan of Pablo Picasso, but I do agree with a quote that's been attributed to him. When asked which one of his (horrid) paintings was his favorite, Pabs replied, "The next one." I'm sure we can all dig that.

For myself, on the damn too infrequent occasion that I paint a real good picture, I can't wait to paint the next one. Will it be the continuation of a trend? And when I paint a picture even my Mother thinks sucks, I'm chomping on the bit to paint the next one. Will it get me back on the right track? The new year is "the next one," isn't it? If I had a good year last year, can I keep it going this year? If I had a bad last year, will this year be better, or continue the trend? The damn thing about it is we won't know until next year. Half years don't count. A good start can always finish bad, and a bad start always has room for improvement. We won't be able to tell until we get that calendar from the insurance company telling us to get ready for the next year.

In Memoriam:

My Cannon Power Shot S3 digital camera -- 2007-2011.

Last weekend, my faithful sidekick took it's last photo for me. That camera spent a year being covered in fish scales and guts when I worked on a lobster boat. It's been to the Caribbean twice. It's photographed snow, summer, rain and rainbows. It's recorded good times and beautiful sunsets. It's taken something close to 15,000 pictures. And if I hadn't dropped it on the ice last week, it would have taken thousand more. Sure, it was only 6 mega pixels, and the flash didn't work all that well. It was also bulky and cumbersome, but it went everywhere with me.

Here is the first photo I ever took with it:

And the last:

So, R.I.P. old friend.

I'm sure the next one will be much better!

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The Art Of The Deal: A Rant

2011-12-20T21:14:00.000-05:00

Warning: The following touches the third rail of the art business.

Just the other day I was in need of the services of a lawyer. Nothing major, mind you, just the run of the mill, everyday stuff that manslaughter sometimes on occasion you might need a lawyer for. I stumbled upon this person on the internet and went over for the free initial consultation. As I sat down in his plush leather chair beside his football field sized mahogany desk, I said, "Look, I know you want my business, right? So before we go any farther, I want at least two more free consults, and I want you to drop your fee by ten percent."

One thing I noticed right off-- Lawyers may have gone to college and learned some big words, but they know a lot of four letter ones, too.

So, as I was driving away after ~~getting kicked out~~ leaving his office, the engine in my car started making weird sounds. I pulled in to the first mechanic I could find. After he checked my engine thoroughly, he informed me I need new lifters (whatever they are) and the bill, plus labor would be at least seven hundred dollars. "Listen," I said to the guy. "I'll pay the price for the parts, but I know you work for yourself, so waddya say we drop your hourly rate by fifteen percent?"

It seems lawyers and mechanics know a lot of the same words.

So, anyway, I wanted to buy an expensive piece of jewelry as a Christmas gift for my beloved partner Ellen, so I limped my car over to a big department store. Bullseye, or something, I think it was. When the cashier was done ringing me up she said, "That's $26.52" I looked at her and said, "Well, what will you take for it? How about $19.50?"

She just gave me one of those cashier-type blank stares and repeated, "That's $26.52"

"C'mon, " I whispered to her, "You know and I know that even at $19.50 you still make a profit. So what do you say? We got a deal?"

Who knew big retail department stores could issue restraining orders?

When I got home, I found an email from a potential customer who wanted to buy a couple of my paintings! Except she wanted free shipping and a discount of 15%. I can't say I was in the mood to accommodate her request.

Why is it perfectly normal to haggle with artists selling their product when you wouldn't do that to a lawyer or a doctor or a big department store? The folks buying art are trying to get a deal, I understand that, but meanwhile us artists are trying to make enough money to buy either a new tube of paint-- or heating oil.

Were I to accept the deal the aforementioned customer proposed, I not only would have sold one painting for less than what I was asking, but literally thrown in the second one for free. I am no business expert, but I know two things that don't last long in this world: Dogs that chase cars, and businesses that give away their products for free. But you would have gained a collector, I can hear you say. Sure, and she would expect more discounts and freebies for the next painting she bought from me. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I want my customers to believe they got a great painting for a fair price, not that they got screwed for paying what I asked.

Look, I'm not blaming this customer. She said she gets deals from other artists and galleries all the time. So obviously the fault, dear Brutus, lies not with the stars, but with ourselves. We have conditioned our prospective customers to automatically assume we'll immediately negotiate our prices. We brought this on, and my trying to singlehandedly stem the tide is a fools crusade. We all feel that the term "starving artist" is pejorative, but it's also mostly true. I just wish we hadn't gone the Monty Hall route long ago. Our art should be the grand prize, not the game piece.

After all, nobody wants to get zonked!

Leo And Me

2011-12-14T17:19:00.001-05:00

This falls under the category of "Who Knew?" I came across a news article claiming that some art aficionado has found animals that Leonardo DaVinci hid in his painting Mona Lisa. If you haven't heard of this story and want all the gory details, you can check out this link.

The gist of this story is that an artist from New York by the name of Ron Piccirillo thinks that Leonardo painted a menagerie of animals leering over Mona's shoulder. He's identified a lion, an ape and a buffalo in the background of the famous painting. I personally didn't know that there are buffalo in France, where Leo painted this, but I'll admit I wasn't there in 1500-something when this was done, so how would I know? Anyway, to see these creatures one has to turn the painting on it's side, as shown above. Why wouldn't DaVinci have painted them right side up? What-- you expect the obvious from a guy that wrote backwards?

Now, far be it from me to judge if Mr. Piccirillo is right or wrong on this matter, but I have a hunch that he thinks that if you play the painting backward, it will say, "Paul is dead..." But anyway, you know what? I have done the same thing in one of my paintings.

Below is a painting I did several years ago of an iconic lighthouse here in Maine called the Portland Head Light. It's located in Cape Elizabeth in southern Maine. I believe it's a state law that anyone who paints in Maine must do at least one painting of this lighthouse. So, I've fulfilled my duty as a Maine citizen. But I digress...

I invite you to look at the rocks.

I was quite surprised when the owner of this painting told me that she really got a kick out of how I painted a lion cub in the rocks. I had no idea what she was talking about, so I went back and looked at a photo of this painting, and lo and behold-- out of the lights and shadows of the rocks there is what seems to be a lion cub lying down. Look again-- his head is made up from the rocks in light, and his body is the shadow area. See him? Trust me when I tell you that I had no intention of putting that in there. But here's the thing: if I had known that the image was there, I would have painted it out. Why? Because every time I see a photo of this painting, I don't see the Portland Head Light, I see that damn lion cub! Once you see it, you can't unsee it! I've learned from this, and now I really go over my paintings to make sure I don't have any images in there that I don't mean for you to see.

So that's what grabbed me about the discovery about the Mona Lisa-- I wasn't the only one who has goofed like that. I can't speak for Mr. DaVinci, but I really don't think he meant to do it either. One other thing I thought of when I read about this "amazing breakthrough" in the Mona Lisa mystery--

I guess great minds think alike...

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Santa's Little Helper

2011-12-12T17:42:00.000-05:00

Hey Santa,

Kev here. How's the Holidays treating you? I don't have a doubt you and the elves are busier than, than-- well... Elves at Christmas! I want to thank you for the gift you gave me last year. With heating oil prices so high, that lump of coal sure came in handy! If it's not too late, may I make a couple of suggestions for some wonderful gifts this year?

I know last year my letter to you was a little on the self-serving side. It was full of gimme, gimme, gimme-- you know, give me the brushes that Sargent used, the paints that Rockwell used, the models that Vargas used. Stuff like that. But, Santa I've changed my tune. This year my wish is for others to receive a great gift--

Paintings!

And may I add- preferably mine...

I'm sure that there are plenty of people who would love to have you slip a painting up their stocking this year. And why not? Art makes a great gift. It's hand made, it's personal, and it leaves people feeling good just looking at it. Yeah, even Koons' stuff. I mean, wouldn't the ~~sucker~~ collector who actually paid money for basketballs in water have preferred you give it to him? You don't have to be an elf to know I'm right about that one, right?

If you think about it, Santa, giving my paintings as gifts wouldn't even take up much room in the sleigh. I don't paint that big, after all. Hell, I'm not like the guy I saw on-line who painted this humongous painting-- I swear it was thirty feet tall and twenty feet wide. Then he put a ten foot frame around it! I think it was of a nude on a Victorian couch. Anyway, my stuff would fit in your sack with no problem. And look how happy the elves would be to lighten their load a little. I'm not trying to put anybody out of work, mind you. I'm sure the elves at the Chia Pet division would like a breather this year, don't you think?

So in closing Santa, I'm just saying to keep in mind that you can give non-elf made gifts too. I mean, I always thought of myself as one of your elves in a way; I make things that can be used as gifts, and that can be cherished for ever. Or at least until the next garage sale. So- Think Art!

And think of us artists as Santa's little helpers!

See you in a couple weeks!

The best Good Boy ever,

Kevin

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Fun With Props

2011-12-05T20:28:00.000-05:00

I like to think that on the whole, usually I am a very decisive person. You know--most of the time I make up my mind relatively quickly, generally speaking. When I make up my mind, I will almost always go with it, seven, maybe eight out of ten times- 'cause that's how I roll.

The painting at the top of the page is an example of that.

I have always liked wood piles. Here in Maine, we burn wood for fuel, not fun. I've split and stacked countless cords of wood. Seeing a long pile of wood stacked beside someone's barn or garage always makes me think of the smell of a wood stove, the smoke gently wafting out of a brick chimney. The bracing cold air of Winter. Ice. Snowdrifts. Having my mailbox repeatedly crushed by some half-asleep plow driver hyped up on his 85th cup of coffee.

But I digress...

What I like about woodpiles is the way the new split wood reflects sunlight. New wood has a kind of golden glow about it. I've long wanted to do a painting of a wood pile, but I never had just the right amount of inspiration. To those of us who paint, wanting to is a long way from needing to paint a scene. So anyway, last week I was out in my garage when I noticed what I thought was a neat sight with the way the sunlight coming through the window lit up the woodpile with a warm glow. I also liked the way the cool light from the North window off-set the warm light. That's it! I thought, I have to paint it. You know, because I'm decisive like that.

I sketched the scene, really just thinking about the play of color temperatures, and light against dark, and then I set my drawing aside for a few days to finish up another project. In the ensuing days, I thought about my sketch. "What if I had a person doing something, instead of just showing sunlight on a woodpile?"... "And what if he was, like, an old guy?"... "Yeah, with one of those old-man plaid shirt coat things and rubber boots?" I was digging it. Except I didn't have an old man on hand, nor an old man plaid shirt-jacket. Thank goodness, I did have rubber boots. I called my beautiful partner Ellen when she was out shopping for my Christmas gift at the recycling center, and asked her if she would stop at a yard sale or something and see if she could get an old plaid shirt. As usual, she got just what I needed.

The next day, there I was, posing out in my garage.

Now, that was all well and good to get the drawing done,

But, I really wanted to capture that light. I had to wait a few days until we got a sunny day, but when we did I hauled my gear back into the garage and set up.

By the way, for those who claim I have a stick up my ass-- here's your proof.

I din't have an old man to paint, but I did have me. I kind of modeled the guy on an elderly gentleman who lives near me. I kinda wish I went and asked him to pose, but he's ninety years old and I didn't think he would be up to it. So, I whitened my hair, and made my ears big, and voila! and old duff. The rest of the way was just trying to get the colors right. I even set up my old-man props in my studio for the final touches.

I do enjoy doing stuff like this, it makes for a fun day at the office. The best part about this painting is now I have an old man plaid jacket-shirt thing to go with my rubber boots!

I'll fit the part soon enough...

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Photo Copy

2011-11-21T17:14:00.000-05:00

I did the above painting as a commission, and since the recipient has no idea who I am, and is one of the rare few who doesn't read Maine-ly Painting, I thought it would be safe to post it. To get this scene, I took a photo, projected it onto a blank masonite board, then carefefully traced the outline. When it came time for the color, I used the photo as much as possible.

I'm totally kidding!

I actually went to this harbor and kayaked out to this boat at precisely the same time every day for a week and painted it from life using a small easel and palette I had set up on a bouy.

Fooled you again!

Okay, really, I did neither. But this really is a portrait of a lobster boat converted into a pleasure craft, and my client wanted it to be seen in a harbor during fall. Since the boat is currently up and out of the water for the winter, I had to use photos. These are what she sent for me to use:

Oh-Kay....

Next, I had to come up with a design for the painting. I settled on a low-angle view of the boat because that's how I personally saw so many of these boats when I would paddle around Cundy's Harbor, Maine, where I lived for four years. I felt I would be comfortable portraying it that way.

After I came up with an idea for the painting, I went back to my photo archives to see if I could get some usable reference shots of harbors and boats. The viewpoint for almost all of my photos is from my kayak, or about three feet above sea-level. I thought I could convert this one into my lobster boat:

Next came the harbor. Again, I wanted something that was consistent with the perspective I was using for my painting. This was actually taken at Oakhurst Island, right next door to Cundy's:

I simply changed the sun angle, and turned a beautiful spring day into fall.

Next came the reflections. Remembering all I had observed while I sat and stared for hours at the boats moored out in the harbor, (and talked about in my last blog post) I faked it.

So there's my painting, and I hope it makes a nice gift for someone.

Now, I'm sure that if I actually was out and saw this boat in this setting in person, I'd notice a thousand things I could do differently.

But then it would be almost like copying a photo, wouldn't it?

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Upon Reflection

2011-11-16T18:56:00.000-05:00

I do my fair share of paintings that utilize water and reflections, and as a result I get people who confide to me that they can't paint water. So I say to them, "I can't either-- that's why I use canvas! Ha, Ha!"

People don't confide in me much anymore...

Currently, I'm working on a painting that has a composition that is heavy on water reflections. I'll show it to you some day, but right now it's in the "Jesus, what the Hell is that?" stage. But it has made me think of some principles (because we all know there are no rules in art) about painting water.

Generally speaking, water is noticed by us as either a wave or a reflection. The choppier the wave, the less it will reflect, while a smooth body of water is like a mirror. I'll pass on talking about waves, Stapleton Kearns did a good blog post on that one. I'll talk about the smooth water and it's mirror-like reflection. That's how I think of reflections in the water: mirrors reflecting mirrors, reflecting mirrors. Sound complicated? Well, it is. I mean if it was easy to paint then everybody would do it.

One of the best painters of reflections in my opinion (which is how IMO looks spelled out) is Sarah Knock, a local Maine artist. Reflections have a decidedly abstract quality about them, and Sarah gets that beautifully in her paintings. I've picked up a lot by studying her treatment of water. I highly recommend you check out her art.

One thing I notice when folks paint reflections is that they think it's just an upside down image of the top half of the painting. You can do it that way, but the drawback is a very flat looking painting. Water is a flat plane-- like a floor. As such, it's best to keep in mind it follows the same rules of perspective. In the case of water, the object being reflected is not only spread out on the surface, but the reflection we see is from the perspective of the water, not the viewers perspective. For example, let's say we are looking at a boat that's a little below eye level to us. From our view we can see straight through the windows. However, that's not what will show in the reflection, because the water is at a different angle than us.

I've asked the renowned and highly talented court room sketch artist M. Fablian to illustrate this principle:

Another thing to keep in mind is that a wave is a rounded mirror. Thus (I love using the word "thus") it will reflect the image of whatever it's facing.

Another example of this from Mr. Fablian:

Light too will have the same effect on a rolling wave as it would a rolling field. One side will be highlighted, the other in shadow. By the way, since the reflected light looses some oomph as it travels from the water to our eye, it will always appear a touch darker:

Now here's were it can get crazy: The rounded side of a wave will not only reflect the light and image it's facing, but also the reflection of the wave in front of it, which is reflecting the wave behind it. Mirrors reflecting mirrors, reflecting mirrors... Got it? Here's that principle as demonstrated by Picasso:

Now let's see how some no-name hack of an Illustrator by the name of Tom Lovell pulled this off:

I'm kidding, of course! Tom Lovell was a painting God in my honest opinion. (IMHO for texters) Geez, you'd think he set his easel up under-water to get this view. All the elements I was talking about are apparent in this painting.

I tried this whole reflection thing with a couple of my paintings:

So there you have it-- a few thoughts on painting reflections in water. To coin a phrase;

Water, water everywhere--

And all of it's tough to paint!

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Take A Trip Without Leaving The Farm

2011-11-10T17:36:00.000-05:00

Inspiration comes from the doggondest of places, don't it? Some may search high and low for that perfect face to paint, or travel around the globe looking for awe inspiring vistas to immortalize on canvas.

Me?

I stumble out of bed...

I didn't set out to do this on purpose, but I just realized that I've spent the past two years painting scenes from around my home and studio here in Pittston, Maine. It's not much of a property, just four acres bordered by a little creek named the Eastern River. It bends like a horse-shoe and our property is the inside part of the shoe. Our home is a simple Cape Cod style home built in 1830, and sits on top of a ridge. The open land around it slopes down to the river. Simple. But for some reason, it has provided me with scenes that I felt compelled to paint. Let me give you a tour of what I'm talking about.

At the edge of the river is an old pump house that looks like a dog house with a nice cement foundation. It once was used when the drinking water for the house came from the river. This was the first thing I painted after we moved here.

I painted it in Winter:

And in the Summer:

Speaking of the river, I have depicted it in Spring:

And late on January afternoon:

It does have a tendency to flood in the early Spring, so I painted that:

There's a big old maple tree in my back yard. This is my portrait of it from the living room window in Winter:

The shade of the tree stretches across our root cellar door in early Spring:

We have a porch that wraps around the front and side of the house. This is it, looking out from the inside of the house:

And now we're looking up at the house from my studio, showing the back of my garage (because there's just not enough paintings of garages in the world) and the porch on a lovely Summer day:

And this would be the front of the house in Autumn:

I also had a good time drawing this with white pencil on black paper:

I haven't forgotten the interior. This is my piano in the living room:

And why wouldn't I want to paint our dressers in the bedroom?

Turning around from the viewpoint I used in Mirror, Mirror, this is the top of the stairs as late day sun shines up the stairway:

Quite a bit of inspiration, not to mention inventory! Like I said, I didn't set out to do a series, it just happened. Be forewarned, though: I'm sure there will be more to come. Because after all, that's what I do:

I work at home!

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Hurry Up And Wait

2011-11-03T17:17:00.000-04:00

Several weeks ago as I was watching TV while eating my usual breakfast of oatmeal, eggs with a mug of bourbon, I happened to glance away from Natalie Morales (something I rarely do) and saw a beautiful sight; the way the morning sun had back-lit the big old maple tree that looms over my back yard. I loved the way the leaves glowed on one side of the tree while on the other were a cool veridian. I thought the way the lavender of the trunk played off against the golden green glow of the grass was really cool. I was transfixed. Something that I had seen countless times before now begged to be painted. So as soon as Ann Curry came on, I quickly turned off the TV, (something I often do) and raced down to the studio to grab a panel to commence work.

I'd love to tell you how I turned out a masterpiece as a result, but the sad truth is that after a few days of work on it, the weather turned against me. For what seemed like a month the sun didn't shine in the morning, if it came out at all. In the meantime, the leaves dropped off the limbs and covered the grass. By the time the sun made it's return appearance, the shadows had changed position, and the leaves were gone, altering my whole design. I needed to work on it from life because no photo was going to catch the nuance of color I wanted to convey. (Trust me-- I took a ton of photos, and not one was worth anything). So now my panel sits quietly on a shelf in my studio waiting for next fall.

This is the steaming mess as I last left it-- a hodge-podge of underpainting colors. But I'm positive that next year it'll look really good!

I hope...

Mark Twain once noted that experience means recognizing a mistake the second time you make it. Undeterred by the vagaries of Nature, I stumbled upon another scene that got me all worked up to paint. But instead of relying on morning light, I needed to have afternoon sun. And not any old sun, but the last ten minutes of sun from a clear, cloudless sky. Hey, that's not asking for much, right? Here's a fun thing to try on your own: pick any time of day and see how often the weather is exactly the same from one day to the next. Spoiler Alert: It's pretty damn rare.

Here's where the picture stands one full month later.

Hell, the moon has gone through another full cycle since I started. Oh well, at least I got a lot farther along on this than the other one.

This one has a good chance to be finished, though. After all, I am almost done, and I managed to get some local color notes on it when I had the chance. The good thing is that next week the clocks change so I won't have to wait so long for the sun to set. And many of the elements really won't change that much. Dead leaves are dead leaves, right? The pumpkins won't turn into carriages, or anything.

Will They?

Gues I'll have to wait and see.

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The Good Doctor's Portrait

2011-10-20T10:52:00.000-04:00

Geez, it seems like another lifetime ago when I last posted, but now that the nights are longer, it should be easier to find the time. I wonder if I'll miss the sun. I haven't had time to blog because I've been super busy working on a portrait commission of a new arrival in town. He's a Doctor of Hematology by the name of Acula. He bought an old mansion in the center of Pittston Village named Marston Manor. The manor has seen better days since it was originally built back in the late nineteenth century, as today it's run-down and creaky with crooked shutters hanging askew next to broken windows. He said he has plans on restoring it to it's former glory so that, as he put it in his wicked cool, vaguely European accent- "everyone will fit".

The Doctor said he saw my work on-line, (so, that's a good reason to have a web site!) and asked me if I could paint his portrait. I thought it was a wonderful gesture to ingratiate himself to his new neighbors. I was expecting for him to hand me a photo to work from, but as he said he takes a lousy photo, he requested I do it from life. The only rub was that I had to work on it at night because he's not available during the day. Not a problem. There's nothing on TV at night anyway since the Red Sox blew the season. The manor is only a short walk across my lawn, so early one evening I grabbed my gear and headed over.

We set up that first night in what was once an elegant front parlor. It has an amazing fireplace with an eight foot tall granite mantle topped by a huge beveled mirror. The mirror was covered up to prevent any damage during construction. The only light came from one naked bulb that hung down from the cracked, sagging ceiling in an area that apparently had a chandelier at one time. Bad light, but hey-- you deal with it. The Doctor has a remarkable face with intriguing features that I was certain would be fun to paint. He's about sixty-five or so, although he says he looks younger than he really is. He still has an amazingly thick head of jet-black hair swept-back from his intelligent looking forehead with just a touch of gray at his temples. It's quite old fashioned, yet aristocratic. To a follicle-challenged type like me, I was quite envious. His face is long and lean with high, prominent cheek bones, and an elegant, aqualine nose. His mouth is somewhat wide with bright white teeth, but what got me was his eyes. I couldn't quite figure out what color they were. At times they seemed blue, then gray, then maybe silver. All I could do was stare and stare and stare.

I worked pretty hard that first session, so much so that I hardly realized the night had flown by. The only thing I remember was hearing all kinds of strange noises coming from the cellar, but Acula said it was to be expected that animals would get into an old building like his. After a couple of days my beautiful partner Ellen noticed how lethargic I had become. More so than usual for me! She pointed out that my complexion was looking rather pasty, and my lips looked almost blue. I did feel extremely tired and it seemed I just couldn't get myself going during the day. I blamed it on keeping late hours while I was working on the portrait. That probably was the case, because after the second week, I was sleeping through the whole day. After the sun was fully set, I would feel much better and be ready to get back at it. I did become aware of strange little quirks in my home life. After a couple of weeks, I noticed my dog Champ was acting rather oddly around me; snarling and growling when I'd get up for the night. I wanted to ask Ellen if he did the same thing to her, but she was no where to be found. Come to think of it, I couldn't remember when I had last seen her. And damn, was I thirsty. Acula said the thirst was to be expected. I guess dusty old buildings can have an odd affect on you.

I thought the portrait was coming along alright--but damn, those eyes. The good thing was that the Doctor was a very engaging man. I discovered we both have an affinity for history. Acula would regale me with lively and entertaining stories of centuries past, told in such a way as to make me almost believe he lived through them. His stories almost kept me from noticing the noises coming from the basement. The sounds of shuffling feet, low guttural grunts and squeals did disrupt my concentration from time to time. I asked the Doctor if he was going to do anything about getting rid of whatever was down there, but he just gave me one of his slight, quixotic smiles and said he wasn't bothered by it at all. I guess after a while, it didn't bother me either.

As I was walking to the Doctors during this past full moon I noticed our neighbors, Harry and Jean coming from the direction of the manor, looking like two ghosts glowing in the moon light. I hadn't seen them since early spring when we celebrated Harry's eightieth birthday. Jean is seventy-nine and used a wheelchair and oxygen pack, so as I remember, we kept the candles to a minimum! This night I noticed they were both running across a meadow toward a horse that was grazing there. The startled animal ran frantically away from them, but was soon cornered against a fence. It reared up and slashed its hooves at Harry, who ducked and bobbed under them with lightning speed. The horse's terrified baying and whinnying sounded like a woman's screams as Jean clawed at its stomach with her long, pointed finger nails. Then both Harry and Jean jumped up on the horse and by savagely ripping and chewing it's neck brought it down in a shrieking heap of dirt, kicking legs and blood. I thought the silver light sparkled beautifully on their gray hair and flashing teeth as the sounds of gnawing and slurping filled the air. Eventually, the horse lay still. Made me pretty damn hungry.

The other night I was in the manor working on the painting, and I felt it just wasn't coming together. The eyes...the eyes... Something was gnawing at me, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was, so I decided to use my mirror trick. If you've never tried it, looking at a painting through the reflection of a mirror really helps you see with new eyes what is wrong with the work. In my studio I have a mirror on the opposite wall behind me for just that purpose, but I wasn't in my studio. When Acula was in another room, I went over to the huge mirror that was covered up over the fireplace mantle. I adjusted my easel to see the painting, then peeled back a corner of the covering to see the reflection.

All I saw was a blank canvas.

As I was puzzling over my blank painting, I heard footsteps come up behind me, but nothing showed in the mirror. I turned around and saw Dr. Acula standing beside the painting and gazing fondly at it. "My young artist friend," he said in his silky voice, "No need to fret so, you've done excellent work on my portrait. It is exactly like me in every particular! I've an idea," he continued, "We must have a grand showing of this masterpiece, and I am sure all of your neighbors will be delighted for you to join them!" With that, he tipped his head back and started to laugh. It started out as a low bass note that seemed to eminate from every room in the house, then changed pitch until it became a piercing whistle that stabbed my ears like ice picks. Just when I thought I couldn't stand anymore, every door in the ancient house blew open. Then I saw them as they shambled into the parlor.

They were all of my neighbors; Harry and Jean, George and Mary Ellen, Dan and Leyla, Vicky and Sue-- and others I didn't know that well. Dozens of them. Their clothes were torn, dirty and encrusted in dried blood. Hair was matted and scraggly. Even my beautiful Ellen was with them, one lone earing flashing a reflection from the light bulb swinging overhead. She was holding Champs empty dog collar and his fur covered her torn black T-shirt. But worst of all was that they were smiling. It was the type of smile a starving man might have when he finally spies some food. They slowly made their way across the room toward me.

"Yes," Dr. Acula continued, "Your friends would love for you to join them forever in the night."

"I'd be thrilled" I gushed, "But do you all think we could hold off until the 31st? You know, we could even make it a party. After all--

I love Halloween!"

Where The Turkeys Roam

2011-10-04T11:22:00.000-04:00

This week marks the one year anniversary of Maine-ly Painting! Hard to believe, but just 52 weeks ago I set out to write a blog that employed useful painting tips with deep insight into the world of art and artists. Trust me, I'm gonna get around to doing that some time real soon, but for now, this is just one of my usual posts.

For some, autumn is their favorite season. The days are crisp and clear, with the heat and haze of summer in the rear-view mirror. Here in Maine, as in the rest of New England, autumn also means beautiful fall foliage. Except this year. Last month hurricane Irene blew through dumping copious amounts of rain and gusty winds that just completely stressed out the trees. What was a deep green canopy shriveled into a curled up brown and ochre smear. It has all the color and brilliance of some old 1940's Orson Wells flick. But I set out to paint it anyway.

Last week I set up in a lovely old cemetery in Dresden, Maine and painted the view. I like cemeteries. I enjoy reading the tombstones and trying to envision the life these folks once lived. Young ladies with their date of death coinciding with the birthday of their last child tell a sad story. There were also too many stones marking the resting place of an infant. It was a hard life back in the day. But there's also a large number of folks who lived well into their eighties and nineties. It seems like if you made it through childhood, you had a great chance to live a long life.

Cemeteries were also set up on top of hills that at one time afforded a lovely, peaceful view, but now only overlook highways, shopping centers or condos. But this particular cemetery still has a vestige of what once was. It has some stately maples crowning it's crest and it overlooks some old farms that have been there for over one hundred years.

I've blathered about my painting technique on previous posts, so I'll spare you the particulars, but I wanted to show the light of early morning on the fields and farms. That meant getting my butt up and out of the house early enough to be set up and record the sight. I am not a fan of morning. Years ago, when I was still punching the clock, I had jobs that required me to be on the job at three in the morning. That's right-- three in the freaking morning! I swore then that I wouldn't mind if I never saw another sun rise for the rest of my life. I've gotten over it, but I'm still not a up-and-at-'em kind of guy. Luckily for me, though, is that sunrise this time of year isn't nearly as early as in the middle of summer.

I had some visitors while I was working on site. A lovely lady and her grand daughter take morning walks there and stopped by to chat. The older lady asked me why I wanted to paint that view? It was a matter of perspective; here I was intent on painting barns and fields, and all she saw was someones back yard.

I also had some turkeys saunter on up to check me out. Apparently, they know a distant relative when they see one...

The fall colors never really did pop, as I had hoped, but there's always next year. Another winter, spring and summer to get through, but also another year of Maine-ly Painting!

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The Thrill Of Experience

2011-09-19T19:58:00.000-04:00

I was visiting a local art gallery recently, something I love to do, when I stumbled upon a painting that stopped me in my tracks; The artist had depicted a lobsterman in an un-natural act. He (the lobsterman) was depicted leaning over the rail of his boat, reaching down to grab the spindle of his lobster buoy. Now, far be it from me to disparage someones painting--and it wasn't bad, it had pretty colors and everything-- but the painter had no clue about lobstering and it showed. For starters, a lobsterman never leans out below the side of his boat. One ill-timed wave, and he is treading water in heavy rubber boots and stiff polypropylene bib. Instead, he uses a long stick with a hook on the end, called a gaff to hook the line under the buoy. The artist also depicted the lobsterman in some form of craft that bore no resemblance to an actual lobster boat. Now before you think of me as some stuck-up know it all, (I'm not stuck-up!) I do know of what I speak: I used to work on a lobster boat.

Ah, the things we do for art... several years ago when I lived on the coast of Maine in Cundy's Harbor, I signed up to work on the Mary Ellen II, a beautiful lobster boat run by a great guy named Charlie Saunders. I wanted to do the work to get as much insight and experience as I could for future use in my paintings. A lot of folks paint lobstering scenes from a distance. You know, pretty white boats bobbing about on a beautiful blue ocean on a gorgeous summer day. I wanted to depict it from the lobsterman's point of view. (An idea I still think has some merit). So, to be accurate in my portrayal of the lobstering industry, and get some good painting ideas, for the lobstering season of 2007, I went to sea.

The first thing one needs to know about lobstering is: it's damn hard work! Everyday was an eight hour workout on a pitching, rolling gym. Lobster traps only weigh about thirty pounds, but we hauled two hundred and forty or so a day, so after awhile, they felt a lot heavier than that. I was loading the traps on board one day early in the season when I wrenched my back so bad I could barely walk. Here's what you do when that happens-- you keep working.

The operation goes like this; the Captain pulls the boat alongside a buoy that marks his "string" of traps-- anywhere from two traps to ten on a continuous line. (We had five on a string), he pulls them aboard and starts taking out the "keepers"-- lobsters of legal size. My job was to pull out and measure the lobsters too, then re-bait the trap, put the trap on a plank called the "trap rack" that ran down the center of the boat, put rubber bands on the claws of the lobsters to keep them from eating each other, re-fill the mesh bags that held the smelly bait, and avoid getting caught up in miles of line snaking under my boots. The Captain then dropped the string back to go catch more lobster, and headed off to find another string. Over and over and over again... More than once I had a large, pissed off lobster clamp down on my hand with his crusher claw as I tried to band him. Here's what you do when that happens-- you keep working.

The wire-mesh traps are easy to grab and toss about, but I tore a tendon in one of my fingers from the constant pull and strain against my knuckles. I've had regular cortisone shots to loosen it up, but to this day I still can't close my right hand enough to make a fist. Here's what I did when that happened-- I kept working.

The bait we used was herring. It was preserved by salt, an age-old way of preserving dead fish. We would pick up a few hundred pounds of "fresh" bait in the morning, but by mid-day it was far from lively. The stench was bad, but the liquid of decomposing fish flesh that would pool in the trays the bait was in was worse. It would splatter on my face, squirt into my eyes, and flick up into my mouth. Tiny fish bones dripping with this goo would pierce my gloves and inject itself into my fingers and hands. The result is getting something called bait poisoning, and I had it several times that year. Here's what you do when your fingers are painfully red, swollen and infected-- you keep working.

The season dragged slowly along, summer shifted into fall, and along with the change of seasons came autumn storms. I have never been one to get sea-sick, but I was laid pretty damn low when ten foot swells tossed our boat about in the month of November. What do you do when you're fifteen miles out to sea with a pounding headache, tumbling stomach, rubbery legs and generally feeling sick as a dog? Need I say? You keep working.

I do have some fond memories. I've seen whales, porpoises and schools of tuna dancing in the waves. I've seen lobsters larger than you could imagine. I've witnessed all kinds of spectacular weather effects. And I did take thousands of photos while I was out there. The ocean is a beautiful, lively being, and I studied it every day from a seat in a classroom that only Mother Nature could provide. I have tried to show my respect for all of those in the lobstering industry by being as accurate as I can be in my paintings.

Maybe some time in the future I can do paintings of the fabulously wealthy. Should be fun to research-- after all, I do like to get first hand knowledge before I paint. And besides, while I'm not positive, I doubt they'll give me bait poisoning.

Whatever It Takes

2011-09-06T19:38:00.001-04:00

Like you, I get asked questions every day; "Paper or plastic?"... "Do you want fries with that?"... "May I see your license and registration please?" Sometimes I get asked, "How did you paint that?" To which I answer, "Well Mom, it's complicated..."

I don't know about you, but I always enjoy reading about how other painters go about their business in making pictures. So, on the possibility that you might be interested in how this painting, North Side came about (a slim possibility, I admit), here's what I prefer to do to come up with a painting.

First, I got inspired. Now, I've seen this view every day for a couple of years, because I live here. This vantage point is from behind my studio, looking up the slope past my garage to the side porch of my house. It may not be a particularly thrilling view, but I was more intrigued by the inter-play of color temperatures than from the architectural elements. But that's what usually grabs me- not the thing, but how it's lit up.

Next, I stood out there and drew the scene.

In this case I used a masonite panel, which is my preferred painting support because I can be more detailed with it than I can be with canvas. I have used up countless precious internet space complaining about photographs, and this is why I didn't want to use one; not that the colors would be messed up (because they will be), but because the perspective would be skewed. So I took extra care in making sure I put everything in its proper perspective and spacial arrangement. Then, I used a photo to finish the underdrawing. Why? Because then I could finish the drawing in the studio using the photo for details, while disregarding its false perspective. And yeah, I counted each and every clapboard on my garage...

Then came some layers of underpainting.

I usually build up my pictures with glazes. I like the richness and depth that they impart on a piece, as opposed to direct painting. For instance, I glazed warm tones over the shadow areas of the garage, which has a cool light, and cool colors over the grass which are the result of warm sunlight. This was done with Liquin Fine Detail medium, which dries quickly. I wanted to glaze and block in as much as I could so that all I had to worry about when I went back outside was color. This shows the picture about half-way through that process.

So, when I was happy with all that, back outside I went.

I spent two days outside working on the final color application, I don't know- maybe ten hours total. I thought the time around 10:30 and noon gave me the best color and light, so I worked on the areas that were directly involved in sun during those times, and the other sections before and after then. I think it's an important point that I didn't chase the light. My design was already thought out, the shadows were going to be as I already placed them; I used direct observation for color, not detail. And doing all that prep work meant I didn't have to worry about drawing because I'd already done that. (I'm not saying that the painting process was just coloring between the lines, but that I didn't think about where to put the window, or what size to make the porch, because that was already determined). Okay, not the most spontaneous way of approaching a picture, I'll grant you, but it's worked for me.

So there you have it, a smorgasbord of studio, plein air, Rube Goldberg method of painting. I think of it as the "whatever it takes" technique. If you have a more convoluted method, don't make me ask, I'd love to know!

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Swingin' For The Fences

2011-09-01T15:10:00.000-04:00

Ted Williams, arguably Baseball's greatest hitter-- even if he did say so himself-- said that the key to being a good hitter was, "get a good pitch to hit". Sage advice, but easier said than done. Many has been a big-league hitter who looked like an idiot swinging at pitches in the dirt. They thought they had a good pitch to hit, only to be badly fooled. Then there's Joltin' Joe DiMaggio, who once said that the difference between a warning track fly ball and a home run was the difference of just one quarter-inch of where the ball hit the bat.

What's my point? Well, isn't painting like that? You know, getting a good subject to paint is like getting a good pitch to hit. Maybe it's a babbling brook flowing through a lovely meadow, or a vase of peonies, or perhaps a lovely model reclining on a Victorian couch that screams "Paint Me!" the way a hanging slider screams "Hit Me!" to a baseball player. But then comes the rub: is it going to be a pop-up, or a home-run?

Take that stream, for instance. Would it be a better composition from this side, or that side? And that flowering apple tree in the meadow; how do I incorporate that? What about those lovely flowers in that stoneware vase-- might it be more interesting with a cut-glass crystal vase? Oh, and let's not forget that lovely model; should I show one breast or two? It's those little details that make or break a painting. The great painters seem to make the right decisions and hit it out of the park, while the rest of us hit grounders up the middle. Sure, it might be a hit, but it's not a Home-Run.

I don't want to forget about those insidious subjects that look like they would make a great painting, a masterpiece that will hang in the Louvre someday, only to really be a fifty-nine foot curve-ball that you swing at and miss for strike three. How do you keep from chasing bad pitches? Practice, practice, practice, so the next time you see a "Hit Me!" painting, you can take it deep. After all, to para-phrase the one-and-only Yogi Berra, painting is ninety-percent physical--

the other half is mental.

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Thanks, Andy

2011-08-21T18:21:00.000-04:00

Several years ago, I was at the Portland Museum Of Art when they had an awesome exhibit of works by N.C. Wyeth. In a rather out of the way corner of the exhibit hung a large pencil drawing of N.C. in front of the huge palladium windows in his studio. It was done by his young son Andrew. A couple of middle-aged ladies were standing beside me and looking at the piece as well. One of the ladies said, in a thick New Yawk accent, "Yeah. Andrew Wy-att. I think he was N.C.'s son. I think he did that picture of a woman in a field. Yeah. Woman In A Field, by Andrew Wy-att is what it's called". Now, far be it from me to chide these women as to names of paintings, but it's actually named Christina's World, it looks like this:

Now owned by the Museum Of Modern Art, is there another painting done in the twentieth century as iconic as this one?

I'm sure I am like many painters in that we tend to draw inspiration from the masters that came before us. I have read countless biographies of my artistic heroes, like Sargent, the Wyeths, Homer, and Rockwell, to name a few. I have even made pilgrimages to some of the studios of these folks, and traced their footsteps over places they painted. I have stood on the rocks of Prout's Neck, where Winslow Homer painted his masterpieces. I've visited the Kuerner's farm at Chadd's Ford:

And I've had lunch in the diner that Rockwell used in this painting:

Sure, I was looking for inspiration, but I think deep down I was hoping that maybe just a little sprinkle of the magic pixie dust that made those artists so great could possibly rub off on me.

Can't say it has yet, though. Although I am going back to Rockwell's studio soon...

Anyway, a couple of days ago, my beautiful partner Ellen and I went for a ride to Cushing, Maine to see the Olsen House-- the sight of ~~Woman In A Field~~, I mean Christina's World, and so many other great Wyeth paintings. The house is owned by the Farnsworth Art Museum located in Rockland, where they have an ongoing exhibit of work by the Wyeths; N.C., Andrew and Andrew's son, Jamie. Right now they are featuring the works that Andrew did of the Olsen siblings Christina and Alvaro, leading up to the his first great masterwork of Christina in a field.

Touring through the house, one really gets a sense of the history of Maine's old homes, and it's very enlightening to see first hand the places that Andrew Wyeth painted. Truth be told, I think a ton of artists would have loved to paint the sights in and around that house. But hey, Andrew got there first. But here's the thing, though: what was missing is the context.

When Andrew first met the middle-aged Olsens in the early 1940's, Christina and Alvaro were dirt poor. She had a mysterious crippling disease, and her brother Alvaro was a farmer, fisherman, jack-of-all-trades and took care of her. She sat in a chair all day, or dragged herself around on the ground if she wanted to get somewhere. And they were both filthy beyond belief. Imagine stepping into a house that hadn't been cleaned in decades, and where the owners seldom bathed. Christina slept on urine-soaked blankets on the floor. Alvaro slept in a cramped up-stairs bedroom. There was no indoor plumbing. The house reeked of body odor, human waste, fish smell, mold and grime. Into that stepped a twenty-something year-old boy from a privileged and famous family.

Wyeth became friends with both of the Olsens. They would spend hours just sitting--rarely even conversing. Both Christina and Alvaro were true Mainers in that if a question could be answered with "Yep" or "Nope" then why say anything else? I can't get into Wyeth's head, but I have a hunch that every painting he did of that house and location (and he did hundreds of them) wasn't to show quaint Maine scenes, but to depict the lives of those people.

And that's what made him great.

It wasn't the beat up doors in Alvaro and Christina (below) that interested him so much as it was the humans that used this space. Aren't you supposed to know what the personality of the sitter is like by how the artist portrays them? Then, I'd say this is as much a portrait as anything Sargent produced.

What about the person who lives in this room, and what was he like? can be answered by this painting, Wind From The Sea:

Down in that field lies a small family grave yard. Christina and Alvaro passed in the late 60's, and they are interred there. There is also a new headstone that looks up the long hill toward the Olsen House. Fittingly though, it looks like it could have been there for two hundred years. It is the marker for Andrew Wyeth. He rests in the place and with the people he loved.

Thanks Andy.

Downgraded?!

2011-08-10T16:50:00.000-04:00

I was horrified to learn that in the last few days Maine-ly Painting was given a blog credit rating downgrade by S&P (Slap-dash and Putrid) from an F minus to an F minus-minus. Needless to say, I'm outraged! Surely the fine folks who have the hugely important task of blog rating have overlooked the fact that I spend moments of preparation on Maine-ly Painting, and that my thoughts on painting are at least ankle deep. In spots. No, they have given me the same rating as other minimal use blogs such as Fun With Cat Fur! and Charmin Lovers For Life! And I know for darn sure my blog is a lot better than Alone On The Couch! Yet that one was given an F-plus. Oh, the humanity...

Allow me to quote the S+P review that they think justifies their heinous action:

The Web-log Maine-ly Painting as written by a Keven ~~Meisn~~ ~~Mizzon~~ Minzner is paramount to watching puddles dry. His ideas pertaining to art carry the same import and weight as flatulence in a wind tunnel.

Ouch! But don't they understand that my blog, which started with 23 readers has now exploded world-wide to almost two dozen? And of course, thanks to the ether that is the internet, my words are floating out there, waiting to come back and enlighten, educate and haunt-- forever? I guess not. As they continued:

Mr. ~~Meissone~~ ~~Miznn~~ Meizner appears to have a serious deficit problem. Not only with a paucity of original ideas, but with that which most people would call "common sense" and "taste".

At least they had something almost pleasant to say in summing up:

At the very least, Mr. ~~Miznor~~ Mizener shows appropriate humility with regard to his paintings. We regard this as a good thing, as Mr. ~~Mez~~ Mieznzner has plenty to be humble about.

Thank you. Of course, I'm not going to take this lying down. My blog is worthy of an F no matter what some pretentious, self important rating agency thinks. So fear not, gentle reader, I will continue to write Maine-ly Painting as long as I have something deep and important to say about art, and the life of those who practice it. And I know you'll be behind me every step of the way.

So long as it's not in a wind tunnel...

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Is There A Cure?

2011-07-28T21:11:00.000-04:00

A sad anniversary: today marks the second year of when I was diagnosed with the horrible disease of Hypochondria. I didn't realize the symptoms at first, but as each day went by, I found myself getting worse and worse. Apparently, it's a genetic disease that's the result of ignorance and an over-active imagination. Who knew? Right now, there's no cure, but I am in a support group of fellow sufferers. They all say I have it bad, but that they have it worse. So, I'm resigned to a fate of having every sniffle be the start of the Bubonic Plague, and every ache and pain be the onset of some bizarre disease that even T.V. doctors couldn't fathom. I can deal with all that, though; my problem is when it affects my painting.

It's all well and good to view your work with a jaundiced eye (Jaundice? Jaundice? Is that my problem? I knew my colors were a little off lately...) but when all you see in your painting is the bad--then you might have a problem. Painters Hypochondria can really be debilitating if it keeps you from putting your work out there. If all you can see in your paintings are the weak spots, the wish it could be betters, the my gosh what was I thinking? - then you'll never have the confidence to promote your work. By all means, if you see a flaw that you can fix, then fix it. But after awhile, you just have to say, "this is the best I can do." Just remember to do better with the next painting.

Oh, sure, we've all run into painters so self assured that they come off as Michelangelo, when in reality their work is closer to Mike Angelo-- the guy that works on my car. But I'm betting more of us falls into the other camp. The camp that says we are not worthy. The camp that says we'll never be as good as we need to be. The camp that says, "look at all the great artists out there!" (Except my eyesight's been a little poor recently...) But what yardstick are you using to judge your work?

Look, all things are relative, right? I can finish a painting and be bummed that it doesn't have the sparkle and painterly skill of my hero, Norman Rockwell. But hey, not a whole lot of artists can say they are as good as Norman, so I'm in company with the vast majority. Does that mean I can't make a good painting? No. It means I'm no Norman Rockwell. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. Maybe I shouldn't hamstring myself (and my hamstring has been sore lately, come to think of it) by comparing myself to the Masters. Of course I'm going to pale in comparison! I may be waiting for a very long time if I put off promoting my work until I'm that good. And if I feel everything I do is flawed, I never will.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking, so if you don't hold your work against the high standards of the great painters, then you won't look so bad. Come to think of it, compared to Ms Foontin's third grade art class, your work is awesome! No, that's not what I'm saying; I may not think I'm at a Master level, but that doesn't keep me from entering juried shows, or submitting new work to my galleries or even Fine Art Views on line. In other words, I judge my work against my peers, the mid-level guys like me. Of course I still look at the truly great painters for inspiration. And it also doesn't mean that I'm not trying to get better with every painting I make. But if a contemporary blows me away, then I'm not their peer, am I? No matter how bad I have it, my Painters Hypochondria hasn't got the best of me yet! (Some other nasty disease probably will, though...)

I don't know about you, but all this talk of sickness has given me a nasty, inoperable brain tumor...

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Caution: Wet Paint!

2011-07-19T15:24:00.000-04:00

For the past four years, I have participated in the Cape Elizabeth Land Trust Paint for Preservation Wet Paint Auction. Long name, amazing results. The concept behind this charity event is to help buy and therefore preserve, some of the lovely scenic farms, forests, fields and streams that make Cape Elizabeth a beautiful spot on the Maine coast. As far as charities go, it may not be up there with feeding the hungry or sheltering the homeless, but it's still a worthwhile one.

The concept is that thirty artists go out around the area and plein air a scene to be auctioned off later in the evening. In the past I've painted the iconic rocky shore, the iconic lighthouses, and more iconic ocean front (To Cape Elizabethians, every place is iconic...) This year, I chose the the Spurwink Church. It was built in the early 1800's, and since it's about four or five miles from Prout's Neck, I figured Winslow Homer himself would have often travelled by this iconic church. The morning was hot, and the day was only going to get hotter as I set up to begin work.

Half of the problem in painting plein air, as any aficionado will tell you, is that the sun moves. Well, not exactly; we move under the sun. Either way, shadows race across the scene. That's why I chose a view where the sun would rise in front of me, and go overhead to set behind me, instead of going left to right through the sky. Areas will stay in sunlight and shadow longer that way. The other obstacle to overcome is that we started after nine in the morning and had until three in the afternoon to deliver the painting. Those same plein air aficionados will tell you that painting when the sun is at it's zenith is hell, as the colors evaporate, and shadows hide under the rocks. But that also meant standing under a blazing sun for about six or seven hours. As you can see from the photo above, I do not use an umbrella. But hey, that's the nature of this particular gig, so you deal with it.

The Land Trust people have figured out that advertising is the key to success. For weeks in advance, they posted ad's in papers all over the state with maps showing where all the artists would be painting. On the day of event, they went around and put signs out to alert folks that here was an artist! (I kept my sign...) That meant that folks could go out and find us. So, I was delighted to have a few visitors stop by.

The first year I think we had about twenty artists and maybe sixty or seventy people attended the auction. It was held in the back yard of a generous home-owner. I didn't know the event was something of a summer garden party. The fine Cape Eliabethians who attended where smartly dressed in cocktail dresses and snappy blazers. It was a far cry from the BBQ, Beer and Lawn Darts that comprised a lawn party where I grew up as just a country boy from the sticks! The event has grown to humongous proportions now, as over three hundred tickets were sold, and it was held in a drop-dead gorgeous estate on the ocean.

That first year we stacked our paintings on the patio behind the back door. This year, we had our own tent for viewing. Here's the folks checking out the art and planning which one they want to bid the most for:

The whole event was squeezed under enough tent to play a football game.

I will freely admit that I had a sinking feeling about my piece when I saw the quality of the paintings that the other painters presented. I wasn't at all sure that folks would be interested in owning a painting of a bone-yard showing the ass-end of a church.

The good news is that it sold, so somebody must have liked it! And a few more pennies gets put in the jar to buy up some more land for all to enjoy.

If you're interested in seeing more (unfuzzy) shots of the event, the folks at CELT invite you to this facebook site. You can see the great art while you sit around your computer, or BBQ, with a beer... playing some lawn darts...

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Note To Self...

2011-07-14T18:53:00.000-04:00

Hey Kev, don' forget-

Clean your palette after every session. No one has ever snuck into your studio overnight to do it for you.

Same thing with your brushes. You need to wash them more frequently than you wash your truck.

Make sure the dog isn't under your table when you gesso panels.

Wait until the gesso splatters dry before you pluck them out of the dogs hair.

Stop pussyfooting around-- Go with your first instincts on your pictures! When that doesn't work, think it through a little more.

Don't sit outside and plein air bright puffy clouds at high noon on a summer day in the same key as you see them. It's a fools errand. The tube of white that's as bright as they has yet to be made.

If you're going to include a structure in your picture, either look up at it or down on it. Nothing is as boring as a dead on shot.

Remember, if you have to choose between truth or art, choose art.

Call your mom more often.

If you think the painting is done, set it aside for at least a week, then look at it again. You'll probably change your mind.

Stop confusing "Important" with "Big." It's how you handle the subject, not the size of the picture that determines that.

Details are good, but it's the shape of the nose that identifies a person, not the nose hairs.

Stop worrying about how the painting will look on your website, and start thinking how it will look on someones wall.

Hurry up and get some patience.

Try variegating solid masses of color a little more; throw in any colors you want as long as they have the same temperature and value.

White wine goes with white meat, red wine goes with red meat, beer goes with everything.

Admire the artists you like, don't copy them.

Don't try to fix a bad design with color. If it's a worthwhile subject, start over.

Thank people for commenting on your blog more often.

Remember: If you aim for good and fall short, you get bad. Aim for great and fall short-- it might be good. So aim for perfect-- you might get excellence.

Be sure to retire as soon as you achieve perfection!

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What Goes Around Comes Around

2011-07-09T18:51:00.000-04:00

There seems to be an ongoing debate these days about the worth of galleries. To some, galleries are as mysterious, alluring, sexy, and as terrifying as that thirty-five year old divorcee is to a seventeen year old boy. Others think that galleries are as important as teats on a bull. I haven't taken any scientific surveys, but it seems like the rabble that are artists are rising up, pitchforks and torches in hand to throw off the mantle that is gallery representation. In other words, galleries have a bad rep right now.

To tell the truth, it's not like they didn't bring it upon themselves. For years a gallery was THE place to buy art. Sure, artists could sell their paintings themselves, and years ago many did from small shops in art-friendly communities. But those artists died out, and galleries eventually became lords of it all. It got to be that selling by yourself was the sign of an amateur hack; real artists had gallery representation. And galleries became the exclusive enclaves where the elite connoisseurs and folks of privilege came to meet and greet over wine and cheese. Want to get into that club? Don't call us, we'll call you. It was a I don't need you, you need me hubris brought on by years of monopolization. But then came the storm clouds. After 9-11 the economy slowed down, only to fall off the cliff that is the current recession.

Sales dried up. Galleries were dropping out like teeth from a meth-heads mouth. Many of those that remained open went into full-fledge hide-in-the-bunker survivalist mode; they wouldn't take any new artists because they couldn't sell the ones they had. (A philosophy that always mystified me: you won't try to find something that sells in order to hold on to what isn't selling...) But artists were struggling just as mightily too. Galleries weren't exclusive clubs anymore, they were lifeboats on the Titanic. Artists had to look around for other venues, anyplace where they could sell their work. And that's where the internet came in.

Who needs a brick and mortar store in a fixed location when any one with a computer can view your work from around the globe? So we all jumped on the internet with our fancy web pages showing our brilliant art and waited for the sales to come pouring in. Now, some artists do make a fair living from their internet art sales. But I am going to climb out on a limb here and bet that you don't. Which is no crime. The fact of the matter is that all of us artists haven't gone anywhere, we're all just trying a different tact to win the "who sells a painting" game.

But you know what I find rather ironic? The same internet that was supposed to free us from the bondage of galleries is now being used by artists to attract galleries! Before, it was, "you must have an internet presence to attract buyers!" Now, it's "you must have an internet presence to attract galleries!" But you know what will attract buyers? A good painting.

In todays world we have access to every other person on this planet through social media. Because of that, there has never been a better time than the present for artists to have their work be seen. Galleries may have a diminished role in making an artist be known, but love 'em or hate 'em, they still are important for sales. Many galleries are using the same social media that we all use. And lo-and-behold, alot are even looking for new artists! So listen, stop bashing the galleries. Instead of being the gun, now they're a bullet. We have all kinds of weapons at our disposal to sell paintings.

But no matter how many friends you have on Facebook, or followers on Twitter, the most important thing is making art that people want to buy.

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Purple Haze

2011-07-05T16:48:00.000-04:00

Today was one of those summer days that when you take a shower, you can towel off, but never really dry off. In other words, a tad humid. Now, some people dislike this element of summer, but I don't mind. I'll take the humidity along with the heat. I lived for a couple of years in the desert South West, so I know about heat. "Oh, but it's dry heat," I can hear you say. Okay, which one do you want-- a dry 116 degrees, or a humid 88? But humidity and it's resultant haze can be useful to landscape painters.

In a few weeks I'll be participating for the fourth year in a row in the Cape Elizabeth Land Trust's wet paint and auction event. It's for a good cause, and it is extremely well organised and run. It's been my honor to have been chosen to participate all these years. I am hoping, however, that this year won't have the same weather as last years.

You see, about twenty or so painters head out to various locations around the quite lovely and bucolic peninsula that is Cape Elizabeth, Maine and do a plein air painting. I will tell you right now, that I am not really a tried and true plein air type of guy. I can have good luck with maybe one or two paintings for every four or five attempts. The others are brutal. So what I would do is go to my location beforehand, and start my painting, then show up on the day of the event and finish it on site. Kind of hedge my bet, you know? It may not be a true plein air in the technical sense, but I'm sure that the organisers of the event don't care how the painting was done, only that it is done well. So anyway, last year I was assigned to paint along the rugged, rocky coast at a place called Two Lights State Park. I was excited. Visions of a Winslow Homer seascape came to mind. So, a couple of days before, I slipped down to scope out the site. I took photos and made sketches, then went back to my studio and started in on the painting. This is going to be great, I thought. My best yet. I was getting cocky.

On the appointed day, me and my beautiful partner Ellen went to the park and set up at my site. The day was as lovely as a summer day can get in Maine. The sky was a crisp, bright blue with not a cloud in sight. The sea a tranquil deep blue with waves that gently nudged the gray rocks of the coastline. A breeze was blowing from the west. Oh, my God-- what a freakin' nightmare! Because I had to wait until the park was open to get in and start painting, the sun was well above the horizon. And it was dullness as far as the eye could see. Deep, black shadows hid under the slate gray stones. The sky was an interminably flat light blue. The ocean was just as horrifically a boring blue. And the wind kept trying to knock my easel over.

I swear it would not have been a problem if there had been some humidity in the air to soften the shadows, push the ocean back into a purple haze, and allow the sky to form some interesting clouds. Maybe Winslow could've fudged it a little to make an interesting painting. I could not.

I needed to come up with something else, because my pre-planned painting was a bomb. I quickly hauled out a blank panel and started in on a new scene, but by now, my brain was becoming a panic stricken piece of mush, and I couldn't seem to pull anything out. If the year before I had done a good plein air painting for the event, then I was now in the middle of my five bad ones. Oh, and I had until two o'clock to finish it and get it to the auction site. What time was it now? Noon. Why, oh, why did I ever sign up for this...

So what did I do? Luckily, I had brought a seascape I had already finished of the same general area with me, (after all, ocean and rocks-- who can say where's where?) and I slapped a few dabs of fresh paint on it and presented it for the auction. Cheating? Maybe. But what would you do?

So, let's hope that this year won't find me under the same stress. Is a little stifling heat and unbearable humidity too much to ask for?

Quiet, Please!

2011-06-26T20:20:00.000-04:00

I don't know about you, but I don't really need absolute isolation and quiet when I paint. I usually have the stereo on, and my dog Champ putters about the studio while I stand and paint. That doesn't bother me. Heck, I've painted in front of crowds of friends and strangers. No problem. And it wouldn't even bother me if a marching band blasted away while they marched by my studio. Let 'em. But the one place I need quiet from is the space between my ears.

I don't think of myself as a "temperamental artist" sort of guy. I like to think that my job is being a painter, not one of God's anointed ones to bring truth, enlightenment and beauty to this world. I do take my job seriously, but all-in-all, I just try to make good paintings. So it bothers me when I have difficulty concentrating on the task at hand because I'm preoccupied by something else. I'm not talking about anything major, but I'll give you an example. We've had a less than spectacular Spring and Summer here in Maine, but that hasn't kept the grass from growing. So, when I'm working on a painting on a lovely summer day, I'm thinking about mowing the lawn, because the forecast is for rain, and it needs to be done. But when it's been rainy and miserable, (which has been most of the time) I'm preoccupied with what I'm going to paint when it turns nice. But then, I'll have to mow the lawn... Now, I should say here that mowing the lawn entails a six-hour ride on the lawn tractor. But, damn, those lawn stripes look so good.

There are other things going on in my life right now (nothing horrible, thank goodness) that have been occupying my mind. But I can't make a good painting when my brain is chattering away with itself on things that have nothing to do with the task at hand. Painting needs to have my undivided attention-- just like those temperamental artist types. So I need for my brain to shut up and get back to work!

I used to inwardly snigger when I would read an account of some famous artist who needed to be insulated from life's little distractions so he could create yet another masterpiece. But now, I kinda get it. Would my painting be so much better if I could just lock myself in my studio and never worry about what goes on in the world around me? I don't know. But I do know this:

Michelangelo never had to climb down from the Sistene Chapel ceiling and mow the damn yard!

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Re-Poo-Say-Wha?

2011-06-10T08:07:00.000-04:00

Earlier this year I had a chat with a local art critic who was kind of reviewing my work. (I blogged about it here) He looked at my work and said, "I see you like repoussoir." I replied, "Well, not since High School..."

He stared at me blankly.

Thomas Fogarty, Norman Rockwells composition teacher when he was attending the Art Students League advised, "Put something in the foreground of your pictures to make the viewer step over it and into the frame." That is the definition of repoussoir. (Don't ask me how to pronounce it!)

Artists are always trying to add depth to their two dimensional paintings. Maybe using lineal perspective; you know, a road that narrows away to the vanishing point on the horizon, or atmospheric perspective; where a series of hills grow bluer as they recede into the distance. Or maybe a combination of both. Another device is to have something in the foreground that says, "I am close to you." Then an object in the middle distance, and lastly, something farther off in the distance. It's a typical tactic that can add depth to a composition, and something that I usually try to incorporate in my own paintings. You see it all the time in landscape paintings and illustrations by the great old illustrators.

How many landscape paintings have you seen where the foreground is in shadow, and the rest of the scene is bathed in sunlight? That's an example of repoussoir, like this painting by George Innes:

Or how about this painting by Rockwell, Saying Grace--

You have to look past the figure on the left, and the table in front of you to see the little old lady and her grandson saying grace. Remove him and that beautifully painted cup of coffee and the scene just flattens out with everyone the same distance away. It would look like The Last Supper. At the top of the page is a Tom Lovell painting where he uses the same motif.

Speaking of the great Tom Lovell, here's another example

Same thing as with Norman-- The gentleman on the left has nothing to do with the main group in the middle. He's only there to give a sense of space.

I did the same thing with the stool in the foreground of Diner:

I've passed up painting many a lobster boat scene, because the boat was just bobbing around in the water with nothing to identify it as being a certain distance away. It would look like it was just floating in mid-air with nothing to ground it, as it were. I'm way too anal to be satisfied with just portraying pretty objects with nice colors. I have to have them occupy some kind of space. Otherwise, to me it's not a whole scene, and I like my scenes whole.

Can a repoussoir be done wrong? Can a match burn down a forest? There's a fine line between invitation and barrier when it comes to foreground handling. Like any good thing in life, if its done well, it's not noticed. You don't want your repoussier to call attention to itself. Having a ram-rod straight horizontal object occupy the entire bottom of you picture is a barrier. But a few blades of grass jutting up into the bottom of a painting won't cut it, either. It's a judgement call.

So the next time you're designing a picture, instead of saying, "what?" Say, "Repoussoir" instead!

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Occupational Hazards

2011-06-07T20:48:00.000-04:00

After waiting all winter long for a spring that failed to arrive, summer came to Maine last week. I love June. The days are at their longest, the spring flowers are blooming, and whatever heat there is hasn't worn out it's welcome like it would in August. A perfect month. So to celebrate, I loaded up my paint gear and headed out of the confines of my studio to paint me a picture out doors. My first attempt was at Wolfe's Neck Farm in Freeport, Maine for their charity auction. I wasn't thrilled with it, so I did another painting for them on the next day. Here are some cows for them--

A spot of glare on that one, sorry... But it put me in the mood to keep on going. So, yesterday I took my gear for a ride, and stumbled upon a blueberry field.

I thought this scene had potential, so I set up in a ditch along the dusty dirt road, and started in. I could have just as easily turned around and painted this--

But I felt the other view had more interest. I like rock walls. I look at them in awe as a memorial to the farmers who cleared the primeval forest over two hundred years ago, then found out that Maine soil is infested with rocks. So having no other use for them, they partitioned off their fields with these rocks. Undoubtedly back breaking, labor intensive efforts that now are lost to the forest that grew back when the farmers gave up. So I think it's cool when I get a chance to actually see them out in the open.

Here's my initial underpainting of the scene--

What you don't see are the spiders. Apparently, spiders dig plein air painters. Those guys were crawling all over me all day. There I'd be, staring out at the field, when I'd see a spider hanging down from the bill of my cap, dangling in front of my eyes. But I didn't mind so much. The wind was gentle, and blowing just hard enough to keep the black flies and mosquitoes away. So if a spider wanted to visit, so what? The sun was shining, and the only sound was the wind in the trees and the crowing of a distant rooster. I even had a more welcome visitor wander by--

So really, why complain? After I packed up to leave, I decided to go into the field behind me. In the middle of the blueberry field is a small cemetery, and I wanted to check it out.

I was so intent on seeing the graves I walked right into the bee-hives that the farmers used to pollinate the fields--

You can't see them, but trust me, they were swarming. Now, I'm not allergic to bees, nor am I especially afraid of them. They are just bugs, and like most creatures, they just want to be left alone. However, to bees, it seems like walking in their midst isn't leaving them alone. It reminded me of when I was a teenager, and my dad had me pulling stumps in the back yard. The stumps were old and rotten, and they came up easy. Just a couple swings from my pick-axe did the trick. I wasn't prepared for what happened next. I planted my pick into a stump, and instantly felt stinging pain strike me all over. The air was filled with the sound of violent buzzing. I had hit a nest of yellow-jackets! I dropped my pick and ran as fast as I could to the house, half blind from insects crawling on my face. I had about two-dozen stings on me. And it all took place in about fifteen seconds.

Let's just leave it that I didn't go to the cemetery, shall we? Okay, I'll admit it--- I ran away like a school girl...

I'm going to do some more work on my painting in the studio. Finish up the rock wall, add some foliage to the foreground, tweak some colors here and there-- you know, stuff that I can do from memory. And the best part?

No spiders... no bees...

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Down On The Farm

2011-06-04T20:38:00.000-04:00

Long before L.L.Bean set up shop, and the town council lost their minds and let anyone with the last name of "Outlet" take over the town, Freeport was a quiet country town on Maine's coast. Still holding on to the remnant of what once was, Wolfe's Neck Farm operates as a working farm clinging to the thin soil along the rocky coastline. It is a lovely site. From the century old farm house, the ground is acres of rolling verdant meadows that slope gently down to the shoreline.

Back in the day, coastal property wasn't worth much. It's soil is thin with plow-breaking rock a mere inches below the topsoil, so farming wasn't very good. It was generally the property of sea going types who had no need to grow anything. Land on the coast could be had for half of what the same amount of acres cost farther inland.

Then someone noticed the view.

The same Atlantic ocean that was thought of as nothing more than a salt water desert became an object to admire and desire. So the land was bought up, mansions were built, access to the water cut off by the new land owners, and the farms disappeared. That's where Wolfe's Neck Farm comes in. The town of Freeport actually had the foresight to set aside the land that this old farm occupied so that future generations could enjoy a little taste of what earlier generations took for granted. But nothing is free, and Wolfe's Neck Farm needs cash to operate, just like any business.

The folks on the farm are using us artists as fund raisers. This week, about a dozen or so of us are painting en plein aire around the farm, and these paintings will be auctioned off on June 18th. I went out there to work on mine today. Here is my start:

And here is what I'm actually looking at:

When I showed up, there were several cows standing around this scene, doing typical cow things. As I blocked in the picture, they got bored and left. That left me with no cows. I have to put the cows back in, or nobody would know I was on a farm. You may wonder as to why my painting is in black and white? That's my standard method. I'll block in a scene, then go back and apply color. I knew that I would not finish a complete painting today. I'm going back at the same time tomorrow to work on it some more. Then I may tweak it a bit in the studio before I submit it for auction on Friday. I'm not overly concerned that it may not be a plein aire as is commonly understood today, all I care about is that it's a good painting, and can fetch a good price. Years from now, nobody will give a rats ass that I did this over the course of a few days.

I'll post a picture on how this comes out-- good or bad. (Although, I'm hoping for the good.) After all--how can I let a face like this down?

Teacher, Teacher!

2011-05-30T20:13:00.000-04:00

Looking at my viewer counter, I noticed I have reached the ten thousand mark for the number of hits my blog has received. So, not counting the number of times I have checked out my blog, that means twenty seven other people have looked at my blog too! How exciting...

For those who wake each morning in eager anticipation of seeing a fresh and new Maine-ly Painting post, I apologize for slacking recently. But, hey-- I've been busy! I just got back from the Philadelpia, Pa. area where I made a quick trip to deliver some paintings to a new gallery that will represent me. That was cool. I've also been giving some instruction to a nice guy who wants to learn how to paint-- NOW! I feel bad for him, because when he asks, "How do I paint that tree?" I say, "Keep putting paint down 'til it looks like the tree." Drives him nuts. He still thinks there's a direction sheet for painting. Like putting a swing set together; Screw A goes into nut G after tightening bolt Q. That kind of thing. He doesn't quite get that no matter how good you are, painting is still trial and error. Granted, if you're really good there's less error, but everyone scrapes off a mistake now and then.

Learning any new skill always reminds me of learning to write. We spend years in school learning how to form letters, then how to spell words. Finally, we can write our thoughts without ever thinking about the mechanics of forming letters. All we care about is what we're trying to say. My poor student (let's call him Steve, even if his name is Jim...) is chomping at the bit to write War And Peace, but he hasn't learned how to make letters yet. So I can understand his frustration. It also dosn't help him when I say things like, "Make the brush think it's the ocean, " or "Move that brush like it's the cloud." Quite often when he asks something like, "How do I paint that rock?" I'll say, "The same way you paint a tree." Actually, I'm trying to get him to think about values, and highlights and shadows. He just thinks I'm insane. Wish he was wrong...

I've given lots of training and instruction throughout my life with the various jobs I've held. The hardest part is that I'm a bit of a control freak. I hate to see people suffer when I know how it should be done. But I had to fight the overwhelming urge to do it myself, and just let my poor trainee do it for themselves. Trust me, it was harder for me than it was for them. Learning from mistakes is an effective way to learn. Steve is always asking for me to paint a passage so he can watch how I do it. He hasn't caught on that I will do the easiest part, then hand him the brush to finish the harder part.

I try to not think about the old adage about those that can-- do. Those that can't?

They watch others suffer and call themselves teachers!

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CSI: Photos Of Paintings

2011-05-18T17:29:00.000-04:00

Sorry about whining about the weather in my last blog. Thankfully, here in Maine the weather has turned. It's gone from clouds, fog and drizzle to foggy, drizzly and cloudy. It has also played havoc in my trying to get some decent photos of my recent paintings. I usually take my pictures in bright sunshine, but the aforementioned weather has precluded that. I tried to take pictures anyway, but you know it's dim out when the camera prompts you to use a flash even when outdoors at noon! So I took them here in the studio instead. The painting above is called Spring Flood, and it shows my back field flooded out by the Eastern River that runs along between it and the trees being lit up by the last fews rays of sunlight.

I recently mentioned in a blog post about my troubles with getting decent photos of my paintings. I think it's a crime when a good painting in person looks so bad in a photograph. It got me to wondering why some paintings (usually others) photograph well, and some (usually mine) don't. I likened it to that sad occurrence that happens to nice people who just take a bad photo. Like Abraham Lincoln.

Or Phil Spector.

This guy produced some of the greatest hits of the 60's? Phil, it looks like you lost that lovin' feeling! But I digress...

I got to thinking about other possibilities as to why photos of paintings don't turn out very well, and I've come up with a theory. Keeping in mind that sometimes it really is an accurate photo of a crappy painting, I think it is all about the range of values a painting has.

You see, a camera is always trying to play the middle, specially when there's a great deal of contrast involved. Look at this photo of Cundy's Harbor during a gorgeous summer sunrise:

But also note how dark-- almost black-- the fore and middle-ground is. In reality, the sky was much brighter and more colorful, the trees across the way were a lovely green, and the wharf which was full of yellow, green and blue lobster traps was perfectly visible. But the photo only shows the sky with color. That's because the camera lowered the values of everything so that the sky wouldn't be overexposed, leaving everything else super dark. It can't brighten one section and darken another-- it's all or nothing. If the dominant subject was the shadowed wharf, the camera would have lightened the values to show those colors, but at the expense of the sky. Another example is of my local church on yet another glorious summer day. (Definitely not this year!):

Beautiful sky, but look how dark the trees and shadows are. When I focused on the church without the sky, it showed the truer values of the scene.

So what does this have to do with photographing paintings? Well, a camera doesn't know or care what it's taking a picture of. It treats everything in the same manner, including paintings. So, if your (my) painting has alot of contrast, the camera will do it's thing and mess with the values. Which means if your painting has a value range that's mostly high-keyed, or mostly low-keyed, without much contrast you're probably in luck. If your (my) painting runs the gamut between high and low values, with tons of contrast-- you're screwed. A camera absolutely hates that lovely deep purple shadow next to a bright golden yellow high-light that you're so proud of. It'll either over-expose the high-light into a white blob to show the purple, or darken it, turning the shadow into a black hole. Either way you (I) lose.

I asked in my previous post if I should paint for the human eye or the camera eye. After all, if you the visitor is pleased with my painting, and you think I did a realistic job, then I did OK, didn't I? But what is the more likely way you will see my painting? Online, that's how. And what is that image online? A painting? No, it's not-- it's a photograph of a painting. So I guess I better keep that in mind when I'm painting, since I don't want my pictures to look criminally bad. After all, I don't need this guy to come after me--

Gotta Love It!

2011-05-16T10:22:00.000-04:00

I told myself that I would not use this post to discuss the weather here in Maine. I mean, nobody wants to read about how this "spring" has been unusually cloudy, rainy and cold. That since April first we've been rained on forty out of forty-six days. How shallow is it of me to complain about ceaseless drizzle when there's flooding in the midwest, and massive destruction from tornados in the south? So I won't mention that today it's raining for the third straight day. Enough said. Or that the temperature has yet to crest seventy degrees yet this season. OK, I'll stop whining.

But according to the Weather Channel's ten day forecast, we're looking at ten straight days of rain with temps around fifty.

I mean it, I'm done now. I've got it all out of my system.

Wait! Look out my studio window... What's that I see?

Drizzle and fog.

What I wanted to mention is that last week a very nice person and wonderful sketch artist from the UK named Katherine Tyrell asked me to contribute to her blog series called Places To Paint with a few words about Maine. So, gentle reader, if you want to know what I said, please go to her blog Places To Paint and I'll give you a tour of what I actually like about painting here. Here's a hint:

I don't mention the weather.

Half-Way There And Other Thoughts

2011-05-09T19:40:00.000-04:00

I can usually gage when I'm about half-way through a painting-- not by determining how much I may have left to go before I finish, but when I feel I have screwed the thing up beyond repair. That's the stage I'm at right now with my current project. It's kinda alright if you stand far enough away. And close one eye. Then squint. While looking through your cupped hand. While you're upside down and looking at it from between your legs. With the lights off. But stand up, turn around, open your eyes and turn on the lights and it's a different story. I don't think I'm the only one who's felt that way during a painting. I read once that Norman Rockwell called it the, "My gosh, it's horrible!" stage. And as I always say, if it's good enough for Norman...

After my recent blog By Definition where I kind of rant about what I think art is not, I was asked by a kind reader what specifics a painting must have to be considered art.

You've seen my paintings. Do I look like I know?

Actually, I think it boils down to something very simple: Color and Composition. Some may throw in Design, but it doesn't roll off the tongue like Color and Composition. This is what I mean, though; I think a piece of art has color that is harmonious and pleasing to the viewer and arrayed in a pattern that leads the viewer's eye and engages the brain. It could be an abstract, or a Bouguereau. But I still firmly believe that an artist does it on purpose, not accident. After all, John Sutter found gold in California by accident, and it didn't turn him into a Geo-Physicist.

I just got an email that said I was juried into an event to be held later this summer. It was followed moments later by another email that said I wasn't juried into this same event. Ah, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat...

I'm in, though.

I was looking at a web site that showed the winning paintings of an art competition. I know I shouldn't really say this, but the one hundred or so works in the competition look like they were all painted by three or four guys.

And speaking of trends in painting; since when did painting edges get the same stigma as letting babies play with knifes? You know-- it's just not done. Look, I know the impressionist had their philosophy of blending and softening edges to show roundness of form, and there's nothing wrong with that. But it seems to me like the basic human fault of trying to improve upon perfection has taken over. If a soft edge is good, then loose is an improvement. If loose works, then ragged is great. If ragged is great than sloppy is-- The. Best. Thing. Ever!

I did a colored pencil of the lighthouse at Pemaquid Point, Maine. I worked on this puppy for a couple of weeks. Since it is pencil, and easily smudged, I sprayed it with a fixative. The problem was that a solid drop of the stuff splattered on the paper and left an ugly dot on the white of the lighthouse! I don't know what to do with it, but it looks like this-

I guess now I'll have to call it a spot light!

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Foggy Cove

2011-05-04T19:15:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid I used to love to make drawings of sailing ships from the nineteenth century. Big, square-rigged frigates plowing along through wavy seas. I would show these to my dad who would say, "oh look-- it's a picture of the moon landing!" To which I would patiently explain that, no, it wasn't that but a big sailing ship. It's a habit I still have to this day of explaining my pictures in case someone would mistake my sea-scape for an Apollo moon landing. So this one is of a small cove in Cape Elizabeth, Maine on a late summer afternoon when the fog is starting to roll back in.

This is a studio piece, I did not paint this on site. I did take some liberties in depicting the scene, though. When I was there it was lovely summer day, with no fog in sight, so I put some in. There is a house up on the shore, a big, looming mansion to be exact, but I simplified it's shape. In retrospect, I think it would have been more fun to paint it as a tar-paper out house. You see, the owner of this property has cut off all access to the shore to his neighbors and the general public. Families used to picnic here, but no more because of him. So doing stuff like painting the house as a loo is my idea of getting even. And since I didn't do that, telling the world what a tool that owner is will have to suffice, I guess.

Painting fog can be tricky. Some may go for a glaze effect over the painting to convey fog. I went with making the painting look like it was foggy without using any glazes. Here's a fuzzy close-up of the rocks--

I wanted simplicity and atmosphere, not detail. One thing about Maine beaches; they are not made of golden sand. A cove like this has a grey, pebbly sand made from the grey rocks being ground down by the constant wave action. That's a lot of grey, so I tried to infuse color wherever I could. As usual with photos of paintings, a ton of color nuance is lost, but trust me, this is more colorful than it shows here.

Being detail minded, I did try for authenticity in my portrayal of sand. Here's another close up of the kayaks:

And since I can't resist taking things to the extreme, here's a another close up shot of the sand:

...With Neil Armstrong's footprint!

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That Lying Eye

2011-05-02T18:10:00.000-04:00

The lovely Penelope Cruz

Maybe you know of a loved one, a spouse, a brother or a sister. Maybe it's a co-worker or a good friend. We all know someone who is quite good looking, yet looks butt-ass ugly in photos. Conversely, I've even personally met Hollywood stars who were butt-ass ugly, yet were considered one of the world's beautiful people because of how they looked on film. What gives? One word: Photogenics.

Cameras don't lie, right? Photographs only show us how things really look. Yeah, right. Not by a long shot! Because, dammit, my paintings always look like crap in a photo! Now, that's not to say that quite possibly it's because it's a crappy painting. But there is something definitely amiss. I blame digital technology. I'm no camera expert, but there was something soothing about 35mm that digital pixels don't quite match. It's like listening to an analog phonograph; The sounds blend in a pleasant, warm tone. Now listen to the CD version-- the notes are there, but it's harsh-- almost too pristine, if you get what I mean.

Everyone has heard of the general rule of thumb that a painting is best observed from ten feet. That's to allow all the colors and brush strokes to blend together in our eyes and form a convincing image. Digital cameras don't allow that to happen. Everything is in the same sharp focus from one foot to ten feet. One would think that it would allow subtleties of technique to show more clearly, yet I kind of doubt that. Anyone looking at one of my paintings would tell you that I like detail, and it's true. But I do try to soften edges, and blend colors, I really do. But what looks OK by me using my own eyes looks horribly stilted and stiff on camera. I'm not even going to get into how our paintings look on computer monitors. (I did blog about that here).

I, like a lot of my fellow painters, usually take pictures of my work as it goes through it's various stages toward completion, because I want to see how it looks. But that brings me to my dilemma: Do I paint for the human eye, or the camera eye? (I can hear you up there in the peanut gallery-- "Or how about if you just paint better?" Yeah, you're funny...) In other words, is it alright if I let my paintings be butt-ass ugly in photos if I know they've got a nice personality in person?

Still the Lovely Penelope Cruz

By Definition

2011-04-28T18:15:00.003-04:00

I've got a little brain exercise for you. Now, I know, I know-- me and brains, plus exercise have never gone together, but bear with me on this.

Head on out to your local sporting goods store and buy a basketball. Hold the ball in front of you. Is it art?

I don't think it is either. But now put it on a marble pedestal. Is it art yet?

Can't convince me it is. Although some folks might at that point call it "art".

OK. Now take three basketballs and put them in an aquarium half-filled with water. Is it art?

If you're Jeff Koons, the ~~con~~ artist who thought of it, or better yet the insanely rich guy who bought it, why yes it is!!

I have three words for this:

Oh.

My.

God.

I can't for the life of me figure out what's more laughable; Thinking this is a viable piece of art, or actually spending money to own it? (Full disclosure: If someone wants to hand me a boat load of money for a painting, I would not turn them away!)

Now, if you want one of these masterpieces, you can buy one at auction. One went for $244,000.00. A steal! Or... You could go to WalMart, buy three basketballs and an aquarium and make it yourself, and no one would be the wiser... You're welcome.

I can't help it. I've tried to be open minded. Really. I've forced myself to never say out loud what I think constitutes art because who the hell am I to say? Have I ever created a masterpiece? Have there been books published about my paintings? Do I sell for millions of dollars? No. No. And No. But I have an opinion. And at the risk of offending anyone, this is my definition as to what constitutes talent and art.

First-- One of the paintings below was done by a chimp, the other by a human.

Can't tell?

Rule one: If a chimp or any animal that can grab a brush can duplicate a humans effort-- It's not art.

Rule two: (And this one is touchy, I admit) If what comes out on canvas is the result of pure chance based on no preconceived thought-- You know, paint splatters, hitting colored golf balls onto a canvas, etc., it doesn't show talent. It is not art.

Simple really. And it still leaves a whole wide range of what I would call art.

Oh, last rule--

If you're name is Jeff Koons.

It ain't art.

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Upstairs

2011-04-23T19:08:00.000-04:00

I like to think of myself as a spontaneous kind of guy. As a matter of fact, every third Tuesday of the month, like clockwork, I set aside the time between 6 and 7:15pm to be spontaneous. I spend forty-seven minutes in acts of spontaneity, and then clean up for twenty-three. So I always enjoy having a painting idea come to me out of the blue, too.

The painting above, Upstairs, shows my beautiful partner Ellen seated at the top of the stairs as the setting sun casts golden light up the stairwell. I knew I had to paint it from the moment I saw it. This was another of those paintings I did half from life, and half from photos. I drew the scene from life knowing how photos screw up tight spaces. I waited for the sun to start setting so I could get the colors down. I posed Ellen and drew her in, but then used a photo I took at the same time to paint from. I did fake the shoes completely, though. They were never there. That just shows what a wild, spontaneous guy I am.

You wouldn't think it would matter because I was working indoors, but the hardest part of this was waiting for decent weather so I could paint. It's been an absolutely freaking miserable spring here in Maine. It seems that for every nice day we get, we pay for it with three days of nasty, cold rain. (Heck, we've got the wood stove fired up today on this wet, frigid day!) Anyway, for this picture, I needed the sun to shine-- at least for a few minutes before it set. I eventually got enough sun to finish it up. What I'm really waiting for is for spring to finally get here, so maybe I can get outside to do some more painting.

So there you have it, my latest effort. Another in a series of paintings I call "Paintings from around the house, because it's too miserable to get outdoors, and besides gas is four bucks a gallon, so why drive anywhere?".

I may need to shorten that, but it came to me spontaneously...

The Next Big Thing

2011-04-20T18:48:00.000-04:00

The powers-that-be who ran the music industry back in 1962 didn't realize it, but the revolution was coming. By the early sixties, Rock and Roll was pretty much dead. Elvis had lost his edge after going into the Army, and was making horrible movies. Little Richard was a preacher, Chuck Berry off the charts. Were you to turn on your radio, you would hear songs from folks like Acker Bilk, Bobby Vinton, and Connie Francis. Not hard rockers to be sure. Oh, sure-- there was some good music that year. "Twist and Shout" by the Isley Brothers, Dion's "The Wanderer", and Booker T and the MG's "Green Onion" were big hits. But so was "Moon River" by Henry Mancini. Music was all over the place. Then came a little old band from Liverpool named the Beatles in early 1964, and everything changed.

It wasn't just their "long" hair, or that they were from the exotic country of England, or that they made different sounding music. Truth was, they did a lot of covers. So it wasn't any one thing, but all those things combined. They were a band! They played their own instruments! They swapped lead vocals! They made great music! Who else did that? By 1965, a ton of Beatle-wannabee bands did. The Beatles have influenced music to this very day because no one else has had the same impact.

Like the music industry in 1962, I think the current art industry is ripe for a revolution. The old guard that dictates who gets hung in museums may still be stuck in the abstract art nightmare that was the twentieth century, but the meteor is heading their way. Like the dinosaurs, they just don't know it. Traditional painting-- classical realism, impressionism and representational styles are gaining more and more popularity and acceptance with both the average joe and high-end galleries. The old (modern) views will fade away, letting the new (traditional) take over.

The problem is, who are our heroes? Where are the great artists who will finally put the remaining nail in the coffin that holds Modern Art? Nearest I can tell, they're all dead. John Singer Sargent, Anders Zorn, Claude Monet, Winslow Homer, and William Bouguereau to name but a few, have long turned to dust. Their art, though, has inspired and reinvigorated the current art scene to a huge degree. But therin lies the trouble, don't you think? It's one thing to emulate the great artists, quite another to imitate, and right now imitation is winning. Is there someone out there painting right now who has the technical brilliance of those great masters, but is producing something so breath-takingly new and unique as to take their place and form a whole new school of art that one hundred years from now will be just as revered? Can realism be taken to a level that has yet to be seen? I think it can.

But it won't be me, that's for damn sure! I don't know when that artist may appear, or what their paintings will look like, but I hope to be around when they emerge. Too bad they won't have Ed Sullivan to introduce them.

Happy 100!

2011-04-15T19:55:00.000-04:00

According to the blog counter, this is my 100th blog post! It's a blessed occasion that ranks right up there with changing out a new roll of toilet paper. It's hard to believe that what started six months ago as a blatant jumping on of the bandwagon, and with six readers has now reached half a dozen! And I thank each and every one of you for reading. It's been an exhilarating ride, to be sure. So, if you'll allow me, let's take a stroll down memory lane as I present a recap of the priceless wisdom, timeless wit and ethereal beauty of the past 99 posts. Gentle reader, I bring to you the best of Maine-ly Painting:

Here's to the next 100!

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Root Cellar

2011-04-13T21:30:00.000-04:00

I spent the last ten days or so on location in my back yard painting this scene. It's of the door that goes into my root cellar. The tree shadow is from the same big old maple I painted in Mid-Winter Maple.

I must admit, I do enjoy going around and portraying rather commonplace things. I'll save the gorgeous nude women lounging on Victorian sofas for others-- give me a grungy old door, or some big gnarly tree and I'm in heaven.

While I painted the majority of this outside, it can't really be called a true plein air. I drew the proportions of this scene from life, because I know how photos can really screw up the perspective-- especially from close distance. But then I went into the studio and worked on it as I would a regular studio painting; I did all the underpainting and preparation before I went back outside to capture the real colors. I would have liked to have done it all outside, but it was freaking freezing out! And we had a ten inch snow storm in the middle of this project that I had to wait melt. (Ah... Spring in Maine!) All in all, it took about three outdoor sessions to finish.

Another thing. This part of my yard acts like a wind tunnel. Cold Canadian air came whistling over the hedge and blew me around all morning. I had to paint with one hand on the panel to hold it down. I had an umbrella to block the sun, but it acted like a para-sail and tried to take the easel for a ride. By the way (which is what BTW looks like spelled out...) that is not a plein air easel I'm using, but my regular easel and palette stand. I brought them out from my studio so I would feel more at home. I wouldn't do that if I was standing on some rocky promontory on the coast. You kidding? I'd be laughed at and chased away by all the other plein air types with their little pochade boxes. But anyway, I gave up after awhile and retreated to the cold, but windless garage.

So there you have it. Another view from around the house. You have to admit, it beats driving all over creation looking for subjects when gas is four bucks a gallon!

Winslow's War

2011-04-12T19:14:00.000-04:00

This week marks the one-hundred fifty year anniversary of the start of the American Civil War. It all kicked off on April 12th, 1861 with the secessionist firing on fort Sumter in Charleston, S.C. Of course, people didn't just wake up on that morning and say, "Hey! Let's have a war!" it took decades of bad blood between the north and the south to get to that point. By April of 1861, war fever was at it's highest pitch. Young men born in the 1840's only knew of war from the stories their grandfathers told about the War of 1812, or from seeing woodcuts of battles of the Mexican War, like this one--

Winslow Homer was a young man at the start of the war, too. He didn't choose to enlist, but he went to war as a civilian artist correspondent. Back then, photographs could not be reproduced in print, so the major newspapers had artists record the scene, and then used engravers to make woodcuts from the art work.

The 1860's was a romantic, sentimental era. Artwork was in the Hudson River school; full of soft, serene idyllic views of nature. Language was flowery and lofty. Were we to talk to a young man of 1860, we'd think the guy was the most pretentious pretty boy we ever met! The sentimentality of the day was shown in prints like this one.

The realities of war were not to be discussed in polite society. Folks at home saw Currier and Ives prints of bloodless battles fought by heroes in unsoiled blue uniforms with bright brass buttons:

The truth of the matter is that it was a war like all the others ever fought; a grotesque, bloody slaughter full of pain, misery and death. And there was plenty of death to go around.

At Antietam:

At Chancellorsville:

And at Gettysburg, where in three days of fighting, over fifty thousand young men became casualties of war.

Winslow Homer knew that war. As a New Englander will be, he was a pragmatic, tell-it-like-it-is kind of guy. So, it comes as no surprise that he decided not to show the romantic ideal of the soldier, but the regular guy he saw in camp. These are people we can relate to, even one hundred fifty years later.

Bored young men sitting around the camp, waiting for the next battle. Occupying their time with trivial tasks, and wondering all the while if they will ever make it home alive.

Homer drew battle scenes that were used in the papers, but he shined when he turned his focus on the individual. I believe the best Homer depiction of warfare is the small, quiet painting The Sharpshooter-

Sharpshooters were reviled in the Civil War. They were considered nothing more than assassins and murderers. Soldiers considered it unmanly to hide and kill-- real men stood out in the open and faced their enemy. Homer shows the tension of the moment before the trigger is squeezed, dooming another victim who would never know what hit him. It is as far from Currier and Ives as one can get.

By the time Homer depicted the front lines in this painting from late in the war, the American public had long grown weary of its horrors. The rebel soldier standing on the parapet, daring the enemy to kill him and put him out of his misery is emblematic not only of the Confederacy, but the rest of the country as well.

Winslow Homer went on, of course, to be one of--if not the-- greatest American painters. His depiction of a former soldier working on his farm is another example where there is more than meets the eye;

After seeing so many of his fellow soldiers mowed down like wheat by the reapers scythe, this man has put aside his military accoutrements and picked up his life where he left off.

Only Winslow Homer would have thought of that.

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A Little Helpful Advice

2011-04-11T15:13:00.000-04:00

Mind a little friendly criticism?

Warning, Rant Alert! Rant alert!

You want to know something? Whenever someone comes up to me at an art event where I am showing a painting and says, "Do you mind a little friendly constructive criticism?" I have two thoughts. My first thought is-

Yes, as a matter of fact, come to think of it, I would mind.

My second thought is-

You pretentious jerk!

But I'm a get-along kind of guy, so I always say, "sure!" in hopes I'll get a good nugget of usable advice. Invariably I do not. Instead, I get some blow-hard who feels the need to ooze their "I'm so much better than you" vibe.

Look, I don't think I'm kidding myself. I honestly think my abilities are in the middle of the pack. I may not be great by a long shot, but I don't horribly suck either. But I can't help the way I feel: unless you have a book published that is devoted to your paintings, or are being paid by me to give advice, or have your name attached to an Atelier, if I don't ask, I don't want to hear it. So shut up, and keep your opinion to yourself, because that's all it really is. And we all have opinions about art (like I discussed in Turf Wars). Family and friends can, of course, blaze away and I won't mind at all. It also goes without saying that if I do ask for an opinion (and I do all the time) I don't want to hear empty praise, but real challenges as to why I did something.

There's another part about constructive criticism; A good critique takes the work for what it is, and points out something that could make it better. Admittedly, it is a fine line. A good critique would be something like, "maybe it would be more effective if you alternated the color temperature between your high-lights and shadows, instead of making them all one temperature" Or, "You painted three-quarters of this in a loose, impressionist style, but this corner is tight realism. Maybe you should make it all one style." Those, I think are helpful. Explaining how you would paint the picture is not "constructive criticism" but conceit.

OK, I've got that off my chest. Obviously, this has happened to me, and I bet it's happened to you too. So, what do you say we just make it one of our little guidelines of painting-- If no one asks you, don't offer "constructive criticism" no matter how awesome you paint.

Hope you didn't mind my friendly unsolicited advice!

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Turf Wars

2011-04-06T19:41:00.000-04:00

Artists like to think of themselves as out-of-the-box thinkers, creative types who have a liberal, live and let live mentality. You know, you do your thing, and I'll do mine, whatever floats your boat is fine. We're all part of one big brotherhood (or sisterhood) of art, right?

Hell no!

To you non-painters out there, here's a dirty little secret. The truth of the matter is, artists are the most conservative people you can imagine. I'm not talking politically, but in stylistic preference. It's not uncommon for many painters to think, "if you don't paint what I paint, you're not really an artist." Which means we artists are art snobs of the worst kind. For instance, we all know Abstract artists dislike Realists. But even in the abstract ranks, Abstract Expressionists don't like Minimalists, who look askew at Abstract Neoplasticists, who don't get Cubists. Then we have the Realists. Photo-Realists would rather not be bothered by Impressionists, who couldn't care less for Studio painters who think Plein Aire Landscapists are a bunch of hacks. But then again, Landscapists think that Seascapists have it too easy, while Seascapists think Still-lifers are a bunch of mamby-pamby weekend wannabees. And of course, Figurists look down their noses at everyone.

I know I certainly have my own tastes and opinions, and when I'm in the privacy of my own home, I'll voice them. However, when I am out in public--at a local art show, say-- I will only say complimentary things about the paintings I see. If I hate a piece, I keep my mouth shut. Who knows who may be listening? I think it's intolerably rude to say something disparaging about someones effort in public, no matter how bad it is. I'll save my conceit for when I get home! Now, I will say that in museums, I may be a tad more vocal, but not very often. (By the way, to you folks at the Colby College Museum Of Art: just because some talentless hack of a painter gives you a dreadful painting doesn't mean you have to hang it! But I digress...)

So, is being an art snob a bad thing? Only in public, or writing a blog, where one can come off as a pretentious boor. In private, I think having a strong opinion of your likes and dislikes is quite beneficial to your art. If you know what you don't like, you won't paint it. If you keep narrowing down the list of what you like, then you will form your own painting philosophy. Once you've figured out your philosophy, you can approach your paintings with a point of view that's yours and yours alone. Then maybe you won't spend too much time emulating, or worse, imitating, other artists. Understanding your own tastes in art allows you to understand why you paint what you do. And I think why you're painting this picture is as important as what you're painting. And it all leads back to discernment, which is, "Oh, I never want to paint like that!"

You'll have to excuse me as I have someone knocking on my door. Oh, it's a couple of Watercolorists. Geez, I hate those guys...

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Alchemy!

2011-04-01T02:16:00.000-04:00

Just a short post this time, I'm afraid. I've been painting for the past seventy-two hours straight, and I'm possibly just a little hyped up on inspiration and caffeine to say much that's coherent, except that I've finally discovered a way to brighten the lights in my paintings to a level I never knew existed. You know, as a landscape painter, I'm always trying to show the effects of the sun in the most realistic way possible. Usually that is done by subduing the value scheme to make the high-lights seem brighter. But that really is less than a true representation of the way light really works, and can I honestly say I've captured Nature, when all I've really done is trick up the shadows?

As some of you may know, I'm a self taught kind of guy, and I've spent thirty years studying and struggling to make a decent painting. The struggle is the easy part. The studying is what takes forever. How do you study what you don't know you might need too learn? But recently I picked up an art how-to book in a little bookshop in King, Maine that dealt exclusively with light. All I really needed to do was follow the instructions on reverse-spectrum color composition.

Since I started the method (which is simply applying the principles of wave-length variations vs oscillation principles), I've actually had to wear sunglasses as I paint! Its that bright. Of course, I've had to change the lighting in the studio, because of the light shining out from the canvas, but that's a minor thing. Twice, I've had birds swoop down and actually try to fly into the picture! Geez, that was funny. I brought the picture into my house, but I don't think I can keep it in here because it lights up the entire room and distracts my beautiful partner Ellen as she tries to watch that show about flash mobs. And besides, she doesn't like my paintings anyway.

I guess it wouldn't be fair for me to keep this kind of painting tip to myself, and not share it with others. I'll try to keep it simple: As we all know, all the colors in the spectrum combine to make white light. The very same light that shines every day from the sun. But not at night somehow. Anyway, simply combine all the colors you have in your studio, and then reverse the process by taking them away one at a time. What is left is a bright color of such intensity, it makes all the other colors look dull and dreary. I caution you to use this color of light sparingly where it is needed most in your painting. Overuse can lead to overexposure. It's that simple. So take my word for it, it's the greatest tip I've ever learned about painting!

You don't think I'd fool you about this, do you?

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Mind Games

2011-03-30T19:04:00.000-04:00

Maybe you've heard this one: Four scientists are blindfolded and led into a room where they are told they need to identify an animal held inside. One grabs a long and flexible, tube-like thing, while another finds four large, three foot round legs with three toes. Still another scientist feels above his head and grabs a palm like flap of ear that's four feet long, and very thin. The last gropes around, feeling the enormous girth and size of the animal. They leave the room, and say, "Ah, hah! We must apply for a research grant so we can get enough money to determine what this animal is!"

Apparently, these same scientists put their efforts to use answering a question no one asked: how does a persons eye move when looking at a painting for the first time? Now, I'm not new to this party, as James Gurney first wrote in his excellent blog, and it was picked up by the inimitable Stapleton Kearns a little later. So if you'll pardon me for being fashionably late, I'll throw my two cents into the conversation anyway.

You see, for the study, these scientists wired up the brains of some poor subjects (I'm assuming they wore a helmet with really cool wires and lights sticking out of it), and flashed images of paintings to monitor how their eyes tracked the scene. Now, we painters spend an inordinate amount of time designing our pictures so that the viewer will look where we want them to. Through the use of line, color, and form we try to direct the viewer to the Point Of Interest. But the scientists didn't see that at all. It turns out people's eyes flickered all over the place, going here and there with no apparent rhyme or reason. So the scientist came to the conclusion that we artists are wasting our time with all this design stuff. No one even notices! So go ahead and cram all your subject matter into the lower left hand corner for all your viewers seem to care. You're welcome.

Needless to say, I think that the intrepid scientists overlooked something very important when considering their results. For many millions of years, before we wore suits and ties (then went to shorts, sandals, sloppy t's and baseball caps worn sideways over the ears) we lived very much like the herd of deer that feeds near where I live. In other words, we are animals. We may think we've overcome the animal way of life, but our instincts prove otherwise. That's why we will always look at a bright, shiny object that flashes into view. Why? Because it could be a glistening drop of saliva shining on the eight inch fang of a saber-tooth tiger ready to pounce on us and rip our throats out. We use to have to worry about those things in our day to day activities. To a saber-tooth tiger, or giant cave bear, two humans together would be viewed as a snack pack.

Alright then, what does this have to do with how eyes track a painting? Well, we will always scan a scene looking for tigers and such. That's what the study seems to showed: the eye was looking for bright, shiny objects. Nothing there? Then it looks in the shadows for other possible dangers. Coast is clear? Then we slow our gaze and look around a little more. And all of that happens in nano-seconds. Faster than we can possibly control, or be aware of. Meanwhile, the mind is interpreting the scene, drawing on memories of paintings, colors, or other objects that might be shown in the picture. That's what the scientist didn't find because they couldn't: They could track how the eye affects the mechanical organ called the brain, but it's the mind that puts it all together and says, "Oh, what a lovely scene of a road going down into a valley and up a far hill to a distant church. It just drew me right in."

So, by all means, keep working on your designs. The average viewer will notice and appreciate your skill and talent. And the scientists? They're probably out looking for bright, shiny objects; you never know where you're going to meet up with a saber-tooth tiger...

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Why Go Anywhere?

2011-03-24T19:48:00.000-04:00

From The Parlor Window

It's been little more than a year since I and my beautiful partner Ellen moved into our little home here on the banks of the mighty Eastern River. (Okay, maybe "mighty" is a little strong a word. Not only could George Washington toss a dollar under-hand across it, he could easily wade across without getting his wig wet). In the ensuing year I have made three paintings of the river; spring, summer and winter. I have painted the tree in my backyard, the master bedroom mirrors, and now I just finished painting the porch. Of course I find these scenes quite pretty to portray, but it also plays into my general propensity to just stay at home.

I will admit that my initial thought in doing this project was to paint this from life. The problem was that I had a beastly time getting the design down. I started this scene three times, and each attempt ended with frustration. I was trying to get the whole window in the view, but I finally figured (on my fourth attempt) to show the porch from the lower window. Meanwhile, the snow melted and the sun kept getting higher and higher in the sky, altering the shadow angles and color.

Above is how the porch looked in mid-February. It wasn't until last week that I got this drawing completed:

I used a thin wash of Naples Yellow over the drawing. To me, this simple wash is a vitally important step. I've been known to take a full day deciding what color to use. The wash sets the mood, or emotion of the piece, and it ties the elements together. If I choose wrong, I will almost always struggle with the painting. Choosing right makes the picture almost paint itself. So anyway, after wasting so much time, sitting down to paint from life was out. Oh, sure- maybe John Singer Sargent could paint a picture one ten minute stretch at a time over the course of several months like he did with Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, but I'm not that patient. I have been studying the colors of the porch since we moved in, and every (rare) sunny afternoon we've had this winter, so I could get the colors right. I think it shows.

The fun thing about portraying my parlor window was trying to show it's antique wavy glass. My worry was that viewers might think I couldn't draw straight. So, I hope that showing the window sill will help, or maybe the crack in the glass. Oh, and that crack? You might say it's my little homage to my hero, Norman Rockwell. Or you can say that I stole it from Shuffleton's Barbershop. Either way you're right. So check out the lower right hand corner:

I wonder what corner of my property I'll paint next? Maybe the bathroom needs painting...

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Everyone's A Critic

2011-03-20T19:42:00.000-04:00

You know the old saw:

Those that can-- do.

Those that can't-- teach.

Those that can't do or teach?

They're critics.

And I have to admit that saying went through my head as Dan Kany, an art critic for the Portland (Maine) Press Herald asked to see me at the artist reception I was attending this past Friday night. I am a participating artist for a month at Bayview Gallery in Brunswick, Maine in a show entitled Local Color. Bayview is one of the most prestigious galleries here in Maine, in my humble opinion, (That's how IMHO looks spelled out) and I was more than happy to have a few of my paintings in the show. Mr. Kany was there to offer his critique of the exhibition. He is a pleasant chap, and totally ruining my misconception of critics, he was spot on in what he had to say about my work.

Now, I have always felt that the one person I have to please with my paintings is myself. If I don't particularly care for a painting of mine, a thousand people telling me it's great means there are a thousand wrong people in my view. Conversely, if I feel I succeeded with a painting, a thousand people telling me it's crap is still a thousand wrong people. And don't get me started on asking loved ones about my work. According to my beautiful partner Ellen, I have yet to not paint a masterpiece. (My kids, however, to show their total lack of respect for their father, will gleefully point out any error they think they see. They are almost always wrong). But mostly, people want to be nice, so they don't criticize my paintings to my face. So that essentially leaves it up to yours truly to best assess what works or not.

Therein lies the trouble. I can only gage my success with a painting on what I wanted to achieve. If I fail in that, to me, the painting is a failure. But my viewer doesn't know what I had in mind, all they can see is the final result in front of them. They may actually like the passage I thought was wrong. And that's where Mr. Kany comes in. He pointed out each and every passage in my paintings that he felt were off. And do you know what? I knew it. Passages I labored over and worked out as best as I could, but knew that there was still an undefinable "something's wrong" with them, he pointed to with laser precision. But he also explained what was wrong with them. Painful as it may have been to hear it, I was still delighted to hear him offer a solution.

He published his critique in today's paper. Yeah, some of it stung, but he did forewarn me. Hey, honesty takes no prisoners. Funny thing, though. A patron came over, and in discussing one of my paintings with me, pointed out her favorite part: The very passage that Mr. Kany felt was wrong. Which left me with a conundrum:

Which side of the thousand was she a part of?

Doin' It To The Oldies

2011-03-17T20:05:00.000-04:00

I love music. I do everything to the soundtrack of song. When I read, I quite often have the stereo on. When I watch sports, I usually turn on music instead of listening to the blather of the sport announcers. After all, I don't need them to tell me I just saw a touchdown, or a strikeout. I can see it as plain as they without the forced histrionics. And of course, I paint to the sound of music. Quite often when I look at a passage of one of my paintings, I remember the song I was listening to when I painted it. When I take a break from painting, I like to sit down and noodle on the piano, or strum E, A, and D on the guitar. Just don't ask me to play F-- I hate that chord.

What kind of music painters listen to as they work is just as individual as their painting style. Some like to rock out, others go for country and western. A rare few like to listen to brain numbing Irish folk singers as they sing ballads in ancient Gaelic about garden gnomes. Hey, whatever floats your boat. I got to thinking about what kind of music some of the Old Masters would have listened to as they painted. I can envision DaVinci listening to a baroque quintet as he painted. There Leo would be in his perfectly clean painting smock wearing a T-Shirt that says "If it ain't baroque, don't fix it!" Then he'd show them how to play it better.

What would Michelangelo be listening to if he was still alive? Well for starters he'd be something like four hundred years old, so he probably would be a little hard of hearing. But if he were young and kicking in today's world I can see him cranking up Heavy Thrash Death Metal. Or Barbara Streisand's Greatest Hits. He had issues.

As a noted accomplished classical pianist, of course John Singer Sargent would listen to Classical Music. I mean, c'mon--the guy painted in a three piece suit with spats. But I bet that if he could he'd paint Lady Whatever while listening to European Techno Pop. If only he knew what he was missing...

Me? I confess, I listen to the oldies. Anything from the 1940's Big Band to Classic Rock and Roll. The calendar ended in my studio somewhere around 1979. As an ex-Disc Jockey (or is that "recovering"?), I've been exposed to all kinds of genre's, but the paint flows better when I've got iTunes Radio set on That 70's Channel. I love that station. Every once in awhile they'll play something that I haven't heard since the song left the airwaves back in 1973. Having a soundtrack that makes you feel good in a subconscious way can only make your work come out better. After all, you can't really paint when you're pissed off, can you?

So crank up the tunes and get going. I know I will-- Oh hey, is that Meri Wilson singing "Telephone Man"? I haven't heard that song in so long...

What Was I Thinking?

2011-03-13T20:37:00.000-04:00

Ah, Spring in Maine... mud, mud, and some more mud. Wherever the snow melts, it leaves mud. I also never realized that snow has such a high sand content, but every place that the snow was piled high now lies a pile of sand. Who knew snow was so sandy? Anyway, even though we have forwarded our clocks, it's still not quite Spring here in Maine. March is like Connecticut.

What?

I'll quickly explain. You see, when I was a kid, we would take family vacations to visit some relatives in Philadelphia. The trip down takes about eight or nine laborious hours driving through New England, through New York and New Jersey to get to our destination. We would zip through every state except Connecticut. One has to drive the entire diagonal distance through it to get to New York from Massachusetts. When you entered that state you were closer to home, but when you finally crossed its border you were closer to the end of the trip. It's like when you enter March, you're still in Winter, and when March is over, it's Spring. It's just seems like it takes forever to get there. And that's what I think when the calendar turns to March: our road trip to Philly. And when I drive through Connecticut to get to Pennsylvania, I think of March.

The Beautiful Colors Of March

Another thing that is fun to think of is what was the inspiration behind some paintings? Have you ever given much thought as to why something was painted? I mean, we can look at some of our favorite paintings and try to glean the subtle psychological undertones that lies beneath the image, and say that was the artists reason for painting it. (A pastime wildly popular with those who like to stare at incoherent abstract images). But what I'm thinking is something a little more pragmatic. I know that when I get an idea for a picture, it isn't the grand scheme that excites me, but some little nuance that I really wanted to paint. But to put that little touch in it's proper context, I have to paint everything around it.

So, not because I think the following paintings of mine are masterpieces, but because I know what I was thinking, I'll give you some examples.

This first one is called Charlie's Boat. What fired me up with this wasn't the boat, or the reflection and color in the water, but Charlie standing on the bow, back-lit by the morning sun. To get that effect, I had to paint the whole scene.

Little did I realize it when I was painting that picture, but two years later I would be working for Charlie as a sternman on that very boat. Funny how fate turns out, huh? (Hmmm...maybe I should paint a picture of Scarlet Johansson...)

A couple of years ago I was in Kansas City, Missouri enjoying lunch in a diner at the railroad station in the center of town when I noticed this young lady. The lighting of the diner was a warm yellow, and it cast a halo-like glow over her head. She reminded me of someone Norman Rockwell would paint. So, never mind the chrome, or the old guy beside her, or even the doo-dads on the counter. All I wanted to paint was her hair!

Cundy's Harbor is a cool place. It's one of the few working waterfronts in the state, it's harbor is choked full of lobster boats, trawlers and pleasure crafts. Huddled on the rocky shore between the one road down the center of town and the water are quaint old homes that have stood the test of time. I saw this home when my beautiful partner Ellen and I were taking a walk one Fourth of July. The owners had a gorgeous silk flag flying from their porch. I was taken by the wrinkles of the flag reflecting color and light. But I needed to put the new flag in context with the old home-- just so I could paint the wrinkles.

So there's a small sampling of the thoughts behind these paintings. Deep psychological emotions? Nah. What do I look like to you? A thinker?

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Goodbye, Mr. Buckles

2011-03-06T21:12:00.000-05:00

I didn't want to let too many days pass before I mention that America's last surviving World War I veteran, Frank Buckles died last week. Mr. Buckles, as you probably heard, was one hundred ten years old, having been born in 1901. He enlisted in the army in 1917 at the tender age of 16-- lying that he was 18 so he could go "see some adventure." As a student of history, I am fascinated by not what he did, but rather by what he lived through in his century plus time on Earth. Think about it: The first light that shone on Mr. Buckles' at his birth was provided by an oil filled lamp by his mother's bedside. His world was very much the world his grandfather knew. It was still a horse-drawn age. Airplanes did not fill the air, cars did not roar down freeways at seventy miles per hour. Trains were common, but they usually topped out at thirty MPH.

It was a hard world, too. Language and behaviors that we now would consider horribly bigoted and racist were common, and unexceptional. Unemployment statistics were of no use. If you didn't have a job, that was your problem. If you had a job, you were lucky if it paid a dollar a day. Children as young as five years old worked for far less in factories and mines. If they made it to that age. What might have started as a little cough your child had in the morning might lead to their death by that evening. The old adage that we laugh at today was a rule of thumb then; What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.

So, in honor of Mr. Buckles, here is an illustrated tour of the world that Frank Buckles saw as he lived his remarkable life.

Scything the clover

Bringing in the hay, 1900's

The first airplane, 1903

Perfectly normal for 1900

Bathing suits as they were meant to be

Rt 95 before they knew it was rt 95

The Dust Bowl

A new world

Who wouldn't want one?

Dallas, 1963

The Moon, 1969

One last victory... 1974

And the wall came tumbling down 1989

2008

So, thank you Frank. The "lost generation" now truly is. The sad thing about your passing is that you had to see this train wreck of a television "star" before you left:

A new kind of drug

Rest in peace.

And thank you.

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Teaching An Old Dog

2011-03-03T19:33:00.000-05:00

Pretty soon now, and before I care to admit it, I'll hit my fiftieth year on this planet. Not this year though. I think one way we assess our age is by doubling how old we are now. While fifty to a twenty-five year old is considered hopelessly geriatric, they don't have a doubt they'll make it that far. Sixty to a thirty year-old isn't so bad. When you're forty, eighty seems attainable. 100? I think I'll hold off planning the birthday celebration, because I'm not making that one for sure. The way I figure it, looking at my family's health history, and with the miracles of modern medicine included, I'll be lucky to break eighty. So really, thirty years are all I may have left-- if I take excellent care of myself (something I haven't tried yet...) I can easily recall events of thirty years ago, and everything since then has gone by in a nano-second. I can only imagine the warp-speed the next thirty will feel like.

I mention this not because I'm thinking of my own mortality, but because lately I've seen some videos for Art Ateliers posted on the internet, and it's brought back some long forgotten ambitions. Back when I first started to paint, my folks always wished they could afford to send me to Art School. What they were thinking of was really an Atelier. What they didn't know was that by the mid 1970's schools teaching fundamental, traditional realist art were as scarce as unicorns in the desert. Back in those days, Art schools were all about abstract "art". Realism was fini as far as they were concerned. It's been a long time coming, but change is in the air, and traditional Ateliers are becoming more common. So, yeah, after years of teaching myself, I wish I could attend one to learn how it's supposed to be done. But here's the thing; when a young graduate of one of those schools starts out on his or her art career, they can have forty to fifty years of productive art ahead of them. How much time would I have? Fifteen, maybe twenty good years? Hey, one good year is better than none, but do I really want to spend close to a quarter of whatever good years I have left starting from scratch?

So instead of attending one of those excellent institutions, where I could spend a year just drawing spheres, cones and squares, I might sign up for some work-shops to get some more instruction. Work-shops are kind of like the Cliff Notes of painting. They are great for overviews of painting techniques. Granted, I've only attended one, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'm not adverse to going back for another from this same knowledgeable, wicked nice painter. I might sign up for someone else, who knows? I think the important consideration is to learn from an artist that seems to have the same sensibility as I. If I want to learn more about using, say, wild color schemes, I don't think it would do me much good to attend a work-shop held by a tonalist painter.

But this leads me back to the age thing. After awhile, I am going to be as good as I'm going to be, good or bad, and no Atelier or work-shop is gonna improve me. It's a sad but true fact that no one keeps getting better 'til the day they die. We all max out, and start the inevitable decline. Can't I just be that happy old dog that has his collection of tricks? Do I really have to learn more? But we all know that artists are not dogs (so to speak...). The one thing that all the painters who have ever lived have in common is that we have all felt our best painting is waiting to be done. All we need to make it happen is one more trick.

Alright, I'll keep trying to learn. But do I get a MilkBone?...

My Winter Of Discontent

2011-02-27T18:53:00.000-05:00

I won't lie to you. I'm gonna tell you right up front that I dislike winter intensely. As you should be able to tell from the photo above, summer is my favorite week here in Maine. The more I think about it, the more obvious it has become that summer beats winter in every category. I'll take a heat wave over a cold snap every time. Why? Well, for starters I don't have to scrape heat off my car's windshield in the morning. I don't have to pay some guy to plow heat off my driveway so I can get out. I don't have to shovel a path through the heat to get to my studio. I save $3.58 a gallon every time my oil burner doesn't run. I don't wonder if I'm dressed warmly enough to go out and check the mail. And speaking of wearing enough clothes; going to the beach is alot more fun in the summer than the winter.

Now, some people say that heat makes people lethargic, that if it's too warm people just stand around and nobody wants to do any work. That, I say, is just an urban myth started by people watching DOT road crews. Everybody else is way more active in the summer. You can actually see folks smile more because their faces aren't covered by ski masks. Everyone has a spring in their step-- because their feet aren't weighed down by heavy boots. Really, need I go on?

This winter has been an especially difficult one for me. Somewhere under the four feet of snow in my yard lies my back. I threw it out in January while shoveling yet another foot of snow and I haven't been able to find it. So for weeks I've been walking around like someone who's looking for a lost contact lens. As soon as I started to straighten up, I got hit with one of the worst head colds I've ever experienced. Fifteen days of phlegm! I was looking like a human mucus fountain. At one point, I went through two new boxes of Kleenex in a six hour period. (I should have bought stock in the company!) The skin of my red, swollen, blistered nose had the same texture as pleather. Every word I spoke had B in it, ie; "I'b jubst trybin' toob breathe-b!"

Needless to say, my work suffered. It wasn't easy to stumble down to my frigid studio, warm it up, and get to work. All I really wanted to do was lie crumpled in a corner with my boxes of tissues, a warm blanket and a hot toddy, and just let it pass. If truth be told, I did just that on more than one day. But you can only wallow in your own misery (and snot) for so long, so after a while I managed to suck it up and get back to work.

The good news is that tomorrow is the last day of February. The bad, is that in Maine, March is the cruelest month. As eager as we are for spring, we will undoubtedly have at least one or two more big snowstorms. That's OK, though. I know what is yet to come, and for that I say, bring it on!

THINK SPRING!

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It's Only Business...

2011-02-23T20:30:00.000-05:00

Paris Salon

Unlike many careers that need years of education and training, becoming an artist is insanely easy. Just go out and get yourself some paints, brushes and canvas, and have at it. While it's not required, it would be helpful to look the part, too. After all, doctors drape stethoscopes over their white lab coats for no reason. You should wear black clothes, funky hats, and speak art babble whenever possible so others can easily identify that you are an "Artist". It's that easy.

Making a living as an artist, however, is insanely difficult.

Of course, there are varied strategies on how one can make a buck at their art. The first method, practised by most beginners is:

Wait to be Discovered.

That's when you paint all you want, and then wait for some rich collector, or a fancy New York City Gallery to find you and make you rich. As a daydream on a boring day at work, it's great. As a business philosophy, it's not that effective.

The next strategy is:

The Social Scene

You know-- twitter your upcoming art event. Update your Facebook status every time you finish a painting. Make an App for your art. The objective is to steer people over to your web site. This is the first cousin to Exposing Yourself, but it is also remarkably similar to Wait To Be Discovered...

Well then, what about

Exposing Yourself

Hey, you can't sell it if no one sees it. At least this is a more proactive strategy for your art career. So you hang your work in any venue that has a blank wall. Personally, I have hung paintings in book stores, doctor's offices, town halls, grange halls, libraries, hospitals, cafe's and restaurants. It was great for getting my name known, but not so much for sales. The reason is that people are going to those locations for reasons other than buying art. As a matter of fact, I don't recall seeing any one leave a hospital with a new painting under their hospital johnnie.

The more intensive next step is

Hit The Road Jack

Do the shows. The nomadic caravan that is art in the park shows, or sidewalk art festivals. Another weekend, another town. You can make money here, and maybe even win prizes for your work. Many artists spend the winter painting, and the summer hitting the road going to one art event after another. I've done a few of these over the years myself. For some reason, everytime I did, it was during a violent windstorm, and I have had a few pieces damaged as a result. I'll leave the road to the more experienced travellers with those really cool tents.

Lastly I guess, is

Lose 50 percent

I know that sounds harsh, but that is what most galleries take for their commissions. Personally, I like galleries. I enjoy the concept of shipping off my paintings for others to hawk, leaving me free to stay in my studio and work. And let's face it, tell people you're a painter and right after they ask if you do interiors, they'll ask if you show in galleries. They don't ask what restaurant or library you show in. It's snob appeal, I admit, but it works for me.

So keep painting, and find a sales strategy that works for you. Just remember, there's lot's of difficulties doing what we do, so as the Godfather said, don't take it personal-- it's only business!

Thoughts From A Wandering Mind

2011-02-18T19:12:00.001-05:00

We've actually had two days in a row this week where the temperature went above forty degrees. Brought me to mind of what I hope is coming soon. After last year's non-winter event, this year has more than made up for it. It did put me in a spring cleaning mode, as I spent most of the day straightening up the studio. I also spent some time doing some touch-ups on a couple paintings I wasn't entirely satisfied with. I use to never touch a painting after I called it "done" and signed my name to it. These days, however, if I see how a painting can be improved, I'll do it with no hesitation. After all, if I noticed my fly was down after I "finished" dressing in the morning, I'd still zip it up.

I was at an art store recently to buy some painting medium. I firmly believe that supporting the arts means supporting local art stores too. Most of these operations are Mom and Pop affairs, and I have seen way too many go out of business. These days, it's the internet that is dooming them. But then I saw this store charging exactly twice as much for a bottle of the medium I use compared to what I would pay online. Look, I'd happily pay a few bucks more, but geez-- don't make me go elsewhere! I went home and ordered it online.

This past summer I participated in a very well run charity paint-out art auction event. It was held in a town full of millionaires on the coast of Maine. Myself excluded, there where some well known artists participating, the work was top-notch, and the paintings were getting good prices. Half-way through the auction, I noticed that some paintings were really getting great bids, while other, equally good pieces weren't getting as much. Two young college-age girls where presenting the pieces for the bidders. One was an attractive brunette. The other was a striking blonde with movie star looks. I noticed that the bids where much higher and more prolonged when the blonde girl displayed the art! I kept my fingers crossed, but the brunette presented mine.

I sold my very first painting for eight dollars. Why eight bucks? I didn't think five was enough, but I didn't dare ask for ten.

All this winter I've wanted to climb to the top of a hill on a golf course near me to check out the view. I'd been up there in the summer, of course, and the vistas were quite lovely. I wanted to see how it would look on a sunny late afternoon covered in snow. I thought it might be cool to try a plein air from up there. I finally climbed up there today. It was the hardest ordeal I've put my body through in years. The snow was knee deep, or in many spots waist deep the entire three hundred yards up the hill. I had originally thought I'd snow shoe up there, but opted for heavy boots instead. (Because I'm wicked smaht!) Each step was an ordeal. I thought that somehow all the oxygen in the atmosphere had dried up. Halfway up, I thought I'd take a photo of myself so my family could see how I spent my last moments on earth. But I kept on going, anticipating the golden light shining over the snow covered hills I'd see at the top. After an eternity, I made it. And the view? Lovely. Except the sun went behind the clouds as soon as I got there.

And by the way-- today is the tenth day I've had this head cold...

In honor of Presidents Day: John Singer Sargent was commissioned to paint a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, but found it very difficult to do. Roosevelt had little use for Sargent, and didn't want to sit still long enough to have him complete the work. For his part, Sargent didn't have a high regard for TeeDee (as Roosevelt's family called him), finding him to be a rather overbearing know-it-all. Sargent was trailing behind the always moving president, imploring him to be still for just a little while, when Roosevelt, climbing some stairs, turned around and glared down at the master painter. "Hold that pose!" cried Sargent. Here's the painting:

Have a great long weekend!

Decisions, Decisions

2011-02-16T19:40:00.000-05:00

When Thomas Eakins was working on this painting of a woman singing, one of his students asked him why he included a rather noticeable wrinkle in the woman's dress. "Because it's there," replied Eakins. There you go, Tom! That's just like something I would do. I was going to use this post to show a new painting I had just completed. It's taken me about two weeks of work, as opposed to my usual five days. It came out pretty much like I thought it would. I did a lot of prep work to ensure I wouldn't get lost while I was working on it. Technically, it's one of my better painted scenes. But I have decided not to show it. Why? Because it's like that wrinkle in Eakins dress (so to speak) it shows how a scene looks, but there's not a whole lot of "art" in it. I may be my own worse critic, but I didn't overburden myself with a whole lot of decision making when I conceived of the picture. I painted a scene, "because it's there." Ho-hum.

A painting is not just a testimony of an artists ability with paint and brush, it's an outward visualization of the artists decision making ability. Why that turn of the head? Why place that tree at that spot on the canvas? How come the light is coming from that direction? Change any of those elements and the picture is entirely different. But would it be better? A true master painter makes the correct decision in putting all the elements of a scene in the most dynamic placement possible.

I am not now stating, nor have I ever said that I am a master painter. (As a matter of fact, in a recent WSJ/NBC News Poll of the Statistically Insignificant 88% said I am not a master anything, 22% said I wouldn't know a master if one slapped me and 19% said I am not even master of my own domain). What I am saying is that there is always something to think about when you're trying to make a great painting. And really, isn't that our goal every time we step up to the easel? Deciding the best possible use of color, composition and design all add up to a quality piece of art. Choose incorrectly on any of them, and chances are you'll get a dud. A beautifully painted tree does you no good when it's in the wrong spot.

So there my little painting sits. A victim of just looking ordinary. But I'm a "the glass is half-full" kinda guy, in that I'm sure that every step takes you somewhere. Nothing wrong with back-tracking if it leads you back to the right trail. I'm sure that I'll make the right decisions on my next painting.

If only I could decide on what it will be...

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My History Of Photography Part III

2011-02-14T21:02:00.000-05:00

When I talk about the evils of using photos in paintings, I really don't mean that after years of using them I have now found religion, and that my God is better than your God. It's just that, as the saying goes, "all things in moderation". And that's my problem; I go way overboard on moderation. I know that photographs can be a huge help in painting. After all, they can do things for us that makes our task of painting that much easier. They can help us keep our values in scale. For instance, the brightest spot on any printed photograph can never be brighter than the white of the paper it's printed on. And we have a tube of color for that. Conversely, Nature gives us such dazzling whites and color that no tube of paint can hope to match. My problem was that I found myself not just relying on photographs for details, but I started to mimic photographic colors.

The painting above was done early in my use of photos. I still had the ability to imagine color back then. The scene is of Cousin's Island in Casco Bay, Maine. The photo didn't have a fog bank, or clouds in the sky. The sun was still relatively high in the sky. I made changes to the scene based on my observation of that beach over the course of many summers.

The painting below is of an old barn (since torn down) in Durham, Maine on a late September afternoon. It's another 40% photographic reference, and 60% imagination.

I changed the barn and trees, the color of the field and the sky. All of the elements were actually there, but I rearranged them into a different composition. So far, so good. But then over the course of years, I got too "photo bound."

I have always known that cameras distort perspective because of it's convex lens. What that does is enlarge the foreground which simultaneously diminishes the background. So a lovely meadow with a looming mountain range in the distance becomes a truncated field with a thin stripe of hills across the horizon. Kinda like this:

Let's say this is a scene you stumble upon out in the country. A cow resting under a big shade tree with a barn and pond nearby. In the distance is a blue band of mountains.

You like it and want to take a picture of it to paint later. What the camera does to it is this:

It's an exaggeration, but not by much. The barn looks like a hundred miles away, and the mountains have disappeared. All because of the properties of a camera lens. If you want to make the picture look right, you need to adjust the perspective. I knew this was a drawback with photos, so I could fix it. But as camera technology got better and better, I copied too much. Here's a scene from my old home of Cundy's Harbor, Maine.

Here's the painting I made from it;

Gee, do you think I used a whole lot of imagination with this? Of course, I couldn't very well have set my easel up in the middle of the harbor now, could I? And that's another good thing about photographs-- you can get views with them that are impossible to get lugging your gear around. But I have spent too long observing nature through the camera lens, and I have forgotten to use my eyes.

So where does that leave me with photographs? Am I going to stop using them?

Hell no!

But I am going to do more outdoor color sketches so that in conjunction with a photo, I can get a more accurate and realistic painting. Sort of like going back to my beginnings.

Nothing like art to make you take a long journey only to find that where you end up is the place you shouldn't have left.

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My History Of Photography Part ll

2011-02-11T19:05:00.000-05:00

From A Photograph

The first digital camera I ever bought is sitting here in front of me. It's an HP Photosmart. It doesn't say it, but if I recall it has 3.5 mega pixels. Yeah, I know... they make cigarette lighters with more pixels than that these days. It's fairly small. It's lightweight.

It's pure evil.

I bought this thing about ten years ago, and I thought it would serve me well. The only problem with it is that it got me hooked on using photos for my paintings. Let me tell you, that monkey has been heavy on my back.

I mentioned in Part I that I didn't use photos much in my early years of painting because they were so dreadful, what was the point? The colors were brutal, the perspective all off, I might as well have used a kindergartner's drawing for reference. Ah, but this digital thing was a little different. Even though it is still pretty bad by today's standards, compared to a Pocket Instamatic, it was perfection. I could zoom in on details (to a point that the pixels allowed me). I could color correct. Best of all, I could see right off the bat if I didn't like the photo. If I didn't like it, I could take another shot. And it stored up to a hundred pictures in it's memory. I can't remember a hundred words-- but I digress... Anyway, that's a whole lotta polaroids! I use a separate hard drive to store my photos (and I back them up on CD's). In the past four years I have taken over 14,000 photographs. Except for the obligatory birthday pic's, each one was of something I thought might be a good painting. Of course, after I showed the kids their birthday pictures, I'd delete them. (The photos, not the kids...)

I originally thought I'd use pictures only occasionally, you know, just to help me with the details of a scene. Oh, sure, I knew the hazards that photos presented, but I was going to be different. I wasn't going to let them be my crutch. But a little soon became a lot. It got to be so bad, I couldn't make a grocery list without taking photos first. As a matter of fact, I relied on photos so much, I even set up my studio to accommodate my "Photo Jones":

But, like every addiction, I knew deep down that I was wrong in "using". Worst of all was that my ability to imagine colors was completely gone. I used to be able to imagine a sunrise scene, and paint the colors fairly accurately, drawn from my memory of observation. Then it got to be that if I didn't have a photo of it, I'd be lost. I would even pass up painting beautiful scenes because I knew I wouldn't be able to get a good photo of it. And heck, if I can't get a photo of it, I can't paint it, right? It wouldn't have been so bad if I wasn't always aware of the limits that photos have. It's like smoking cigarettes. If you started smoking back in the day when they were considered "healthy" then you have an excuse for smoking. For everyone else-- no excuses. I have long known how photos skew reality.

I think I'll use Part III on how cameras screw you up, and how I have struggled to try and end my addiction. But I need a smoke break...

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My History Of Photography Part I

2011-02-09T18:53:00.000-05:00

From A Photograph

When I first started painting a few decades ago, killer rabbits were attacking Presidents, computers were housed in rooms the size of parking garages and served by scientists in white coats and respirators, telephones were only used to talk to other people, and cameras really, really sucked. My goal was to paint in a realist manner, so I figured I would use photographs to help me get the details I needed for my subjects. There wasn't much debate about the use of photo aids in painting back then. Realism wasn't popular, to say the least. Types like Pollock, Picasso and the rest of the painters in the abstract movement didn't exactly use a whole lot of photographic reference material. I thought it perfectly logical, and didn't think there would be any problem with using photography.

But there was a problem, I soon learned. I found that the photos I took of things I wanted to paint looked nothing like what I originally saw. Let me first explain that the camera I was using was a Polaroid Land Camera. You know, the big, bulky thing that spit your photo out the front where you could then watch it develop right in front of your eyes! Now, I don't care if it could liven up any dull party just by taking instant photos, that thing produced ghastly results. On a three inch by three inch square, that lovely golden late autumn field I took a photo of, with beautiful maple trees surrounding it in brilliant, intense orange and red, and with the White Mountains of New Hampshire rising up in purple splendor in the far distance looked like a badly crayoned childs drawing. The field would be a flat yellow-grey, the tiny trees a dull orange smear, and the looming mountains had been compressed into a thin strip of blue along the horizon. It was completely useless for my purposes.

There were better cameras around, of course. There was the Kodak Pocket Instamatic with 110 film. At least that photo was a slightly larger three inch by four inch. The colors were a little better, but still light years removed from how objects really looked. But you had to ship off the roll of film to be processed. It took two weeks to get the processed pictures back so you could be disappointed with the results. 35mm was the best, but those cameras, film and processing were way beyond what my wage of $2.85 an hour could afford. So, photos were out. I didn't realize at the time that it would turn out to be for the better, because when I realized that using photos was useless, I began to teach myself to observe.

I guess it's a legitimate question to ask why I just didn't go out and paint out doors? You kidding? If rabbits were able to attack President Carter, what do you think they'd do to me? Actually, if truth be told, it never dawned on me to paint plein air. In my defence, there just wasn't a whole lot of plein air painters back then, anyway. And besides, my hero, Norman Rockwell was a studio painter. 'Nuff said. So, I sketched and painted objects from life, alla prima, but not plein air. But I would also spend hours and hours observing nature. I lived in the middle of one hundred acres of dense Maine forest, so I grew accustomed to the colors, sights and light of the woods. When I painted trees I put colors in that I had seen with my own eyes, and not through the lens of the camera.

But as we all know, technology has improved cameras greatly. Ten years ago I bought my first digital camera, and soon found myself totally immersed in helpless addiction to photos. More on that to come...

By the way... there aren't any killer rabbits anymore, is there?

Let The Games Begin!

2011-02-07T19:37:00.000-05:00

I want to pass on my hearty congratulations to the Green Bay Packers for winning Super Bowl XXXVLE-I-E-I-O. If your team didn't get to play in it (like the Patriots...) then at least there were two teams worth routing for. The Steelers and Packers have history that goes as far back as the beginning of the NFL. Would we really care if the Tennessee Titans took on the Carolina Panthers? So congrats to all the cheese-heads, wherever you are.

With the Super Bowl gone for the year, and baseball season still months away, I feel the need to have more sporting events. So, I've thought of The Super Bowl of Artists. I won't be so pretentious as to number my super bowl with roman numerals, so instead I'll use the alphabet. So here is The Super Bowl Of Artist.a!

Competing first in the Play-Offs are: Michelangelo vs Pollock!

And the winner is... Michelangelo! His easy victory moves him on to the next round.

Okay, next up we have DaVinci vs Picasso-

Geez, another blow-out! DaVinci takes this one.

Maybe this next match will provide some competition. We now have Sargent vs Johns:

Nope. Can't say this one was close either. John Singer Sargent waltz's away with a sure victory. So far, we have Michelangelo, DaVinci and Sargent in the semi-finals. One more match to go. Which of these next two artists will take on the "Big Three"?

Let's here it for Rockwell vs Munch:

Looks like it'll be... is the suspense killing you? NORMAN ROCKWELL!

Just like the NFL, these players are going to rest up for awhile to prepare for their next match. The schedule makers haven't decided on when exactly that may be, but one thing I know for sure is that The Super Bowl Of Artist.a is going to be exciting!

Anybody know where I can get a Norman Rockwell pennant?

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References, Please...

2011-02-03T21:26:00.000-05:00

Many years ago I got to do something I always wanted to do. I was an FM radio jock. You know, I love music. When I was growing up I didn't watch television, I was glued to the sound coming from the the little white radio on my nightstand. I would sketch and listen to the top 40. I remember thinking of how cool it would be to someday be the voice coming out of that small speaker. Well, fast forward a few decades, and I got a spot at a Portland, Maine radio station. I didn't have a lick of experience, but I knew a person who had a friend who knew someone at a station that needed someone quick. At first, I was just a behind-the- scenes technical guy, but before long, I got my own shift on-air. The boss liked my voice, and thought I had a future in the business. Pretty soon, I would occasionally fill in for his morning shift, or do a mid-day slot when needed. I never went full-time, but I stayed there for about two years, and I had a blast. I was friendly with the staff, and enjoyed everyone's company--except one. The overnight guy. He hated me.

The truth was, he was jealous of me. You see, I strolled in off the street and landed a gig while he went to Broadcasting School. I filled in during highly rated time slots. He toiled in overnight obscurity. But I had a good radio voice. (And a face made for radio too...) For confidentiality, I'll call him Dale-- even though his name was Adam-- but his voice was God-awful! It was so bad, you'd long to hear someone's nails on a chalk-board for it's soothing effect. After listening to Dale's voice, squeaking balloons sounded like a heavenly choir in comparison. The sad truth was that Dale just didn't have it. Radio was a talent-driven business back then. It didn't matter that maybe you graduated from Broadcasting School with high honors; if you had the voice of a choking herring, you didn't get the prime slots.

Isn't art something like that, too? Art is a talent driven business, isn't it? Yes, you can certainly be schooled to learn the craft. You can even be a straight A student at the local College Of Art. But when a patron walks into a gallery to purchase some art, the only thing that grabs their attention is the painting. If they are torn between two pictures, do they ask to see the artists references as a tie-breaker? Well...maybe-- if they are purchasing an investment. But not if they just want to enjoy owning a painting. It's talent that's the deciding factor. Of course, there is no universal yardstick to measure talent, and reams of paper (and endless blog space) have been wasted trying to explain taste. But we all can recognize something we like. Does it matter if the artist was self taught, or the ace of the class? Does it matter if a painting was done in the dining room after the artist got home from her day job, as opposed to being done in a lavish studio? The artists long list of honors, education and accomplishments mean nothing if you don't like the picture.

So, if you fear you're lacking in the proper credentials to be considered seriously, cheer up! The alternative isn't all it's cracked up to be, either. Right, Dale?

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What-to-call-it?

2011-01-31T20:32:00.000-05:00

Just a quick post for tonight. I'm busy polishing up my snow shovels, shining my winter boots and greasing up my ski-mask in anticipation of another winter storm. By my count this one makes one hundred twenty-eight so far this year. I love it when meteorologists say things like, "This will be the worst storm in history!" They mean recorded history, of course. Some of those records only go back sixty years, or so. There might have been a worse storm three hundred years ago, but whose to say?

Anyway, I'm posting a photo of a painting I finished last week. This was another one I did from life, with no photo help. I worked on it one hour at a time, from 2:30 to 3:30 in the afternoon, and of course, only when it was sunny. My vantage point was from my living room window, looking out at my back yard. While I painted this standing indoors, it is an outdoor scene. Can I call it a plein air?

I'm not inventing the wheel here when I say that observation beats photos every time. Below is a photo I took of the spot from my vantage point, but at a slightly different time of day.

But I don't know what to name it. Got any ideas? My working title is Mid-Winter. Yeah... exciting, I know. So if you can think of a good name, drop me a line. And if you live in an area of the world that doesn't have snow, I'll even come by and pick up the name!

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Success.Com

2011-01-28T21:15:00.000-05:00

I recently saw an ad placed in one of those on-line classified ad sites. I don't want to give anybody free publicity, so let's just call it "kraig's list". The ad read, "Artist seeking gallery representation." I didn't make that up. An ad like that is right up there with, "Person seeking mechanic to come fix my car." Or, how about, "Singer looking for recording contract." Now, I'm sure that somewhere out there, there is a gallery that has sold out of all its merchandise and is desperate to find new artists because they haven't had any contact them for months. They go shopping in blind hope on the internet, and lo and behold they find this guy.

But probably not.

Remember the Dot Com bubble? When the internet first hit ten years ago, the thinking was that a company doing business on it couldn't help but make money. After all, they had access to potential consumers from around the world. Investors flocked to these companies and threw money at them hand over fist. Everyone was going to be filthy rich! And then a funny thing happened on the way to the bank. Hardly anybody made any money. In fact, quite a few dot.coms went belly-up. (Pets.com anyone?) Why did that happen? Because "Build it, and they will come" only works in Hollywood. For the rest of us, it's "Build it. Now go bust your ass and go try to sell it."

The internet really is a wonderful creation. So is a tuning fork. So what? A tool has to have a function, a reason for being. At least a tuning fork can tune your piano. But it can't tuna fish. But I digress... What can the internet do? Well, for starters, it can let your work be seen. The ubiquitous "they" say that to be successful, you must have an internet presence. So just about every artist out there has his own internet site. But that's almost as many sites as there are stars in the sky. How is anyone going to notice my star? Then there's FaceBook, Twitter, LinkedIn, etc. The concept here is to "network". You know, artists connecting to other artists. You know what "network" really is? The choir singing to the choir. Have you ever sold your work on Twitter? The internet is a great social networking vehicle, but as eToys.com, Flooz.com, and WebVan.com can tell you, it's hell on making money.

My point for all of this is: There is no easy way. The trick to being successful now is the same as it has been over the centuries; Work hard, make great art, and promote it ruthlessly. Waiting for success to find you is not a viable business option. The internet isn't the be-all and end-all. Sometimes, you have to pound the pavement and knock on some doors. So, Mr. "kraig's list," best of luck to you. I hope a gallery contacts you and promotes your work. But I'm doing things the old fashioned way--

By the way, anybody know where the Medici's live?

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Relax...

2011-01-26T19:22:00.000-05:00

One of the more common statements I get when I tell people I paint pictures is, "Oh, isn't that sooo relaxing?"

Relaxing?

Relaxing?

You kidding me? Relaxing?

Yeah, it's relaxing alright. As relaxing as a knife fight. As relaxing as a swim with sharks. As relaxing as engine trouble at 37,000 feet. Let me put it another way-- no, I don't find it relaxing.

You see, when I'm painting, every watt of power in my little brain is focused on the end of my paint brush. Each stroke can come out just right, or a disaster. The color note that looked good on the palette is completely wrong when I put it on the canvas. That nice, flowing brush stroke just overlapped into another section, and smeared the color. That little tweak I gave that perfectly good passage just turned it into a frozen pile of mud. Things go wrong. So I am completely focused on the task at hand. Does that sound relaxing to you?

Now, on the other hand, occasionally something really cool happens. That's when a passage turns out better than I had any reason to hope for. Then I'm all jazzed up. I'm jumping around the studio, doing back flips, patting myself on the back, acting like the Red Sox just beat the yankees! (A common occurrence these days, but still exciting). I go charging on, anxious to see if the rest of the painting will turn out as good. Doesn't really sound all that relaxing, now does it?

There are some things about painting that are not heart palpitating and stress inducing. Doing initial underdrawings, underpaintings or detail work--while very important-- can be somewhat dull. Some may even say boring. And boring isn't relaxing. We don't go to spas to be bored. We don't take vacations to be bored. So there's another strike against painting being relaxing. The truth is, when you put your heart and soul into any effort, it's not relaxing. Not if you care about how it turns out.

So, what do I do to relax after a hard day's painting? Why, I turn to the most relaxing person there ever was--

Mr. Relaxation, Perry Como!

See The Tree, How Big It's Grown

2011-01-24T19:34:00.000-05:00

What do you do when you want to paint an outdoor scene from life, but the temperature outside is only five degrees above zero, with a wind-chill temperature near twenty below? Well, I guess you could don multi layers of clothing so you resemble a heftier version of the Michelin Man, put on boots that weigh twenty pounds and arctic gloves that are even too big to fit in the overhead compartment on planes, and set out to show Mother Nature who's boss. Or, if you're like me, you fire up the parlor wood stove, grab your french easel and a cup of coffee and head on over to a window to look outside. I may be a wimp, but I'm a warm wimp!

I set my easel up in my living room by the picture window that looks out on the large tree that dominates my back yard. I love that tree. It's a huge maple with a six foot diameter and it looms over my garage and house with branches that block out the sky. I thought the thing was ancient when we first moved here last year, but come to find out it was planted around 1950 or so. I'm sure that when it was planted it was just a twig...

Like the painting I recently did of my bedroom dressers, this one is from observation with no photographic reference. I mean, the thing just sits there, it's not like it's a horse grazing in a field. I am cognizant of the light though. The time frame I'm depicting is between 2:30 and 3:30 in the afternoon. After I finished quickly roughing it in, I've been working on it one section at a time, and only at that time in the afternoon. This is the fifth afternoon I've been at it. I've miles to go on this, one hour at a time, but the photo above should give you an idea of what I'm shooting for. I hope to be able to post the finished job next week. Good thing I started this in January. Not only is the tree not going anywhere, but at five degrees, the snow's in no hurry to leave either. And that tree is way too big to brush all the snow away.

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Two Below, Honey

2011-01-22T18:48:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I packed up my french easel and did a painting "on location" in my bedroom. I had a lot of fun doing the project, but I looked forward to going back to my studio and normal routine. So, bright and early this past Monday morning I headed out to the studio and stumbled upon a cold hard truth: Winter had arrived in Maine. Dark and glowering skies, frigid winds howling from the north and mountains of snow piling and drifting up. My studio is an out building about fifty yards away from the back step of the house in the summertime, but in the winter, it seems like it's a mile away.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love my remodeled chicken coop of a studio, it's set up to suit my needs exactly as I want. The problem is that while it's insulated, it's not heated. The inside temperature is about two degrees warmer than outside. Even though I've got a pretty hefty kerosene heater and a small electric heater, and four good sized windows on the south side to add some thermal heat, the temperature inside the building that morning stood at four degrees. On a good sunny winter day, it takes about three hours to heat the place up to a workable fifty degrees, or so. By noon, the temperature is usually up to sixty-five or even seventy. But when it's a cloudy day, I can't get it warm enough to take off my winter coat. So I decided this week I'd do another painting from inside the house.

One would think that I would enjoy working "at home" as it were, but the funny thing is-- I don't. I mean, I don't have to go out and freeze, I have a bathroom, I have my usual music playing. Heck, I've never even had a studio before we moved into this place last year. But you know what I miss? Going to work. Since I started painting full time, I have always gotten up, got dressed and went to wherever I had my stuff set up to work. I suppose that's just the habit I've acquired from punching the clock for all these years. I've never been one to hang around in my jammies and slippers while I paint. So, I really get the feeling of "going to work" when I head out to my studio. I feel like a slacker or something when all I have to do when I'm here in the house is drag out my easel to get going.

But I guess I'm going to have to feel this way for a little while longer. The weather folks are calling for some of the coldest weather of the winter to hit us this week. Night time lows are going to be in the ten to twenty below zero range, while daytime highs will only be about ten degrees. So, in the house I'll stay. But still-- absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I think my studio is sweet even at two below, honey.