A Guerrilla Painter`s Notebook

Transcription

A Guerrilla Painter’s Notebook
CARL JUDSON
Sun Worshipper
Bermuda, 1997
Oil on carton. 7½" x 13"
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BEAcH CARTOONS
I have my box with me almost always,
whether running errands in town or on a
trip overseas. As a result, I frequently paint
something outdoors everyday.
I have completed hundreds of small
plein air paintings over the years and owe
much of my development as a painter to
simple and convenient equipment, which
makes it possible to paint almost any subject, anytime, anywhere.
Teenagers
Bermuda, 1997
A friend and fellow painter has a house
overlooking a beach in Bermuda. It was
the yearly trips to paint with my friend
that first got me motivated to build a nohassle, travel-proof painting kit.
Each year, with high hopes, I’d build a
new version, only to have it broken in my
luggage, blow over on the pavement and
smash, or to arrive home with my paintings stuck together.
Over time I perfected the design, and
for years now I have been ready to go
painting anywhere at a moment’s notice.
Marriotteers
Bermuda, 1996
Oil on carton. 6" x 8"
With my box, I can paint small plein air
paintings on my lap in my car, on a park
bench, in a café or bar, tucked away on a
doorstep, or boldly, out in the open with
the box mounted on a camera tripod.
One of the things I most enjoy painting
in Bermuda is the crowd on the beach.
(Back at home, I take my box to figure
drawing sessions in order to hone the skill
to include people in my plein air paintings.)
The beach is a great place to practice.
Shown here are some of my small plein
air people paintings from the beach in
Bermuda.
The Thinker
Bermuda, 1998
Oil on museum board. 6"x8"
Beach Cartoon
Bermuda, 1996
I often adopt a lighthearted, or comical
treatment of the people on the beach.
I painted most of these while sitting in
nearby beach chairs with my pochade box
nestled unobtrusively in my lap.
No One’s Coming
Bermuda,1998
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I have some favorite surfaces for these little plein
air people paintings: One
is museum board primed
with gray acrylic gesso; the
other is a resin sized carton
board, which I prime with
acrylic matte medium. I
think that it needs special
care from an archival standpoint, so secure mounting
to a permanent surface
with an archival (and reversible) adhesive
is something I make sure to do.
Sunbathers
Bermuda, 1998
Oil on museum board. 6" x 8"
The Cigar
Bermuda, 1996
Oil on carton. 6" x 7½"
Condominiums
Santa Cruz, CA, 1992
Oil on linen. 9¾" x 13¾"
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THE “BURbS”
to explore interesting patterns of shape
and color, and few critics, no matter what
else they may have to say, will accuse the
resulting paintings of being too trite or
saccharine.
For me, suburban painting is usually
unplanned. I’m on my way to or from
somewhere with some time to spare when
I see something interesting. I stop and
open up my pochade box, which I usually
have with me, and paint right from my
pickup seat.
Suburbia, a popularly negative icon of
our culture, can be a great place to paint.
It’s quiet and safe and people tend to
leave you alone, unlike other more urban
environments.
Horse Trailer with Pay Phone
Marin County, CA, 1993
Oil on linen. 7½" x 10"
New Subdivision Going Up
Fort Collins, CO, 1993
Oil on upholstery fabric. 7½" x 10"
There is a sort of “pop” overtone to the
subject matter that keeps me from taking
my painting too seriously and allows room
for some irony and humor.
Of course, the stage for “pop art” (of
which guerrilla painting in the suburbs
is a very distant cousin) was originally set
by the Impressionists, whose choice of
everyday subject matter was as controversial at the time as their use of paint and
treatment of light.
Spruce Trees, Lyons Street
Oil on linen. 10" x 7½"
Blue Collar Neighborhood
Santa Cruz, CA, 1992 (private collection)
Oil on burlap. 9" x 12"
King of the Road
Oil on mahogany. 9¾" x 10¾"
Parking Lot, UCSC
Oil on jute. 7½" x 10"
I’m not suggesting that landscape
painting in suburbia is all that artistically
daring, but there are lots of opportunities
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I often carry panels that are smaller or
larger than my pochade box. Just because
my pochade box is a certain size doesn’t
mean I’m necessarily limited to that size.
I put the wet painting on the floor or the
seat beside me until I get home. I find vertical formats effective occasionally in my “burbscapes.”
Suburbia isn’t just an American phenomenon. Two of the suburban scenes
(right) are from Cochabamba, Bolivia, and
outside Paris on the Seine.
Lunch Hour
Cochabamba, Bolivia, 1994
Oil on jute. 7½" x 10"
Old Locks on the Siene
Les Mureaux, France, 1992
John’s Beach
Merchant Island, ME, 1997
Oil on carton. 7½" x 11¾"
MAiNE REViSiTED
I’ve taken painting trips to Maine with
a friend several times. Each time, we’ve
painted in the area around Stonington
and in Penobscot Bay.
Of the 50 or so paintings I’ve done on
these Maine trips, some are repeats of
the same subject. Comparing these pairs
of paintings has helped me to look more
critically at my work.
I keep almost all of my paintings, good
and bad, partly because they are a form of
personal journalism, independent of their
aesthetic merit, but also because I learn
from my mistakes.
Merchant Island Dock
Careful observation and accurate drawing frequently (but not always) pay off
in my painting. Here, the first painting
(above), carefully observed and rendered,
is clearly the more successful. In the
second painting (top left) my attempt to
convey the filigree of the evergreen foliage
by means of painterly shortcuts was less
successful. A little extra effort in seeing
and drawing might have helped to better
capture this more difficult view of the
subject.
However, here the first painting (middle
left) is based on more careful drawing, but
the second painting (below left) is probably the more successful.
Workbench with a View
The Dock
The second painting (below left) was
done on a rust red ground. I frequently
use red grounds and/or draw the subject
with a brush and some red tone ranging from alizarin purple to orange. The
red ground peeks through, helping to
unify the painting and to define edges.
Although not a “natural” observed color,
the red or brightly colored edge frequently
gives a sense of reality and position in
space. The phenomenon is called halation and is what gives many of Wayne
Thiebaud’s paintings their visual punch.
Blow Down
Again, the first painting (left) retains
a painterly quality with the halation from
the red drawing filling the painting with a
sense of light. By contrast, the more carefully rendered second painting (below left)
lacks the life and excitement of its more
casual cousin.
While not the same subject, these (facing page and below) were painted in the
same location facing opposite directions.
They are stylistically somewhat different,
but both share a balance of painterliness
and drawing using a brush and alizarin
crimson on interesting, textured grounds.
Note that the tree and the distant shoreline (below) neatly intersect at the center
of the painting. Figuring out how to get
away with putting things exactly in the center of a painting is one of my compulsions.
Looking North from John’s Beach
Oil on burlap. 13" x 7½"
Blown Down
Shop Bench
7˚ Calle and Diagonal 11 – from Idalma’s Roof
Quetzaltenango, Guatamala, 1993
Oil on burlap. 7½" x 10"
FROm IDALmA’S ROOf
Several years ago, my daughter Nina
and I spent five weeks studying Spanish
in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. We stayed
in a house owned by a woman named
Idalma.
Of course, I took my homemade
pochade box and a carrier case (the size
was 8½” x 14”). During our stay, I painted
frequently—often from the roof of Idalma’s
house.
Painting from the same location can
lend continuity to a series of paintings that
otherwise vary widely in subject matter
and treatment. Such continuity can contribute to their effectiveness in exhibition.
These paintings were displayed as a group
in a one-man show. Because of the angle of view, painting
from a rooftop frequently suggests scenes
that are several blocks away, which can produce paintings that look flattened and/or
abstracted as if viewed through a zoom
lens (like the work of Giorgio Morandi,
who is said to have used a telescope to
paint landscapes from his studio window).
I am drawn to the abstract elements in
the subject matter I choose to paint, so
this suits me fine. The resulting paintings
can have some ambiguities, which tend to
leave the viewer a little puzzled.
Xela is the Indian name for this region
of Guatemala. The scene below was painted during a constant drizzle. The buildings
were six or eight blocks away and the scene
is further flattened and abstracted by the
steep, bright green mountainside rising behind. The lack of the predictable horizon
and sky makes one of those little puzzling
ambiguities that I like.
Bicycle Shop – from Idalma’s Roof
I liked the contrast of the satellite dish
with the typical Latin American hillside
neighborhood (below).
After a Shower – from Idalma’s Roof
The Laundry Next Door – from Idalma’s Roof
The bicycle repair shop about a block
away (above right) was a beehive of activity, which may have distracted me from
the task of composition. The left 40% of
the painting could have been cropped to
make a more “conventional” composition.
Maybe I could have made a better choice
in framing the subject matter, but then,
I’ve never been much on convention.
The three paintings shown here, 7°
Calle (facing page), Diagonal 11, and A
View (both below) are three different
angles of the same view. The paint application is quite heavy.
Diagonal 11 - from Idalma’s Roof
The very bright colors of the acrylic
under-paintings peek through to energize
and unify the paintings. Lundy Siegriest (a Bay Area plein air painter and son of Louis Siegriest, one of the “Society of
Six”) made very effective use of painting
on bright, saturated color grounds.
A couple of blocks away, the odd archi tecture and geometry of 8º Calle (below)
evoked a sense of surreal loneliness.
Rain in Xela – from Idalma’s Roof
8˚ Calle – from Idalma’s Roof
Quetzaltenango, Guatamala, 1993 (private collection)
The surface I used for these paintings is
burlap thoroughly primed on both sides
with acrylic gesso and then coated and
textured with contrasting layers of bright
colored acrylic paints. These unstretched,
textured burlap “canvases” were then
taped to foam board cut to fit my carrier
case.
A View – from Idalma’s Roof
When I travel to places like this to
paint, I count on rugged, portable painting equipment. The combination of Latin
American weather and public transportation can be a tough test.
New Pickup with Iris
Bellvue, CO, 2000
Oil on canvas. 7½" x 10"
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FLOWERS
Flower painting has earned a bum rap
for being trite. This is not the fault of the
flowers.
I think of myself as anything but a
flower painter. But as I look through my
files I am surprised to see how frequently
they “crop up.” I’m certainly not a skilled
painter of flowers, depending rather on
their color or juxtaposition to contrasting
subject matter to carry the painting.
Mostly it’s the color that gets me going.
For instance (below), 2000 was a severe
drought year where I live. There were few
wildflowers, but the prickly pear cactus
bloomed in a profusion I had never seen.
Their delicate pale yellow blossoms and
rosy pink buds rioted in the parched
landscape.
Cactus Blossoms
Livermore, CO, 2000
...or a tractor with a Hollyhock (below).
California Poppies
Marin County, CA, 1992 (private collection)
Field of Roses
San Joaquin Valley, CA, 1992
Thistles
Globe Canyon, AZ, 1992
(private collection)
Oil on canvas. 10" x 3"
1085 with Hollyhock
Livremore, CO, 1992
Oil on canvas. 10" x 7½"
Early one evening I
stopped to paint spectacular
Globe Canyon in Arizona.
As I was setting up my box
on the camera tripod, I
spied these thistles in bloom
(left) and painted them
instead.
Other times it’s the
subject contrast that catches
my eye, like this wild rose
growing in bare ground by a rusty pipe
(below)…
Sometimes flowers are a “painter’s
block” subject for me. I’ll get out to paint
and find myself staring at my shoes, feeling
uninspired and listless, and I’ll end up
painting the ground along with any wildflowers that may be caught in the frame
at my feet like Butterfly View (below) and
California Poppies (above right).
Climbing Roses and Penobscot Bay
Stonington, ME, 1992
Oil on paper. 10" x 7½"
Butterfly View
Oil on linen. 4½" x 7½"
When I came across this field of roses
(above, right) in the San Joaquin Valley,
I pulled over on the shoulder and set up
my paint box on the tailgate of my pickup,
barely noticing the heat and glare of the
midday sun (except in trying to capture
the effect).
To keep from getting completely lost in
these complicated images, I start by carefully laying out the abstract pattern of the
darkest shapes and then build the painting
up around them.
Water Pipe with Wild Rose
St. Vincents, Marin County, CA, 1993
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And then there was the rainy day at
the ocean with the flowers on the table
(below).
For my favorites - the most skilled and
stunning examples of flower paintings I
know - see those of Manet1, painted from
his sickbed during the last months before
he died.
1
The Last Flowers of Manet by Robert Gordon, Andrew Forge,
and Richard Howard (translator); ISBN: 0810981645.
Time Clock Keeper
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LUNcH HOUR iN BOLiViA
In 1993 and 1994 I was doing volunteer
work in Cochabamba, Bolivia. When I
wasn’t out in the countryside, I worked
in an office in the main business district.
I was living with a family and could go
home for the traditional lunch and siesta,
but it was a long way on crowded buses, so
I frequently opted to stay downtown and
paint.
My principal criterion in selecting a
subject was first finding a comfortable
place to sit in the shade – doorsteps, public benches, against a tree on the ground,
etc. I carried a small Aguyo (a native pack
blanket) in my backpack to sit on. I’d settle
down, set up my pochade box on my lap
and then look for something to paint. The
result was a bunch of these ”lunch-hour”
paintings.
On the facing page, is one of my favorite
lunch-hour paintings. In the foreground is
a small traffic island at the confluence of
several streets. Sitting in the shade, reading
with her back to the street, is a time clock
keeper for one of the numerous private
bus lines that ply the streets of Cochabamba, waiting to punch the log of a bus
every half hour or so. In the background is
a new office building under construction.
The scene is somewhat abstract and surreal - a combination I enjoy.
Sleeping It Off
Painted from the same place on a different day, (below left) the improbable posture of the “dead drunk” figure, slumped
uncomprehendingly in the midday sun, is
an unfortunately common sight.
A favorite place of mine to paint was Plaza Cobeja, a few blocks from the office.
But I never knew exactly where I would
find an unoccupied bench in the shade
or space under a tree, so finding subject
matter once I’d found a place to sit could
be problematic. My solution was to paint
things a long way away - becoming a kind
of plein air “telephoto lens.” I frequently
find this a useful approach to simplifying
subject matter. The scene (below) was
about a block away down a street that
angled toward the plaza. The woman
leaning in the doorway drew me into this
simple composition.
Lunch Hour
Dump Truck Lunch Break
Cochabamba has a number of playgrounds with basketball courts. Unfortunately, basketball can’t be easily played
with a makeshift ball like soccer can. In
such a poor country few kids can afford
to own a basketball. I painted these three
kids (below) who hung around all the time
I was painting and as I finished, a fourth
boy showed up with a ball.
Cold Spring Afternoon
Cochabamba is full of these abstract
compositions (below). Lunch hour is a
quiet and peaceful time to appreciate these
settings free of the usual hustle and bustle
of Latin street life.
I have had several one-man shows of my
work at the municipal salon in Cochabamba. The Bolivian people appreciate graphic
images with a level of sophistication far
beyond that which is common in our
culture. This is reflected in the astonishing
degree of public support given to the arts
by Cochabamba’s otherwise impoverished
civic institutions.
Waiting for the Ball
Another spot I painted from frequently
was a no-man’s land near the river with a
grove of eucalyptus trees. One end of this
strip of land was used as a parking place
by dump truck drivers during lunch hour
(above right). The deep blue of the mountain ridge to the north of the city provided
a vivid color contrast to the rust-orange of
the dump trucks.
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Probably only my imagination, but this
lone patron (above right) sitting outside at
the restaurant across the street evoked the
feeling of the dark side of Cochabamba
with its shadowy cocaine trade and money
laundering.
Yellow Sign
Merchant Island Dock
Penobscot Bay, ME, 2001
Oil and pencil on museum board. 7½" x 23" (diptych)
Maine Coastline
Penobscot, ME, 2001
Oil and pencil on museum board. 7½" x 55½" (five panels)
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MULTi-PANEL PAiNTiNgS
Mainstream artistic tradition holds
that each panel of a multi-panel painting
should be a stand-alone composition.
I don’t necessarily agree with this, but
I like to have a legitimate reason to use
more than one panel; otherwise it feels
like a gimmick. When I’m constrained
by my pochade box to using small panels,
painting more than one panel for a larger
composition is a logical solution. Over the years, I have approached
multi-panel painting in three different
ways: (1) I’ll tape two or more panels to a
piece of cardboard clipped to the lid of my
pochade box, paint the panels together as
if they were one canvas and then transport
them safely home in my carrier case as
separate panels. (2) I select the composition, divide it into panels and paint them
one at a time, sometimes on different
days. (3) I will return to a previous location with a painting I did there, with the
thought of painting an adjoining panel.
When I paint each
panel separately, in
sequence, I find that
the resulting slight
disconnect from
panel to panel can
be quite engaging.
This discontinuity
can enhance that
characteristic which
distinguishes plein
air painting: the
subtle expression
of experiencing a
subject and its surroundings over time.
Some recent observations of visual
function1 suggest that we engage and
process visual information more intensely
when it is presented in multiple panels,
such as a view seen through an old fashioned multi-paned window (as opposed to
a picture window). This may help explain
why multi-panel paintings frequently
enhance an image rather than detract
15
from it. Then there is the question of framing.
Anyway you look at it, framing a multipanel painting is going to be more complicated and/or expensive. Separate, narrow,
simple frames for each panel, mounted
close by one another on the wall or hinged
together to stand alone are reasonably
simple. Single frames divided by mullions
Damp Weather
Livermore, CO, 2000 (private collection)
Oil on canvas. 7½" x 33" (triptych)
shown framed
(above) can be very effective, but the considerable expense of having them custom
made can make them impractical.
1
From a November 5, 2000 NPR Weekend Edition interview
with Christopher Alexander, author of A Pattern Language.
THE ARcHiVAL QUESTiON
- AN OpiNiON
I would like to dedicate this chapter to
Douglas Adams, who, before he was tragically killed in an auto accident, generously
shared with me some of his knowledge of
the conservation of artwork. I would also
like to thank Carmen Bria for his knowledgeable advice.
Most painters I know shrug off the
archival question - I’ve heard: “If it lasts
30 years, I’ll be gone. That’s long enough.”
Or this: “If I was selling my work for lots of
money, then I’d worry about it.” The feeling
seems to be that archival concerns are
for “famous” artists. I’d like to argue otherwise.
A case in point: My family has several
oil paintings done by my great aunt in the
1880s. Not museum quality pieces but very
credible works, nonetheless. The point
here is that these paintings are worth more
to us than to anyone else because someone
from our family’s past painted them.
They will all need restoration, which
could run into real money. Because they
are not paintings by a famous artist, there
is no museum, collector or dealer to foot
the bill - only us.
If my great aunt had had more awareness of archival principles (and/or had
subsequent family owners known more
about caring for paintings), we might not
be facing the question of whether or not
we can afford to save these paintings for
future generations of our family. Please
note that we’re facing this issue nearly
120 years (not 30 years) after they were
painted.
It has taken a couple of generations for
my aunt’s paintings to be appreciated.
The Artist’s Father
Lillian Spencer (1862-1957)
Oil on linen c1887. 18½" x 15½"
If these paintings survive beyond my
generation, their sentimental value to subsequent generations will likely continue to
grow.
For the bulk of artists whom fame
eludes but who leave behind a body of
good, solid work, their paintings will
be most cherished by their descendants
two, three or more generations hence.
Sadly, these descendants likely will be
poorly equipped to deal knowledgeably
or financially with the consequences of
poor archival practice. And, tragically, all
too often paintings that could have given
pleasure for generations more will have
to be abandoned for reasons that could
probably have been avoided when they
were painted.
If the idea of giving increasing pleasure
down the generations to come gives you
pleasure, I believe the small extra effort
and expense that following reasonable ar-
Walt Whitman
Lillian Spencer (1862-1957)
Oil on linen on board c1885. 16" x 20"
chival principles requires is really worth it.
For me, archival principles are not
particularly complicated and are broad
enough to be followed without much, if
any, sacrifice of artistic expression.
I think of these principles in terms
of (1) Physical Soundness, (2) Chemical
Soundness, (3) Reversibility, (4) Documentation and (5) Caution.
My thoughts here are based on my
experience as a painter with an interest
in archival matters, not a conservation
expert. In the end I put artistic considerations ahead of archival ones. “The painting
that will last indefinitely is the one that was
never painted in the first place.”
The following comments apply to small
plein air oil paintings. Archival issues with
respect to larger paintings, ones painted
over time in the studio, and/or using
other media would invite a more extensive
discussion. 16
Physical Soundness – This refers to the
painting support, its ability to withstand
mechanical damage, and the strength of
the physical bond between the paint and
the surface it is applied to. Also of concern is protection of the painting surface
from dirt and pollution.
I believe that the most important
archival consideration is protection of the
painting from mechanical damage. Frames
provide protection—I never part with a
painting without quality framing. Small
paintings are more resistant to damage
than large ones. Paintings painted (or
mounted) on rigid panels are more likely
to last.
My first choice for a rigid panel is untempered hardboard (“Masonite”) - I think
1/8” is okay up to 12” x 16”. I believe that
there is no reason to paint on real wood
(and several reasons not to) unless you
want the color and grain of the wood to
show in the painting—then my choice is
wood veneer on MDF.
For a lightweight painting or mounting support, I prefer 100% rag museum
board (which I mount to Masonite before
framing). Other more rigid lightweight
mounting choices include Gatorfoam®,
Coroplast® or DiBond® - but I would isolate the painting with a layer of museum
board.
If I paint on a fabric support, I mount it
to museum board (which I also mount to
Masonite before framing). Cotton canvas,
linen, burlap and polyester duck (primed
or raw) can all be mounted on rigid panels. The adhesive should be reversible, and
canvas or linen which is sized with rabbit
skin glue should never be adhered with a
water-based glue.
The strength of the bond between
the paint, the ground and the support is
important. A surface with some “tooth”
is always advisable - it is essential that
Masonite be well sanded before applying
a ground. For oil painting, I prefer nonwater based grounds on panels to avoid
warping. I recommend oil ground for
masonite, linseed oil, alkyd resin thinned
with mineral spirits for real wood, and
for museum board (this is my personal
archival heresy) I use one of the synthetic
resin varnishes on museum board (below).
The varnish seals the pores of the museum
board enough to reduce the porosity
and may help protect the paper. This is a
surface I enjoy using with a combination
of oil paints and pencil.
For acrylics, I would use acrylic “gesso”
or medium for the above surfaces. I have
occasionally used “true” gesso (made with
rabbit skin glue and marble dust - like
Gamblin Gesso) on panels - what a stunning surface to paint on with oils!
Like many painters, I have experimented with grounds prepared with acrylic
paint or palette scrapings (above right) - I
Driveway
Livermore, CO, 2001
Oil and pencil on museum board. 7½" x 10”
paints directly on paper or using the common, inexpensive canvas-covered boards
(made from canvas glued to cardboard).
Another common example is stretched
canvas where the canvas is in contact
along its edges with the wood stretcher
bars, which are very high in acid, and the
canvas becomes seriously weakened over
time where it is in contact with the wood.
Paintings on stretched canvas eventually
require restoration that usually results in
mounting on a rigid panel.
Bicycle
Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, 1993
know neither is a good idea from an archival standpoint. However, if one is ever
going to get away with such practices it will
probably be with small paintings mounted
on rigid panels.
A final varnish protects the painting
surface from dirt and pollution and makes
the painting easier to clean in the future.
A state-of-the-art varnish is Gamblin Gamvar™, based on a formula developed at the
National Gallery of Art. Chemical Soundness – Some paints
are chemically incompatible with many
common painting supports (oil paint and
canvas, for example). Sizes and
grounds are used to isolate incompatible materials from one
another. The high acid content
of oil paints, wood and wood
by-products (like cardboard),
and most adhesives will damage fabric and paper supports,
if not protected by the paper’s
sizing.
The best paper for artwork
is made from 100% cotton
rag. Wood pulp based papers
eventually self-destruct because
of their acidity.
“Chemically unsound”
could include the use of oil
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Reversibility – In the event that
something goes wrong with the physical or
chemical structure of the painting (due to
accident, water damage, age, etc.), it is important to be able to remove the painting
from its support as much as possible. Nonreversible adhesives, regardless of quality,
are best avoided in most cases. I think a fundamental archival principle
when using adhesives is reversibility. Most
adhesives sold as “archival” are not reversible; moreover, they are usually poly-vinylacetates (PVA) that turn acidic with time.
I am familiar with three reversible,
archival adhesives: (1) Water-soluble,
water-activated rabbit skin glue, (2) Watersoluble, solvent-activated Lascaux 498HV
and (3) Solvent-soluble, heat-activated Beva
371 film.
For many applications, the water reversibility of rabbit skin glue may be as much
a liability as an advantage where dampness
can cause damage. Lascaux 498HV can
either be used as an aqueous adhesive
or be solvent activated - I use it regularly
gluing down finished paintings that I have
painted on un-stretched canvas. The Beva
371 film can also be used for this purpose
and for gluing down new canvas to panels
- with reasonable care, it can be activated
with a household iron.
Documentation – Some notes can be
attached to the painting in a permanent
manner. Information as to materials
used (grounds, varnishes, adhesives, etc.)
can help avoid unnecessary cost or error
during restoration. Also, basic care instructions similarly attached can help owners
extend the life of a painting
To aid possible future conservation efforts, I place a label (using Lascaux 498HV)
on the back of the painting panel. This
label (in addition to title, date, size, etc.)
specifies the type of support and adhesives
used, the painting ground, and the date
and type of final varnish.
Caution – Traditional materials and
techniques are known quantities. Deviating from tradition involves risk. Modern
materials should be used with caution and
some knowledgeable assessment of their
probable archival properties.
Future conservation problems may be
quite different from those of the past and
probably more complicated. Many of the
relatively few “traditional” art materials are
being replaced (because of various drawbacks) by a host of new materials such as
water soluble oils, paint fillers, PVA sizing,
synthetic papers, and polyester canvas.
Many of the materials we oil painters
use today are not “traditional” - they are
new materials whose long-term properties
are not known and can only be guessed.
This is risky business, so it makes sense to
me to be skeptical, reasonably informed
on archival issues, and to use the best
materials available.
Overcast Day on West Olive
18
SNOW
The plein air painting tradition isn’t
confined to the warmer seasons. The
Impressionists painted year-round under
some pretty awful conditions and are well
known for their often gloomy and overcast, snow-covered scenes. Rockwell Kent
painted many snowy plein air landscapes
in the Adirondacks, Maine, Alaska, Tierra
del Fuego and even Greenland! Admittedly, it takes a hardy and dedicated soul
to venture forth all bundled up to capture
winter’s effects with oil paints the consistency of stale Jell-O.
Mostly, I avoid these discomforts by
painting winter scenes from the snug
comfort of my pickup with my pochade
box on my lap.
painting surface until I got the sense of
place I wanted.
Here (below) I used a rust red ground.
I think this 20-minute sketch is one of the
most effective snow scenes I’ve done, and I
haven’t figured why it worked so well. The
only rust red in the scene was the brick
house on the right, but the reddish glow
over the rest of the painting, oddly, gives
the sense of the late afternoon snow squall
heavy enough that I had to turn my wipers
on about once a minute to see anything.
The next afternoon, after the snowplow
and a warm “chinook” wind, I parked
at the bottom of the hill, looking east to
capture the bright effect of the red mud
and yellow road signs contrasted with the
escalating values of the cool blues of the
snow, the shadows, the sky and the rivulets
of snowmelt in the road (below).
Bumper Crop
Pierce, CO, 1997
The urban snow scenes that appeal to
me are frequently bleak and melancholy.
This one (below) remains one of my
favorites. I was quite early for a meeting
in Laramie, Wyoming, and was able to do
this sketch while waiting.
Afternoon Thaw
Livermore, CO, 1997 (private collection)
Spring Storm
Oil on linen. 6" x 10"
One of the things I enjoy about snow is
the potential for very subtle painting. Here
(below) I used a carpenter’s pencil dipped
in thinner to add the structural elements.
Morning Thaw
Buckeye, CO, 1997 (private collection)
I often paint snow on dark surfaces.
I guess it’s not surprising that laying the
“snow” over the dark “ground,” just as
nature does, is one way to produce a convincing effect.
When using a dark ground, I sometimes
scratch or scrape through the “snow”
to indicate or enhance details, like the
fence posts and bare patches on the road
(above). The tree line in the distance was
defined by repeated scraping through and
smearing of the sky colors over the dark
Used Appliances
Laramie, WY, 1993
Birthday Blizzard
Livermore, CO, 1997
Winter Above Tenmile
Livermore, CO, 2000
A heavy early snow got me out to paint
on the county road by my house (above)
before the snowplow came by. I was looking west toward the mountains.
19
Above right, an early snow was all
melted except patches on the pile of
shelled corn temporarily stored in the
open following a bountiful harvest.
A fine painter of small nighttime paintings that are full of snowy melancholy is
Mike Lynch of Minneapolis. He paints
these in his car at night using mini
flashlights attached to the sun visor (see
New American Paintings, Number 29, September 2000, pp 90–93, The Open Studio
Press, Wellesley, Massachusetts).
Co-op Elevator
Ault, CO, 2001
Oil and pencil on museum board. 7 ½" x 13"
20
SOmE ALTERNATiVE
SURfAcES fOR OiLS
Here are some different surfaces that I
have enjoyed using over the years:
Museum Board - 100% cotton rag
museum board can be used for oils without further preparation, but its absorbency
sure makes painting on it different. I have
used museum board this way (below) and I
like some of the effects.
Sugar Beet Loaders
Greeley, CO, 2001
Oil and pencil on museum board. 7 ½" x 13"
However, generally I prefer to size the
museum board with a synthetic resin varnish to cut the absorbency and protect the
paper fibers. Synthetic resin varnish is an
acrylic that is dissolved in a solvent – it is
used as a picture varnish for oils and acrylics. One application will soak into the
museum board and surround the paper
fibers with acrylic resin, having little effect
on the color or surface characteristics
while significantly cutting the absorbency. Since these synthetic resin varnishes
are solvent based, they will not cause the
museum board to warp. (You can use
acrylic gesso to prime museum board, but
since it is water-based, it is hard to keep
the museum board flat.) I particularly like to use a combination
of pencil and oil paints on this surface as
in the painting on the opposite page.
Carton - Carton is a high falutin’ name
for cardboard. Many painters around
the turn of the 20th Century, like Vuillard and Toulouse-Lautrec, painted on
cardboard, guaranteeing full employment
to several generations of art restorers. The high lignin content of cheap papers,
particularly cardboard, causes them to self
destruct in a few years, and even faster
with the addition of oil paints.
The carton that I use is a very
thin (1/32”) cardboard impregnated
with resin, which renders it stable
but somewhat brittle. I have been
painting on this material for many
years and am reasonably confident
of its archival properties, if properly
handled. I tested it by taping a piece to the
roof of my greenhouse. After a full
year in direct sunlight its color had faded
some, but for my purposes it survived the
test quite well. Because of the resin, this carton will not
warp, so you can use water-based materials
to prime it, like acrylic “gesso” or acrylic
gel medium. I like the beautiful warm
brown color and texture of the cardboard,
so I prefer the transparency of acrylic gel
medium.
To protect its brittleness I mount this
carton to museum board.
The painting (below left) allows the
warm brown of the carton to show
through in the foreground, the rocks and
the distant shore.
Birch and Mahogany - I think that
there are few good reasons to paint on
wood and many good reasons not to - unless you want the color and grain of the
wood to show through the painting. If that’s the case, there are few surfaces
to rival birch or mahogany primed with
linseed oil or alkyd resin. I prefer to use
an alkyd resin (like Liquin or Galkyd) because it dries much faster than linseed oil. A couple of coats with a light sanding in
between will leave a nice surface for painting. The beautiful honey color of birch
or the deep red-brown of the mahogany
make spectacular surfaces that can be used
to great effect. You can purchase either
plywood or, my preference, veneer on
medium density fiberboard (“MDF”).
Note in these two little paintings how
the wood color and grain show through.
Burlap - The rough and over-exaggerated texture of burlap can be tamed to make
a very sympathetic surface even for small
paintings. The actual burlap is loose and
much too flexible. My solution has been
to entomb it in acrylic. Its a little labor intensive but it can be worth it. I temporarily stretch large sheets of burlap just as you
would canvas over stretcher bars, brushing
one coat of good quality acrylic gesso on
each side. When dry, I sand both sides
to remove knots and fuzz. Then I brush
a second coat onto the front side. After
it’s dry, I take it off the stretcher and cut it
into pieces the size I want to paint on and
glue it down to masonite with more acrylic
gesso. Finally,
I trowel on
acrylic
gesso,
modeling
paste or
acrylic
paint
with a
beat-up old
palette knife
and/or old combs to
create a more varied texture. The result
can be a really rich and delicately subtle
surface. Examples can be seen on pages 5,
7, 8, 9, 12, 13, and 19.
Schoolgirls
Pocona, Bolivia, 1999
Oil on birch. 6" x 10"
Harbor Island Outing
Penobscot Bay, ME, 2001
Oil and pencil on Carton. 7 ½" x 13"
Quarry Trucks
LaPorte, CO, 2009
Oil on mahogany.
5 " x 7"
21
1
The Artists Handbook of Materials and Techniques, Ralph
Mayer, Fifth Edition, 1991, p. 236
Rainy Day
Benton County, IA, 1998
Oil and pencil on cartòn. 6" x 8"
22
THE BULL
Some years back, I took a shine to a
Dutch Belted cow that a neighbor had. I
bought her and later she had a calf, named
Persephone, that became our family milk
cow for many years.
Belted cattle are known, somewhat derogatorily, among cowboys as “Oreo cows”
for their white belts sandwiched between
black, front and back. Some belted cows
and calves are visible in the photo above.
The story goes that sometime around
the tulip mania of the 1600s1, some of the
Dutch aristocracy with more time than
sense took to breeding farm animals with
white belts. In addition to cows, they bred
belted pigs, rabbits and chickens. Anyway, Dutch Belteds not being
common, purebred bulls are few and far
between. I finally located one for sale in
the Midwest, so in the spring of 1998 I was
on my way to Illinois with my pickup and
stock trailer to pick up a bull.
On the way I spent time visiting folks in
Iowa and Illinois. These five little paintings (on resin-sized carton, primed with
acrylic gel medium or grey acrylic gesso)
are fond reminders of a trip that was, fortunately, a lot less eventful than it might
have been…
I got to the farm in the breaks along the
Mississippi in Illinois where I was to pick
up the bull on a beautiful late afternoon. The farmer invited me to go take a look
at him but cautioned me that he was “a
mean one” (the bull, not the farmer).
When we went out to the pasture, the
bull was lying peacefully with his harem,
chewing his cud. He didn’t get up as we
approached, so I thought I’d just let him
know who was boss. I marched right up
to him, nudged him in the nose with my
boot and all 2000 pounds of him jumped
to his feet in awed surprise. The farmer
looked at me like I walked on water…and
I did feel, well, kinda smug…It was one of
those “rancher/farmer” things. Some of
us ranchers have pretty high opinions of
ourselves when it comes to dealing with
animals.
of this clearly took the starch out of him
for a while, but gradually he became more aggressive until he had got me all figured
out and put me over the corral fence head
first. It just went down hill from there
until after about three years we finally sent
him to the sale barn because he was just
flat mean and pretty much fearless – in
other words downright dangerous.
Spring Morning
Cedar County, IA, 1998
Oil and pencil on carton. 6" x 8"
Misty Morning
Spring Lane
Bureau County, IL, 1998
Muddy Road
The next day the farmer and his son
volunteered to help load the bull in my
stock trailer. They insisted on taking
what seemed to me to be overly elaborate
precautions, like keeping a fence between
them and the bull at all times and triple
securing the trailer gate and the space
between the top of the gate and the roof of
the trailer with about 50 feet of heavy
23
rope. “Oh brother…farmers!” I thought to
myself.
After I got the bull back to Colorado, I
had the upper hand at first. Before he got
used to our mountain feed, he had several
sessions of bloat (a foamy gas buildup in
one of the stomachs, called the rumen).
Each time, I had to get him into the
squeeze chute, tie a rope through his nose
ring, put four feet of plastic tube down his
throat and pump about a gallon of mineral
oil into his stomach. Finally he had an
attack of bloat severe enough that we had
to poke a hole through his side into the rumen with a knife to let the gas escape. All
Looking back on it, the farmer and his
son turned out to have more sense than I
gave them credit for, and I was sure lucky
the bull didn’t call my bluff that first day
in Illinois when I poked him in the snoot!
1
The Dutch Tulip Mania of the 1600s is one of the most famous
speculative bubbles of all time. Tulip prices (and tulip futures)
reached fantastic levels (as high as 15 times the average Dutch
yearly family income per tulip bulb) before the bubble burst in
February of 1637 leaving many speculators financially ruined.
Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
Edward Manet (1832-1883)
Oil on canvas, 32" x 40".
Musée d’Orsay
24
PAiNTiNg ON THE EDgE
(OR ART VS. CRAfT) AN OpiNiON
For contemporary painting to be taken
seriously in the “real art” world, it is expected to create some element of surprise,
incongruity, or discomfort (if not shock),
be a little off kilter or unsettling - what is
sometimes referred to as being edgy.
Although, like almost everyone, there is
much current art that I don’t like, I find
the idea that edginess is a fundamental
component of art appropriate. This is not
a new idea - it has become a thoroughly
engrained part of our culture’s painting
tradition over the last 150 years, with roots
going back 500 years.
Painting, once one of the skilled crafts,
was nudged from its utilitarian moorings
as a conveyor of information and narrative
by (among other influences) the twin forces of Luther and Gutenberg - the former
giving rise to the idea of the importance of
the individual (and individual creativity)
and the latter conveying information by
more efficient means.
At first, the evolution of painting from
a craft to what we now call art was slow,
but by the time photography came along,
some painters (most of the ones we deem
important today) were staking out nontraditional territory for themselves in some
pretty edgy places: Manet with his roughly executed Picnic on the Grass, (facing page)
showing two well dressed gentlemen with
naked women in the woods; shortly afterwards the Impressionists with their dabs of
paint depicting ordinary
subjects (profoundly shocking at the time);
followed by the Fauves (“wild beasts”), the
Cubists and so on through the Pop Artists
and the Minimalsts, et al.
Stonehenge
Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851)
Watercolor on paper, 11” x 16”
Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum
25
Green and Gold: The Great Sea
James Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834-1903)
Oil on wood panel, 5 ⅜" x 9¼".
Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC
Over the last 150 years our society has
come to identify painting with edginess. A
certain type of edginess that is frequently
identified with contemporary painting
is some sign that the painter is pushing
his/her envelope - evidence of the process,
even mistakes, tentative sketch marks and
erasures. Masterful execution and bravura
frequently ring hollow - signs of a skilled
craftsman or illustrator, but not an artist/painter.
Edginess now marks one of the boundaries between art and craft. The arts are
full of surprises and tension, the crafts
are comfortable and predictable - the arts
challenge convention while the crafts are
guardians of the comfortable past (a valuable and valid role - just not art).
Turner found some of his edges in technique, Manet in social values, the Impressionists in subject matter, the Fauves in
color, the Cubists in form, and Pop in the
everyday. Some edges are rediscovered and
reinterpreted - today, just painting plein
air is so reactionary in some academic art
circles that it can have some pretty edgy
connotations.
Wolf Kahn and Fairfield Porter are
modern plein air painters whose work is
taken seriously in the “real” art world.
The edges that they staked out are now
familiar. Ironically (for their time), maybe
the edgiest images of the late 19th century
were the tiny, abstract, pochade box landscapes of James MacNeill Whistler. The
renewed interest, after nearly a century, in
the small and intimate scale of “guerrilla
paintings” once again challenges convention.
For me, the risk of leaving behind comfortable tricks of the trade, familiar materials and pictorial formulas is that I’ll fail or
fall over the edge into shallow contrivance.
Pushing the envelope is frustrating, exasperating and uncomfortable, but when
I’ve explored a new edge and negotiated it
more or less successfully, it sure beats just
cranking out another pretty picture.
Volleyball
Capitola, CA, 1992
Oil on paper.
7½" x 10"
26
PEOpLE PRAcTicE
In many places there are “pay for the
model” sessions where a group of artists
gather once a week to share the cost of a
model. Typically, these sessions will start
with ten or so warm-up “gestures,” where
the model will change poses every few
seconds, followed by longer poses ranging
from 20 minutes to an hour or more.
Arthur Fishing III
Livermore, CO, 1994
Building Don Rolando’s Stairway
Huayculi, Bolivia, 2001
Figure Study
1995
Not all landscapes benefit from the
addition of figures, but they frequently
provide context and scale. Creating figures
that are neither trite nor wooden presents
a challenge to plein air painters.
Street Corner
Lima, Peru, 2001
It’s all very well to say that you just have
to start putting people into your paintings,
but that’s easier said than done. It feels
pretty risky to just plunk a figure (often in
motion) into a plein air painting.
Over the years I have found ways that
have helped me in my quest to observe
how people behave in the landscape - and
then stay in practice.
I’ve found out in real life that it’s easier
to start by finding venues where people
are sitting still (like parks and cafes) or engaged in activities that involve predictable
repeated motions (like fishing or directing
traffic) that can be observed over and over.
players (bowling or golf would work, too). I
find this really challenging and instructive.
The TV images are repeated throughout
the course of the game, but only for a second or two at a time. Learning to capture
a pose from these fleeting observations is
really helpful. By the way, TiVo® is cheating.
Joseph and Judy Brewer “Hanging Nets”
Stonington, ME, 1992
I find the gestures and shorter poses
most useful for developing my “guerrilla street skills.” When I’ve been lucky
enough to find and join such groups, the
week-in, week-out discipline has really paid
off. I kind of stick out like a sore thumb
with my paint box while everyone else
is using charcoal on newsprint. I use my
pochade box and paints at these sessions
- always - because, after all, I’m trying to
learn how to solve these problems in paint.
After School
One of my favorite approaches is to
watch a baseball game on television with
my pochade box in my lap and paint the
Astros 9, Cubs 5
2001
Oil on museum board. 6" x 7½"
One of my favorite “how to” books, Oil
Painting: Pure and Simple1 by Ron Ranson and Trevor Chaimberlain, has a great
section on figures in the landscape. 1
Oil Painting: Pure and Simple by Ron Ranson and Trevor
Chamberlain ISBN: 978-0713717440
27
- THANKS I want to express my appreciation to all those who helped make A Guerrilla Painter’s Notebook possible.
First and foremost there are my wife, Sarah, for her generous support and cheerful editing, and Alicia Davies,
a real “crackerjack,” for her skill, enthusiam and tireless efforts to produce this document and arrange its
publication. To John Mattingly for his careful reading and useful comments. Also to Emma Gross, Nancy
Harcout, and Monica Esposito who, over the years, have pushed, prodded and otherwise encouraged me to
begin putting my disparate essays together in book form. Among all the painters who have given me good
company and thoughtful input over the years, I particularly want to mention my son, Arthur, along with
Chester Arnold, Jim Biggers, Paul Bridenbaugh, Doug Erion, Barb Haney, Shaun Horne, Christy Martell,
Daphne Murray, and Mary White.

A Guerrilla Painter`s Notebook

Transcription

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