Jekyll And Hyde

Here is my latest from around the neighborhood:  Up River, oil on panel 18X14in.  This is the Eastern River, the same little brook that borders my property.  This view is of the upper series of waterfalls that, from here, descend another hundred yards or so.  Earlier this year I also did a picture of the waterfall on the top; Deep Wood Falls:

Like all bodies of water, they can have good days and bad days.  I think I've shown its good side.  But we have had about three inches of rain today, so it has gone from quiet and serene like this:

To raging, like this:

Moody little thing, isn't it?



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A Little Art History: Or, I Kinda Get It...

As a lover of history, I have learned not to judge the citizens of the past by today's standards and morals;  I think it's best to try and see things through the eyes of those who were there without the benefit of hindsight.  Take the habit of burning a witch at the stake, for instance.  Now, we cringe at the extreme stupidity and barbarous aspect of taking an innocent victim and burning them alive to expel a "witch".  "My goodness, what were they thinking?" we can ask ourselves.  But to the folks in what we call the Dark Ages, what they thought they were doing was kinda like an intervention.  They thought it a joyous occasion when they could steal a soul from the clutches of the devil and deliver it into the waiting and protective hands of the Almighty through the purifying power of fire.  Not quite so bad now, is it?  Still, it's a practice we frown upon today.

Another thing that's good to keep in mind when studying history:  The winners get to write it.


When I was young and just starting to learn about it, art was still in the middle of the Ice Age known as Contemporary Modern Art.  According to what I read, (in books, and not on Wikipedia...) we had the enlightenment that was the Renaissance, then the art equivalent of the Dark Ages until "true art" was finally born again at the beginning of the 20th Century with the coming of the Expressionism and Abstract movements.  Realism, when mentioned at all, was relegated to the French Impressionists of the 19th Century, with maybe a sideways glance at Thomas Eakins or Winslow Homer.  Other than that, it was a subject best not spoken of in polite society.


The impressionist were always cast as a group of Frenchmen who rebelled against the stuffy and stilted art Powers-That-Be, by painting their pictures outside En Plein Aire, and who figured out if you put a dab of yellow next to a dot of blue and stood back, it looked green.  Now, let's get back to talking about Jasper Johns, shall we?...


But, as with all things, there is more to the story.  The Powers-That-Be that were never mentioned in any book I read were Classical Academic painters like William Bouguereau, Jean-Lois Meissonier, and Jean-Leon Gerome, to name a few.  These were artists whose technical polish and skill were above reproach.  They painted stunning pieces depicting Greek mythology, with dancing Satyrs and beautiful Nymphs: or ancient Roman times, showing slave auctions and gladiator fights in loving detail; or massive canvases highlighting the wars and people of the Napoleonic era.  Not to mention the occasional street urchin, or comely peasant girl.  We look at these pieces today and rightfully see the immense talent and consummate skill that was needed to do them.  But all the Impressionists like Monet, Renoir, Cezanne et. al., saw were paintings that had absolutely no bearing on the world they lived in.

You know what?  I'm kinda going with the Impressionists on this one.


Don't get me wrong; I love the Academic painters.  I think Gerome, Bouguereau and all are absolutely fantastic artists.  But like the young-buck painters of the 1870's, I just don't buy into paintings of Greek Mythology, Ancient Roman life etc., either.  And when they tried to paint to the average guy with pleasing pictures of children and pretty peasant women, all I see is saccharine Victorian sentimentality at its worst.  Honestly, while I can understand and appreciate the talent involved, if I was told that only subject matter like that is considered Art, I'd rebel too.

Monet and company wanted to show what was recognizable to most Frenchmen:  A train station, canals, small villages that were populated with real, identifiable people.  They wanted honesty in their portrayals, so they went to the location and painted it from life, not from imagination in a studio.  You won't find any fierce Satyrs hiding in Monet's haystacks.  There are no rhapsodic Angels floating through Cezanne's skies.  And when Renoir wanted to paint a naked woman, he did-- and he didn't call her a "Nymph" or "Roman Slave".  Oh, and that yellow/blue dab thing?  It was an ingenious way of solving the problem of trying to convey the vibration of color and light that we see when out doors.

But most importantly:  The Impressionists won, so their descendants get to write the history.


Art books still lavish more praise on them than they do the 19th Century Academic painters.  The reason is that in the art tree of life, (as written by the current Powers-That-Be) the Impressionists are considered a vital root, while the poor Academics are relegated to Australo-Pithecus status; An evolutionary dead-end.  But the Ice Age is thawing from the art landscape, and as it recedes, the likes of Bouguereau and Gerome are coming into view again.  And the more they are seen, the more they become appreciated.  The more they become appreciated and held up as the ideal in painting, the more one other thing about history becomes evident:  The past always repeats itself.


That doesn't really bode well for witches, now- does it?

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Keeping It Real

If truth be told, I have a love/hate relationship with plein-aire painting.  It's kinda like how I feel fixing a flat tire:  If I do it right, everything will be OK, but I'd rather not have to have a flat to begin with.  Don't get me wrong, every once in a while, I saddle up my old french easel and head out into the great outdoors and have a go at it.  And surprisingly, I usually enjoy myself.  Go figure...

But I have noticed something about plein-aire paintings that I have seen in galleries or group shows, and that is they all seem to say, "Look at me!  Look at me!  I'm a Plein-Aire Painting!  Can't you tell by my non-existent edges, and clumps of broken color?  Just like Monet!  And that crooked box thing?  It's my impression of a house!"  (Between you and me, even when I squint and look over my shoulder at an angle, my first "impression" of a house is that it has straight lines.  Just sayin').  In other words, there is a bit of sameness that one sees in paintings done out-of doors; an expectation of how plein-aire is supposed to look.  It's my own personal taste I admit, but I'd rather a painting say "What" instead of "How"  if you know what I mean.   Then again, I'd be lying if I said that I haven't fallen into that trap myself once or twice.  Like with this:

I am at heart a studio painter.  Even more:  I'm a studio Landscape painter.  Now, there are those who will tell you that being a studio landscape painter is like being a virtuoso on the air guitar.  Whatever.  I like the familiarity of my work space.  But that doesn't mean I don't like the authenticity that painting from direct observation brings.  I just approach it in a different way.


I have been known to grab a studio piece and go outside and paint a passage from life.  Skies mostly.  It doesn't matter what or where my subject is, I can paint a sky from life just by stepping out of my studio door.  Kinda like what I did with this:

Even though this is my own damn back yard, for goodness sakes, I painted it in the studio.  I didn't like what I had for a sky though-- which was a plain old boring blue.  So I set this up outside and painted these clouds and sky from life.


Studio pieces aren't the only ones to get this treatment.  Check out this painting from last fall:

 


This painting was actually done plein-aire, even though the location is miles away from where I live, the sky was done one morning from my driveway. 


But I'm also not against fixing a painting in the studio that I've started on location.

I did a plein-aire painting of a blueberry field last summer that I've never been completely in love with.  It always seemed half done to me.  As a plein-aire, maybe it worked, but I wanted a little more finish, so a few days ago I grabbed it and went over every bit of it in the studio.  I didn't really re-paint the scene, but I carried what was there a little farther.  Here's where it was after three days of painting on location last summer:

And here it is this week: 

Tune in next week to see how it will look then...



All I'm saying is that I want my paintings to have a similar style and "feel", and to me it matters not how I accomplish that-- whether I paint it all out doors plein-aire, or all inside the studio, or a combination of both. 

I'm just trying to keep 'em real. 

Looking.


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Taking The Long Way Home

Theodore Roosevelt's favorite game to play with his five children was "Follow The Leader".   Teddy would take the children on a jaunt around their summer home on Long Island, but not by a nice, normal route.  No, Teds would take the kids through bogs, over walls, cutting through dense brush and weeds and fording small creeks.  What fun!  I can only imagine what post-traumatic stress went through their minds at the future mention of "follow the leader"...  (As a side note, TeeDee did the same as president, except instead of his children, he took his cabinet through a killer walk around a local park in Washington D.C.  What a card!).  I guess Teddy was the kind of guy to take the road less traveled.  Suffice it to say that he and I would not see eye to eye on that.  I'm not going to admit I'm lazy, but if you add up all the miles in my life, there's not a whole lotta extra ones.


Knowing my proclivity for calling it "good" a bit prematurely, one would think that my painting technique is a quick find-the-color-and-slap-it-on style. 

It is not.

I actually prefer the old fashioned traditional realism method of glazing.  That method involves a lot of patience which, not surprisingly, I was not blessed with an abundant reservoir.  So why do I do it?  Because I like the way glazing brings rich, deep colors with a jewel-like enamel surface.  I simply find it appealing.


Where my technique and personality clash is when I think a passage is good enough, but yet still doesn't have the finish that I like.  Now, most painters have the common flaw of not knowing when to quit.  Hell, I'm sure even Jackson Pollack has said to himself  "You know, maybe that's one drip too many..."  So I know it sounds crazy to say that I think my problem is I don't know when to keep going.  After all, isn't a painting all about how it looks?  And if it looks right, isn't it done?  But yet, I still am concerned about the "look" of the painting, if you know what I mean.


One more fly in the ointment:  I'm freakin' blind as a bat.  Well, actually, I'm far sighted.  That means I can spot a golf ball at three hundred yards, (someone else's, I don't hit 'em that far) but I struggle with seeing objects within eighteen inches.  It is a common enough malady with people my age, and fixed easily enough with glasses.  And I wear them.  Actually, I keep a different set at every place I may need to use them.  Well, that's the plan.  Usually after a day or two I wind up with four sets by the couch, and none near the computer where I now need  a pair.  But I digress...

So when I'm painting my tight little detailed passages, I think they look alright-- but that's only because I can't see them clearly.  So the path of least resistance is to leave it as-is.  The other route means to take a photo of the area, blow it up, and look at the results.  If it looks okay at that point, I can leave it alone and move on to the next passage.  If it doesn't, I keep going.  That means more work and more patience, more laborious steps before I can safely call it "good", but ultimately it's worth it.

It's the long way to go, but I think T.R. would have approved...

 

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Whinings

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...

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Why?

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

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

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...

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Leaving Well Enough Alone

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!

                                                

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! 

 

 

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Here's To The Next One

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

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!

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Leo And Me

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

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

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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