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American Artist’s First Annual Weekend With the Masters Workshop & Conference: A Historic Event!

2009-12-01T16:20:00Z

Several of the masters gathered together for
a photo during the Saturday evening
“Encouraging the Mastersof Tomorrow”
silent auction and reception. From left to right:
American Artist editor-in-chief M. Stephen Doherty,
Joseph McGurl, Kevin Macpherson, Frank Serrano,
David A. Leffel, Jacob Collins, Jeremy Lipking,
American Artist publisher David Pyle,
and Daniel Gerhartz (kneeling).

American Artist recently concluded its first annual Weekend With the Masters Workshop & Conference—which took place from September 9 though 13 at the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center—and everyone from the instructors to the participants to the staff seemed to agree that there was something extraordinarily special and almost historic about this unique event.

The festivities began Wednesday evening with a reception for the instructors at the Hayden Hays Gallery to celebrate the opening of their “Contemporary Masters” exhibition. Many of the master artists were meeting for the first time, and it was exciting to see them interact and mingle among their masterpieces displayed inside the 30-year-old gallery of the famous Broadmoor Hotel.

That same evening, the stage was set for the rest of the four-day weekend with a screening of Los Angeles writer, director, and painter George Gallo’s movie Local Color. As Weekend With the Masters participants, instructors, and staff gathered together in the Fine Arts Center’s auditorium, Gallo passionately told the story of the making of this timely movie, which is loosely based on his own journey of seeking out a living master to learn from in the face of his continuing frustration with modern-art education.

Workshops, lectures, and demos officially began Thursday morning, and for the next four days eager students and enthusiastic instructors interacted and learned from one another during classes focused on still life, portrait, figure, and landscape painting in both oil and watercolor. There was an infectious creative energy and spirit that resulted from this interaction and a profound camaraderie that was beginning to develop among instructors and participants. Not only did students have the opportunity to learn from many of their heroes, but fellow masters were also learning from and getting to know one another; as we observed Jeremy Lipking taking notes in Jacob Collins’ class; Jacob Collins attending Jeremy Lipking’s workshop; David A. Leffel sitting in on Daniel Gerhartz’ demo; landscape painter Scott Christensen attending Scott Burdick’s figure workshop; and all instructors and participants interacting and conversing long after classes had concluded.

The evening events put the finishing touches on long days of learning. The first such event took place Thursday evening with legendary painter Richard Schmid giving a presentation on his work and leading a panel discussion in the Fine Arts Center’s auditorium. As the beloved living master stepped on stage, and before he could say his first word, he was met with a standing ovation from the more than 200 audience members gathered to honor him. An extraordinarily beautiful presentation of his paintings followed, with the grand finale being an emotive movie of Schmid’s life and work created by his daughter Molly. Schmid then led a lively discussion on the topic of whether we are truly experiencing a renaissance in representational art and where the masters of today see their place in the art-historical timeline.

Friday evening’s Leffel and Lipking auditorium demonstration was extremely well-executed by the two master artists and received with great enthusiasm among audience members. American Artist editor-in-chief M. Stephen Doherty introduced and hosted this painting duel and audience members watched in awe as two different styles and generations of painters brought the subject to life on their canvases. Doherty finished the evening by leading a panel discussion on some of the opportunities and challenges traditional artists have faced over the generations.

The evening events concluded Saturday with the “Encouraging the Masters of Tomorrow” reception, benefit auction, and panel discussion. Thanks to the generous donations of artwork, demos, art materials, limited-edition DVDs and books, and unique opportunities from the master artists, sponsors, and local art organizations, American Artist was able to raise roughly $10,000 for Cottonwood Artists’ School’s Young Masters program and the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center’s Bemis School of Art. Following the reception and auction, three young masters—Erin Jones, Daniel Keys, and Rachel Wimpey—kept everyone entertained and enlightened when they turned their most thought-provoking and heartfelt questions to four masters—Scott Burdick, Daniel Gerhartz, Quang Ho, and Susan Lyon—during our mentorship panel discussion.

The motto for Weekend With the Masters, which was featured on the program and signage throughout the building as a reminder to all gathered there, was: “Honoring the Masters of the Past. Learning From the Masters of the Present. Encouraging the Masters of Tomorrow.” Judging from the generous sharing of knowledge and understanding that took place, and the profound inspiration and camaraderie that resulted, that expectation was certainly surpassed.

Weekend With the Masters 2010

American Artist will be announcing the location and date of Weekend With the Masters 2010 shortly, so be sure to check upcoming issues of American Artist, Workshop, Drawing, Watercolor, and the Weekend With the Masters website for more information.

Building Rich and Full Layers

2009-10-27T11:00:00Z

Lake Louise Steps
2008, pastel, 24 x 18.
Collection the artist.

By subtly layering pastel, Marlene Wiedenbaum creates a luscious and convincing sense of the world.

by John A. Parks

In her pastel painting Path With Trees to Hidden Pond, Marlene Wiedenbaum presents a resplendent view of a glade whose rich canopy encloses a forest floor buried under a dense carpet of fallen leaves. So natural and convincing is the filtered sunlight and enveloping space of the painting that it takes us a few moments to discover the hint of a pathway through the woods. The artist, it seems, is content to take the world as she finds it and then to mine it for hidden riches and intriguing insights. She has achieved this feeling through masterful use of pastel, working it in numerous layers to create color of surprising subtlety and nuance while keeping her surface supremely tactile and alive.

“I love the immediacy, the color, and the forgiveness of pastel,” says Wiedenbaum, “but I especially enjoy the involvement of my hands. I understand and control my fingers much better than I ever did a brush, and there’s a more direct connectedness to the work.” Wiedenbaum made the change to pastel from oil some years ago. “I was frustrated at having to clean brushes, as well as myself, and having to put everything away each time I wanted to paint,” she recalls. “It was drudgery. I didn’t have the luxury of huge blocks of time back then, and the condition of the work is different each time you return to an oil painting. A very good friend left a box of pastels on the dining room table, and that’s when my relationship with pastels began.” The artist also enjoys the portability of pastel. “It’s so much easier to spontaneously pack up my supplies for working en plein air,” she says.

Like most other pastel artists, Wiedenbaum has also come up against the difficulties imposed by the medium. “The biggest drawback is the dust,” she says. “I sometimes wear a mask in the studio, but I don’t know how much that really helps.” The artist also manages to keep some of the pastel dust off her fingers by wearing finger cots—small rubber sleeves that can be rolled onto individual fingers—which are available in drugstores.

Wiedenbaum focuses on landscape and still life, specializing in images of New York’s Hudson Valley and its environs, in particular those areas that have been spared development. “As a child growing up in the Bronx, I adored the summers we spent at bungalow colonies in the Hudson Valley,” she says. “My love of the area stems from those early experiences, and I’m very grateful to a number of organizations for working to save the appearance and feel of the locale.”

Downriver From Potown
2009, pastel, 19 1/2 x 25.
Collection the artist.

When preparing to start a piece, Wiedenbaum takes a number of different approaches. “I work both from life and from photographs,” she says. “If the weather cooperates and I can find just the right composition with just the right light, I’m very happy to be outside working.” The artist finds that landscape and still life lead to somewhat different approaches when it comes to photography. “I prefer setting up a still life in my studio rather than working from a photo,” she says. When working from a landscape, the artist says that she takes photos in case the weather changes or she cannot get back to the site. “I also have boxes of sorted photos and folders filled with images on my computer to work from,” she says. Settling on a composition is not always an easy task, Wiedenbaum says, and to begin, she sometimes does a small, quick sketch to familiarize herself with the important elements of the scene.

“Often, from that point, I block in the values, noting what needs to be kept clean for lighter values,” she says. “I do always use vine charcoal to sketch the image onto the paper before I actually start working with pastel. I start painting using mostly blacks or dark blues and greens to block in the darkest values.” The artist says that she has no consistent plan after this point and varies her approach based on the demands of the image. “I most often go right into the focal point of the composition, or I start working from the top left until I get to the bottom right, or I work steadily from the darkest values to the lightest throughout,” she says. “I move and blend pigment with my fingers or use a stomp for large areas, and I use the flattened edge of a kneaded eraser for sharp edges, or I use it sideways like a brush, pushing and mixing pigment.”

The artist will continue working in this way until she senses that the painting is starting to come together. “For me, there is a moment in a painting that comes when I know I have turned a corner,” she says. “That knowledge seems to be symbolic of my commitment to the work; I go to sleep with it, wake up in it, and am happy working or looking forward to working. I rarely finish a painting without experiencing this, even when I work en plein air and complete a small piece in three to four hours. Knowing when I’ve reached the end is almost as intuitive, and that can happen within hours, days, or weeks.”

Path With Trees to Hidden Pond
2008, pastel, 24 x 31.
Private collection.

In order to achieve the lush and rich surface of her paintings, Wiedenbaum uses sanded paper and a wide variety of pastels. “I primarily use Sennelier, Schmincke, and Unison soft pastels,” she says. “Through my endless search for colors, I have also been enjoying Great American Art Works and for a slightly harder pastel, Mount Vision. For many years I worked on Sennelier La Carte sanded paper. That product seems to have changed, however, so I use Wallis paper more often. I am also working a lot with UART paper, since they offer a 40-inch sheet and various textures. The 400 and 500 grades have made my fingers bleed, but the layering possibilities make 500 my preferred paper.”

When asked how she would like to think that viewers experience her artwork, the artist says, “I have been told that my work captured loneliness or the essence of a familiar place, that it made viewers feel the summer’s breeze or sense their grandmother and cry, or that they wanted to touch a still life. These are responses that have been shared with me, at least, and they are satisfying in that the viewer is engaged with the work. If the artwork makes viewers feel something they can take with them, like a memory, I am satisfied.”

John A. Parks is an artist who is represented by Allan Stone Gallery, in New York City. He is also a teacher at the School of Visual Arts, in New York City, and is a frequent contributor to American Artist, Drawing, Watercolor, and Workshop magazines.

About the Artist

Marlene Wiedenbaum studied art at Queens College, in New York City, where she was influenced by sculptor Richard McDermott Miller, whom she credits with encouraging her and broadening her knowledge of the art world. Wiedenbaum went on to study oil painting with Harvey Dinnerstein at the Art Students League of New York, also in New York City. She also worked with St. Julien Fishburne and in 2001 went to Italy with a group led by Christine Debrosky. Wiedenbaum is a signature member of Pastel Society of America and has exhibited widely, mounting solo exhibitions at the Teatown Lake Reservation, in Ossining, New York; the Woodstock Artists Association & Museum, in New York; and Mark Gruber Gallery, in New Paltz, New York, among other venues. She lives in the Hudson Valley and teaches pastel workshops at the Barrett Art Center, in Poughkeepsie, New York. She is currently represented by Carrie Haddad Gallery, in Hudson, New York, and Fieldstone Fine Art Gallery, in Ramsey, New Jersey. More of the artist’s work can be viewed at her website, www.wiedenbaum.com.

Drawing Fundamentals: Modeling Planes

2009-10-20T16:00:00Z

Objects look convincing when a draftsman models the form correctly. Here, we take it step by step to ensure accuracy and a solid foundation.

by Jon deMartin

Every artist wants to master the modeling of form, using value to create a third dimension in a drawing, so let’s take a look at this fundamental task. It’s a big subject, so we’ll tackle simple concepts first. Let’s begin with modeling the most basic geometric solid—the cube. The cube’s planar surfaces are easy to draw and model because they’re clear and unambiguous—cubes don’t have confusing surface irregularities or changes of local color or texture. Nature’s surfaces are generally curved, but manmade objects are often flat, as in walls, tabletops, and buildings. Plus, light and shadow are more discernible on a cube than on a curved surface.

Noted teacher and illustrator Frank Reilly once stated, “What you will learn on a simple form like a cube or sphere can be applied to a head, figure, or landscape. It will help you see the three-dimensional reasoning of nature. It will help you draw from memory and your purely creative attempts. Values relative to light and shade must be understood as a mirroring of nature before they can be seen as a personal explanation of nature. They must be clearly understood, first and last, by the observer.”

It’s advisable to practice making flat values before graded ones. A flat-value mass is produced by drawing even strokes parallel and touching one another to create a flat and even mass. Dark values are made by increasing pressure, and light values by decreasing pressure. Do not smudge graphite—shaded areas that are smudged have a shiny appearance. Try to avoid haphazard and uneven pressure on successive strokes when creating a graded area.

Illustration 1
Three simple swatches of value—light, middle, and dark tones.

Illustration 1 shows three swatches of value—light, middle, and dark tones. Try to reproduce these flat values, then move on to tackle a value scale. Illustration 2 shows a value scale divided into seven gradations between black and white. The objective is to create a scale from the darkest dark up to the white of the paper and make the gradations as even as possible. Lightly pencil in nine equidistant spaces an inch apart, and number them underneath from left to right. Value No. 1 is black, on the far left, with values lightening up to No. 9, the white of the paper. The value scale in this illustration was made with a soft pencil for the darker values, a medium pencil for the middle values, and a hard pencil for the light values. There are several ways of determining if the values are graded evenly. The values should graduate smoothly without obvious jumps. The contrast at edges should appear the same throughout the scale. When in doubt, isolate any three consecutive values and make sure the value in the middle is not leaning more to one adjacent value or the other. Keep in mind that the artist’s value scale is much narrower than what one sees in nature, because the white of the paper is nowhere near as bright as the sun, nor is black pencil as dark as the inside of a black velvet box.

Illustration 2
A value scale with seven gradations, with No. 1 representing the darkest black produced by a
graphite pencil and No. 9 representing the white of the paper, plus seven gradations in between.

Before shading, a draftsman must be certain that the object’s outlines are drawn correctly and that the linear perspective in the composition is accurate. Once you solve the proportion of the object’s shape and its shadow shapes in relation to the lights, you can free your mind to focus on the modeling (shading).

To practice, I recommend getting a white or light-gray cube with smooth surfaces, no smaller than three or four inches high. Illuminate the cube using a single light source, natural or artificial, from above left with one side of the cube completely in shadow. The ground underneath the cube should be neutral middle to dark gray and should not have a shiny surface. Ideally, a neutral middle-gray background can be placed at a relatively short distance behind the object.

Next, prepare an outline of the contour lines and the edges of the major planes. Keep your lines as light as possible so that they don’t interfere with the values you’ll be modeling. If they are too dark, lighten the lines with a kneaded eraser until they are just a guide for the areas to be shaded. After drawing the outline that bounds the form’s shape, draw the shadow line that divides the overall light from the overall shadow. First mass in the shadow with a value lighter than what you see on the cube—this initial stage is only a preparatory phase for modeling, and your light touch enables you to make corrections before pushing the drawing toward finish.

By using your value scale to help determine the relationship of your lightest light to the darkest dark, you can relate all your values in between. Never take for granted that the values you observe in nature will fall into one of the squares on your value scale. The value scale is designed only to give you a reference point so that you can make better value comparisons. While drawing, continually compare your values in the light to your shadows. Put in your shadows first, and gradually build up the values in flat areas as the drawing develops.

Illustration 3
Changing the vantage point of the viewer allows two planes of the cube to show,
as demonstrated in the second row.

You may notice that the portion of the shadow plane that is nearest the light will look darker than the other areas of the same shadow. This is called the law of contrast in Michel Eugène Chevreul’s 19th-century book The Principles of Harmony and Contrast of Colour and Their Applications to the Arts. He wrote, “The shadows on objects are stronger nearest the eye, and they decrease in strength and intensity in proportion to their distance.” This is the first rule of aerial perspective, which can apply to a local condition as well. This can be observed on the illustration of the value scale where the darkest part of each value appears to be at the edge where it meets the lighter value. In other words, the contrast looks greater where the edges meet.

Illustration 4
Here the vantage point is seeing the edge of two planes of the cube.
In the second row, the vantage point is from below.

Practice drawing cubes in different perspectives under the same light condition to explore how the changes of planes dramatically affect the values. Illustrations 3, 4, and 5 show six rows of cubes, rendered in both line and value, from different vantage points. The cubes on the left are drawn with just lines but read volumetrically because they reveal the interior plane line divisions. The cubes on the right read volumetrically because of their value relationships. Remember, in modeling form, plane and value are synonymous (or interrelated). The first row of Illustration 3 shows only one plane and value because the eye is looking directly at the cube’s center. In the second row, the eye is looking from above, showing two planes: top and front.

Illustration 5
Three planes are visible from this vantage point: top, front, and side right. This is the most
challenging of views—and the one most similar to the orientation of the human head.

In Illustration 4 the first row shows two planes meeting at the corners. The second row is the reverse of the second row in Illustration 3; the eye is now looking from below, showing two planes: bottom and front. Illustration 5 shows three planes: top, front, and side right. The cube in the bottom row is tipped, tilted, and turned, vanishing to a false horizon. This is the most challenging of all views, and it’s similar to what a draftsman faces when depicting a human head. All the other cubes in these illustrations are vanishing to a true horizon. The schematic in Illustration 6 shows the different plane changes.

Illustration 7
by Jon deMartin, graphite, 18 x 12.
A front view of the Cube Man, based on a
sculpture by Eliot Goldfinger.

The ability to identify planes is crucial to modeling form. The figures of the Cube Man in Illustrations 7, 8, and 9 clearly show how plane changes impact values. In Illustration 7, the front view, the rectangular block that is the ribcage is light because it’s a top plane, and the pelvis is darker because it’s an under plane. To reinforce this concept of plane directions, the artist should observe the pose from different views. For instance, Illustration 8 shows the side view drawn in line and clearly indicates the planes’ directions. Notice that in the back view in Illustration 9, the ribcage is darker because it’s going under, and the pelvis is lighter because it’s a top plane—the reverse of the front view in Illustration 7.


Illustration 8 by Jon deMartin, graphite, 18 x 12. A side view of the Cube Man.	Illustration 9 by Jon deMartin, graphite, 18 x 12. The back view of the Cube Man. Notice how the ribcage is darker because it’s going under, and the pelvis is lighter because it’s a top plane— the reverse of the front view in Illustration 7.

Up to this point we’ve been talking about values that run top to bottom. In the front view in Illustration 7, you can also see plane changes running from side to side. The front plane of the right thigh is facing the viewer, and the left is rotated outward, becoming a side-right plane. Notice how planes that go to the side darken. (See Illustration 6.)

Illustration 6
The plane changes created by this vantage point.

Drawing simple objects enables an artist to master the basics. By taking baby steps toward what nature shows us, we can build on a sure and solid foundation that will help us become better artists, allowing us to express our visions of the visual world.

Materials For Modeling With Values

A graphite pencil is the simplest, most direct, and most valuable of all art tools. It’s an excellent tool for both drawing lines and filling in shaded areas. It’s basically a line medium rather than a broad area or planar medium, and it can be used sketchily or more carefully. However, if a graphite pencil is used too heavily it will produce a shiny appearance in one’s artwork, and it will be susceptible to smudging. Hard pencils tend to break if pressed too heavily in an effort to produce a dark line. Dark lines and shadings instead should be drawn with soft pencils, which do not require great pressure. Use a sharp pencil point. In terms of surface, finer-grained paper lends itself better to graphite; rough papers produce a coarse, grainy look.

For sharpening pencils I prefer a single-edge razor blade, which I use to shave away the wood around the pencil point. I slowly rotate the pencil between my fingers using long shaving strokes so that my pencil has a long, sharp point. This way my lines can be crisp and last a long time before I have to resharpen.

Charcoal or carbon pencils can be preferable to graphite pencils because they don’t leave a sheen, and they can produce darker darks than graphite. The drawback is that they’re less controllable, but this can be overcome with practice.

A kneaded eraser is perhaps the best eraser to use when working with graphite or charcoal. It can be shaped to a point to reach small areas without affecting the rest of the drawing, and it will remove pencil marks without marring the surface of the paper.

10 Steps to Determine Values in Watercolor

2009-09-18T11:00:00Z

Although I am known for using vibrant colors to create what appear to be playful, spontaneous images in my watercolor paintings, the key to the success of these paintings is the value structure of the compositions. Here’s how I teach others to use studies to plan effective compositions.

by David R. Daniels

Before you begin painting the
value sketch or the watercolor
painting, draw graphite lines on
both sheets of paper to mark
and connect the centers of each
side, as well as the corners.

When I first started painting in watercolor, I was like most beginners in that I assumed the medium was all about color. After all, the hallmark of a great watercolor is the way the layers of transparent color and reserved white paper capture the sense of light in the landscape, on a still life arrangement, or on a person’s face. The order of importance for me was color first, shape second, and value third.

With experience, I discovered that color only works well if it is composed so that the dark, middle, and light values are planned in advance and if the composition of shapes engages viewers and helps them understand what the picture is all about. I learned the order of priority really needed to be value first, shape second, and color third.

After elevating the importance of value, I came up with a simple way of making proportional value sketches on gray paper using black-and-white watercolors. Once I knew the method was helping me create better paintings, I started teaching it to students by itemizing what materials and techniques would work for them. I’ve organized this method into 10 specific recommendations I want to pass along to you.

1. You’ll need a sheet of your favorite watercolor paper and a piece of gray paper. I use Arches cold-pressed watercolor paper because I develop paintings that are larger than standard-size sheets, but the brand of paper or surface quality you use is less important. The gray papers I use are made for drawing or pastel painting, and I don’t mind working with a lower-quality sheet because I’m not going to preserve or exhibit the value sketch. Just make sure the paper you buy is a medium gray, not a light gray or a dark gray, because you’ll want it to establish the middle-value range in your sketch.

2. It is essential that your two pieces of paper have the exact same proportions, because when the sheets are proportional, the sketch can be enlarged to the size of the watercolor paper without any need for adjustment. Two sheets that are the same size are already proportional, but if you prefer to make the sketch smaller than the painting, you need a way to ensure that the two sheets correspond. You can figure the proportions out mathematically, or you can perform this simple exercise. Lightly draw a diagonal line between the bottom left and the top right corners of your watercolor paper. Then, place your smaller piece of sketch paper in the lower left corner of the watercolor paper so that its edges are flush with the edges of the watercolor paper. Mark the spot at which the edge of the sketch paper meets your diagonal line. If that spot falls at the exact corner of the sketch paper, then the two pieces are in proportion. If it does not, you can trim your sketch paper on one side so that the point becomes the corner of the sheet, making the two papers proportional.

3. Draw graphite lines on both sheets of paper according to the diagram shown on page 53. Some artists prefer to draw a grid rather than diagonal lines connecting the corners and middle of the sheets, but I find the combination of the horizontal, vertical, and diagonal divisions to be more helpful in duplicating the gesture drawing for my intended painting. It’s important that these lines be drawn on both sheets of paper before you start painting, because they will be obscured by the watercolor paint.

Lily
2009, watercolor, 36 x 48.
Collection the artist.

4. Make a graphite contour drawing of you subject, first on the gray paper, then when you are satisfied with the composition, transfer that drawing to the watercolor paper. The grid will be a great help when transferring your image. Here again it is important to establish the outlines of the major shapes before you paint so that the lines are visible when you move from the value sketch to the watercolor painting. The drawing should only be a light indication of the design, not a detailed study of all the elements of your picture.

5. Squeeze out some titanium white (rather than Chinese white) and black (ivory black or lamp black) watercolor paints on your palette and begin panting directly on the paper with pure black and white, creating a variety of grays directly on the paper by adding water. Use those to paint the relative values in your subject. Many of my students work from photographs, and they sometimes make black-and-white photocopies that automatically identify the values, but I encourage them to go through the process of judging colors in terms of their value because that is an important skill all painters need to develop.

6. Feel free to revise the arrangement of lights, darks, and middle values to make the composition as clear and well-integrated as possible. Titanium white is an opaque pigment, so it is easy to make values lighter, and a strong black or purple will allow you to darken a value by changing the mixture on your palette. If things get too wet on the surface of the paper, let the sketch dry so that it will be easier to make changes. The point is to arrive at an effective composition, not to create a showpiece.

7. When you are ready to paint with a full palette of watercolors, keep the value sketch and your other source material—photographs or live subjects—close to you while you are painting. You’ll probably find that the value sketch is far more important than a photograph because it will show you how to simplify the design and make the best use of the colors. If you use a masking agent to preserve white shapes on the watercolor paper, as I often do, you need to apply it before you begin painting. The whitest areas of your value sketch are always places for the possible use of a masking agent.

8. As you are painting, feel completely free to change the colors from what you see in the photograph or the actual setup. Remember, it is more important to get the value correct than to match the color you observe. In fact, you can completely change the colors so long as you balance the values to match what is in your sketch.

Value Sketch for Lily
2009, watercolor, 6 x 8.
Collection the artist.

9. The procedures you follow for painting are flexible. I prefer to paint some of the dark shapes in the design and then build up the layers of transparent color, because that helps me define the range of lights and darks. However, there is nothing wrong with following the more traditional method of gradually building the painting from light-to-dark values and from transparent-to-opaque pigments.

10. After you’ve done a lot of preparatory value studies for your watercolors, you may find that you can automatically visualize the composition of light, medium, and dark values without actually painting them on gray paper. It’s perfectly fine to discontinue the preliminary steps if you have achieved the desired goal of being able to see value relationships immediately.

About the Artist

David R. Daniels earned an M.A. from Central Michigan University, in Mount Pleasant, and taught in the Michigan public schools before becoming a full-time professional artist. He now teaches at Montgomery College, in Maryland; at the Smithsonian Institution, in Washington, DC; and privately in his Silver Spring, Maryland, studio. His paintings have been included in dozens of group and solo exhibitions, as well as in books and magazines. For more information, visit his website at www.mrwatercolor.com.

Think Big, Paint Big

2009-09-11T11:00:00Z

Antonio Masi employs both the atmospheric and graphic capabilities of watercolor in his commanding paintings of New York icons.

by John A. Parks

Red Fence—
Williamsburg Bridge
2008, watercolor, 60 x 40.
Collection the artist.

In Antonio Masi’s watercolors, the bridges of New York City live and breathe the light and air of the city, dissolving into its fogs and mists only to materialize as massive and enormously physical objects of girders and rivets. Avoiding any sense of architectural or technical rendering, Masi conjures his subject from the very stuff of watercolor, the free flow and flooding of the paint, the dissolving veils of washes, the collapsing edges and delicate shifting of color and tone. “Watercolor is by its nature a fluid medium—light, delicate, and transparent,” says the artist, speaking of his conversion to the medium some years ago. “I soon discovered that by adding a little body color, it is a powerful medium. It has a personality all its own. It likes to flow, do unexpected things, be light and delicate, and the next minute strong and powerful. This was the medium I was looking for—this play of opposites, the ridged steel against the light atmosphere, the sense of motion and solidity.”

Reinforcing the power and authority of Masi’s work is the enormous scale on which he works, often up to 40" x 60". In doing so he conveys something of the scale and presence of the bridges themselves. “I hope to give the viewers of my work a sense of place,” says the artist. “I’d like them to feel that they are standing where I was, and seeing what I saw. That somehow they are there. Sensing the massive structures, the surroundings, the feeling of the neighborhood, the time of day, the time of the year, or the temperature of the moment. I hope they become part of my painting.”

Masi’s working method grows out of his long affection for the bridges of New York, an affection based initially on the knowledge that his own grandfather worked on the construction of the 59th Street Bridge. “I like to walk the bridges in all seasons and weather conditions,” he says. The artist’s intimacy with his subject leads him to images such as Red Fence—Williamsburg Bridge, where the viewer looks down at a plunging perspective created by a brilliant red fence disappearing into the shadowy ironwork of the roadway. Above, the airy steelwork of the bridge seems to evaporate into the damp air of the city. “This is a painting that I began, like I do all my paintings, by going to meet the subject,” says Masi. “I walked on the bridge, touched it, made sketches of it, painted it, and tried to sense it. Bridges all serve the same purpose—of getting one from one side to the other—but they are different as to their details, design, and characteristics. I attempt to capture the personality of the bridge as a portrait painter would of his subjects, not just the surface appearance.” Masi will go back several times to his subject, making many small sketches with a black Sharpie marker to work out the composition and select details. “I also take pictures to jog my memory later,” says the artist. “In this painting it was the diagonal girders, the recession of the walkway, and that particular light of the day with the sun playing peek-a-boo with the clouds and the bridge. The eye-catching red fence pulling you along the walkway was what I was trying to capture. It was this initial impression that I struggled to keep my focus on.”

Broken Window
2006, watercolor, 41 3/4 x 30.
Collection the artist.

Having homed in on his subject, Masi starts work in the studio by tacking up a full 60"-x-40" sheet of watercolor paper. He then starts sketching lightly, blocking out the masses with a light neutral wash. When this is bone dry, he applies the first transparent glaze with an 8" hake brush, leaving the white of the paper where needed. “When this is dry, I go back with richer paint and develop the areas further, and glaze again,” says the artist. “This procedure may go on five, 10, or more times until I achieve the effect I desire. I have put down as many as 50 glazes at times on a painting. Last I will apply the final accents.”

Masi says that he has two principal technical concerns when painting: the tonal values and the quality of edges. “I am not so much a colorist as a tonal painter,” he says. “The atmosphere and the presence of my work grow out of the tonal structure. I also work the edges a great deal, softening and hardening them.”

Making a painting can take the artist anywhere from three or four days to several weeks. “Sometimes you do one quickly and think you are going to speed up,” he says, “and then you’ll find that the next one presents difficulties and takes much longer. In the end you can’t worry about the time. You just have to allow the work to go at its own pace and accept it.”

Masi says that he is finished with a painting when he can’t think of anything more he’d like to do with it. He turns it to the wall for several weeks and then pulls it out again to look at it with fresh eyes. At this stage he may completely rework some passages, or perhaps decide that the painting really is completed.

One of the features of Masi’s paintings of bridges is the huge variety of viewpoints he has chosen. These range from close-ups that entangle the viewer amongst the steelwork or trap him or her in shadowy wells beneath roadways to distant views in which the bridge is engulfed in a neighborhood. “It’s like the difference in portraiture between doing a head, which can be very intimate, and painting the subject in a setting,” says the artist. “Sometimes it is important for me to describe the neighborhood in which a bridge is located.” In 59th Street Nocturne, for instance, the bridge is simply a presence lurking in the background behind the dazzling lights and bright yellow taxis of the street life. And in Broken Window, the Brooklyn Bridge is glimpsed through the grime and dirt of a dilapidated window from the vantage of a gloomy interior. Meanwhile in Diagonal Girder we are thrust up face-to-face with the rivets of a girder as it dominates the painting.

Tower Dipped in Fog—
George Washington Bridge
2007, watercolor, 41 3/4 x 30.
Collection the artist.

Perhaps the most impressive quality of Masi’s work is the way in which it conveys the air and light swirling around the enormous steel structures. In part the artist’s spatial sense may stem from his early interest in sculpture. “During my early years of training I was inspired by the work of Michelangelo, primarily his drawings,” says the artist. “They have a sense of form, a three-dimensionality in which one can feel the space around the form. When I paint or draw, I try to sense the space that the steel girders capture.” In Foggy Morning Manhattan Bridge, for instance, the subject appears to dissolve into a vast watery space. In this piece one notices how the artist never relies on mechanically straight lines or accurate perspectives to achieve the feel of a steel structure. Rather, he lets the life of the paint take over, adding its own movement to the rendering. Atmospheric effects also come into play in Tower Dipped in Fog—George Washington Bridge, where the steel framework of the bridge support is enveloped in a diaphanous film of mist and shimmers like a benign ghost behind a solidly painted overpass. Masi is also aware of the dissolving power of sunlight, visible in Walk on the Bridge, where the very solid walkway in the foreground contrasts with the dazzling light on the structures above.

Apart from Michelangelo, Masi cites Velázquez as a source of inspiration. “His power of suggestion of form is overwhelming,” he says. “When you get close to his paintings, you see only brushstrokes, but when you step back, the form appears. His limited palette gave him complete control of his values.” Another significant influence on Masi’s work has been the contemporary painter Paul Ching-Bor. “I took a class with him at the Art Students League of New York,” says Masi, “and he showed me how effective working on a large scale can be. Working large gives me a freedom. I paint standing up, with my full arm and body, darting back and forth like a fencer, alert to see what is happening and if I am capturing what I want.”

Walk on the Bridge
2007, watercolor, 30 x 22.
Collection the artist.

In considering the future of his work, Masi says that he will continue with the bridges for at least the next 18 months. “I’m putting together enough of them so I can publish a book,” he says. “I’m concentrating on the nine major bridges of New York, although there are technically more than 2,000 bridges in and around the city. I’m working on the ones that are generally regarded as icons of the city. The idea is to have at least five or six paintings of each one so that we have enough to choose from.” Masi is also interested in using more color. “There are problems because in some ways the atmosphere of my paintings comes from my tonal approach and palette,” he says. “My limited palette is by design. I can control my values more easily in my painting. Simplicity of color schemes also contributes to the graphic quality and harmony of the picture. Although I emphasize values, with my glazes, I utilize color temperature to send forms back or pull them forward. But I’m going to see if I can take on more color.” Occasionally the artist has already ventured into a more colored world, particularly in Throgs Neck, Sunset, where the scene is drenched in spectacular reds and yellows. More typically the artist confines any brilliant color to an area of strong local color, such as the red and yellow sign in Light Traffic Verrazano Bridge.

If Masi does succeed with infusing his work with even richer color while keeping the powerful atmosphere that infuses all his pictures, we can look forward to a great many more pleasures.

About the Artist

Antonio Masi was born in Italy and emigrated to the United States with his family in 1947 at the age of 7. He studied illustration at the School of Visual Arts, in New York City, and began a career in commercial art. In the mid-1960s he returned to his high school, the School of Industrial Arts (now the High School of Art and Design), where he became chairperson of the art department while also studying for a B.A. in art history at the City University of New York. He left teaching to form a graphic design business in partnership with his brothers. After 34 years, he sold the business to turn his attention to painting full time. He has since garnered many awards, including the American Watercolor Society’s High Winds Medal and the Philadelphia Water Color Society’s Elizabeth Shoper Hooper Award. His work is included in the American Watercolor Society traveling exhibition for 2009–2010. Learn more about the artist at www.antoniomasi.com.


Throgs Neck, Sunset 2006, watercolor, 30 x 41 3/4. Private collection.	Light Traffic Verrazano Bridge 2007, watercolor, 41 3/4 x 30. Collection the artist.


Diagonal Girder 2008, watercolor, 40 1/2 x 60 1/2. Collection the artist.	Foggy Morning Manhattan Bridge 2008, watercolor, 40 1/2 x 60 1/2. Collection the artist.

A Studio Worthy of Rockwell

2009-09-01T11:00:00Z

When building his studio, Christopher Pierce looked nearby for inspiration from an American master.

by Austin R. Williams

Artist Christopher Pierce’s home,
library, and barn on the property
he calls Innisfree, in Shushan,
New York. The studio building is
located to the right of the barn.

When artist Christopher Pierce decided to build a studio in rural New York, he chose to base it upon Norman Rockwell’s studio from the 1940s and 1950s, in which Rockwell painted many of his best-loved illustrations. “It was serendipitous,” Pierce says of the experience. “I was always a fan of Rockwell. When I grew up, he was labeled an ‘illustrator,’ not an artist, but I was always attracted to his work.”

Pierce began creating art after an ear problem made it impossible for him to pursue his work in music. “This was my second career,” he says, “and I really lucked out.” He converted his music room to an art studio, drew from a nude model five days a week, and his art career subsequently took off. “Evan Wilson, George Van Hook, and David Hatfield took me under their wings,” Pierce recalls. “Wilson had a studio at the time that was fashioned after the Norman Rockwell studio, and I took that idea.”

In 1996 and 1997, Pierce built a barnlike studio in Shushan, New York, that is fashioned after Rockwell’s studio in nearby West Arlington, Vermont. Many visitors presume that Pierce’s studio was converted from an existing barn, but Pierce built it from scratch. He gave the building a gambrel roof and other elements traditional to barns. “I wanted it to look as if it fit in the field,” Pierce says. He named his home and studio Innisfree, from a poem by W.B. Yeats about the appeal of quiet country life.

Pierce working on a still
life painting near the
north-facing window in
his studio.

Perhaps the most striking feature of Pierce’s studio is its large main window, which measures 14' x 11'. The window faces true north (as opposed to magnetic north, which differs by several degrees). Pierce says that this orientation yields ideal light. “I never get sun in the north light, which is great,” he says, noting that he spends much of his time painting by the window. Two large drapes help to control the light, and each section of the window has shades that rise from the bottom. The west wall of the studio has a door and additional windows, which are also controlled by shades. “It’s a lot of light,” says Pierce. The size of the north window has led to a certain problem painting still lifes. “If I’m working from sunflowers, they move,” says Pierce. “They’re heliotropes—they follow the light.”

The studio’s main room measures 24' x 26'. As in Rockwell’s Arlington studio, the interior is constructed from wainscoting and novelty siding, which became popular in the late 19th century. Pierce added a sprung floor, which gives a cushiony effect to the wood and makes walking back and forth during sight-size painting more comfortable. The floor is so accommodating that Pierce regularly exercises in the studio. (“A lot of my time is spent in here,” he says.)

As in Rockwell’s studio, a balcony overlooks the main space, and behind the balcony is another room, which measures 10' x 24'. “That’s my main storage space,” says Pierce. “I’m going to be adding an addition, because that’s not enough.” Pierce’s studio shares several other features with the Arlington studio, such as a hidden closet near the stove that holds a half cord of wood and opens both outside and inside for easy loading.

Despite taking inspiration from Rockwell when building his studio, Pierce does not claim any special connection with the master artist, nor does he emulate Rockwell’s style. “I did a few paintings when I started that reminded people of Rockwell’s feeling of the 30s and 40s,” he says, but he notes that these days his paintings bear little resemblance, if any, to Rockwell’s.

Pierce adapted Rockwell’s
idea of having a workroom
off from the main
studio space.

Pierce’s studio was not planned as an exact copy of Rockwell’s. “I made it a bit bigger and made a few changes,” he says. “Rockwell’s studio also looks like a barn, and it may have been a barn—I’m not sure. His had a normal pitched roof. He had beams running across it, and I didn’t want that. In my studio the ceiling is 18 feet high, and there is no cross support because of the gambrel roof. Rockwell’s studio had a fireplace. Instead, I have a Vermont Castings wood stove, which is my only source of heat. It is so well insulated that at 20 below, a nude model will be totally warm.”

Another eye-catching feature of Pierce’s studio is the spotless carpet, which in many studios would immediately fall victim to paints and spills. “I had two mentors when I started painting, and they were both fine artists,” says Pierce. “One was messy and exotic, and the other was extremely neat. I started not cleaning off my palette, but then I decided to go the neat way. I’m a very clean painter, and I don’t spill anything on the floor.”

The artist doesn’t hesitate to use his studio as a subject. “I’ve painted in many parts of this room,” he says. “I set it up like a stage.” Pierce has produced views of the studio that range from traditional interiors (for which he rotates four carpets through the studio’s main room) to depictions of the bathroom and the inside of the refrigerator.

Pierce paints on a Hughes Easels Model 3000, produced by the artist Don Andrews. “I never thought I could fall in love with an easel,” he says. “It goes up and down, left and right with a fingertip. I have with it a Pallet Pal, which is the equivalent of a taboret, but you can raise and lower it, and it has wings. The guy’s a genius.”

Pierce considers the most unique facet of his studio to be its ability to switch between “studio mode” and “gallery mode.” “Once or twice a year, I have a studio show,” Pierce says. “I darken the room, close the shades, and push six different buttons.” Within seconds, the gallery lighting comes on, and Pierce’s artwork, which lines the studio walls, is ready to be shown.


Pierce keeps a model stand in the middle of his studio and displays framed paintings on the walls and staircase leading to the second-floor storage area.	The studio is heated in the winters by a wood-burning stove. The French doors lead to a workroom where Pierce prepares his paints and medium.

3 Proven Ways To Start Watercolors Outdoors

2009-08-27T11:00:00Z

Michigan artist Jim Johnson offers valuable hints for successful watercolor painting outdoors.

by Collin Fry

S.S. Kewatin
2000, watercolor, 9 x 12. All
artwork this article collection the
artist unless otherwise indicated.

Jim Johnson loves to paint outdoors. “There is such beauty to be seen in the random mixtures of light, color, texture, and pattern in nature,” he says. “For me, watercolor is the perfect medium for exploration of these wonders. Observe, paint, and have fun is my philosophy, in all kinds of weather. I sometimes feel that I am not painting things at all but rather the colors and qualities of the changing light as it touches various natural and man-made subjects.”

The study of light and its effects has a long history with painters, particularly the French and American Impressionists. Every artist encounters problems involving the ever-changing light when painting en plein air. Johnson has studied the subject throughout a long career as an illustrator and watercolorist, and as a result, his paintings display a masterful handling of light effects and value. Viewers often comment that his watercolor paintings “sparkle,” an effect he gets through his practice of leaving bits of white paper showing between large and small areas of color. The strong draftsmanship and crisp value contrasts create a fresh effect that does indeed seem to sparkle. To round out the overall effect of his paintings, Johnson varies the size and direction of his brushstrokes, adding texture and an impressionistic look to his artwork.

“For me, a plein air painting records an event, a treasured memory, and a particular moment in time with its unique light, mood, and color,” he says. “To achieve this, I always try to capture my very first impression of a scene. These first strokes can be the most exciting part of the painting process, and my goal is to have that excitement clearly visible in the finished piece.” Painting a detailed, photographic rendering of a subject is not important to Johnson. Rather, he feels that being creative—freely interpreting a scene with a personal view and style—should be the goal of plein air painting. “One shouldn’t be too safe or predictable or hesitate to overstate what one sees,” he urges. “Be spontaneous. Every painting should be an adventure.”

Most of the time Johnson uses a primary three-color palette. Alizarin crimson, cadmium yellow light, and cobalt blue are his favorite choices, and these basic colors can be intermixed to create almost any desired hue, warm or cool. He will on occasion add other colors if needed.

The Old Chris-Craft
2008, watercolor, 8 x 11.

The artist limits his compositions to the major elements of a scene, at times enhancing certain areas while omitting less important detail. From his years of experience Johnson has developed three preliminary steps for successful painting en plein air. First, he works up value sketches to set the light-dark pattern and investigate the basic shapes in the scene. Next, he develops the shapes into patterns that create a solid composition. Then he executes a color study, paying careful attention to color temperature.

Once the artist has completed these simple but important steps, he is ready to begin painting. Johnson usually uses 130-lb Strathmore 400 Series paper, which has just enough tooth for his style of painting. He continues to experiment with other papers but keeps coming back to the Strathmore. “It holds the color longer, giving me time to work the wet pigments without staining the paper,” Johnson says. The artist prefers modern synthetic brushes, feeling that they retain their original shape better than traditional sable brushes. He generally uses only the best tube watercolors because of their intense hues, but Johnson sometimes experiments with student-grade paints.

With preliminary sketches at hand, he begins by squeezing dabs of alizarin crimson, cobalt blue, and cadmium yellow light at equidistant points on his porcelain-coated butcher’s tray. In the middle of the tray Johnson makes a puddle of clear water and creates a “river” of water with his brush that connects the puddle to the red dab. He then makes two other rivers connecting the blue and yellow dabs to the puddle. The colors are allowed to swirl and run together randomly. He then mixes darker versions of the mixtures. “At that exciting moment one knows whether or not he or she is destined to be a watercolor painter,” he says. “As I see the endless variety of color possibilities forming on the tray, I am ready to paint.”

As a final suggestion, Johnson recommends the careful use of a combination of hard and soft edges. This will keep the various shapes from becoming too sharp and having the appearance of being cut out and pasted on a background. Soft edges will connect a large shape to a background, making it recede. Edges—hard and soft, lost and found—can control the viewer’s eye movement and give a painting a sense of mystery and mood.

South Haven Skiff
2000, watercolor, 11 x 14.

Three Preliminary Steps to Ensure a Good Start on a Painting

1. Analyze Values First
When painting en plein air, time becomes crucial. The light is constantly changing, so it’s important to quickly identify the light source, analyze shadows, and establish a value pattern. This becomes the basic structure of the piece. Shapes and values are the most important elements of a painting.

Translate the objects that you see into major areas of three gray values—light, medium, and dark. Squinting helps to simplify forms and eliminate extraneous detail, allowing you to visualize the scene reduced to simple patterns of shapes in these three values. Execute a small value study, using the white of the paper to represent a fourth value if desired.

2. Develop Shape Patterns Into a Composition
Connect the various shapes together to form both simple and complex patterns. Choose a center of interest. Then, direct the viewer’s eye through the painting as desired by grouping shapes. Remember, having a variety of shapes adds interest and balance to a composition. Don’t be afraid to change or eliminate objects or detail.

Water Festival
2007, watercolor, 12 x 16.
Private collection.

3. Work Up a Color Plan
A small color study can be very helpful, especially for complex subjects. Assign colors to the pattern of shapes, keeping in mind the value structure you established. Color choice can be true to the scene or interpreted more freely and creatively. Note the effect that warm and cool colors have on each other—remember that warm colors tend to come forward, whereas cool colors recede. Also, warm light creates cool shadows; cool light can result in warm shadows.

About the Artist

Jim Johnson studied at the Kendall College of Art and Design of Ferris State University, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and at The School of The Art Institute of Chicago. After serving in the U.S. Navy, he enjoyed a long career as an illustrator, winning many national juried competitions, garnering awards from the Art Directors Club, in New York City, and the Art Directors Club of Metropolitan Washington, among others. He retired to paint full time in 2006. Johnson is active in the Michigan Water Color Society and other art organizations. The artist exhibits widely, has had several solo shows, and has won many painting awards. For more information, e-mail the artist at jimlloydjohn@sbcglobal.net.

Andrea J. Smith: Expand From a Limited Palette and Focus

2009-08-21T14:00:00Z

In the new atelier she opened in Rome, Andrea J. Smith teaches students to use a limited palette of colors when painting exactly what they see from a measured distance away from the subject and the easel.

by M. Stephen Doherty

Andrea J. Smith made corrections on a
student’s sight-size drawing at the
Atelier Canova, in Rome.

Workshop magazine has reported on a number of teachers who emphasize an academic approach to drawing and painting. Students attending their workshops and classes are asked to make exact drawings of plaster casts of classical sculptures, spend hours drawing posed models, and use the sight-size method when drawing or painting. Although there are several common methods taught by instructors such as Jacob Collins, Ryan S. Brown, Michael Chelich, and others, there are also important distinctions between the materials and techniques they recommend.

Andrea J. Smith has presented her own version of this educational program at The Florence Academy of Art in Italy; The Harlem Studio of Art and the New York Academy of Art, in New York City; and the Atelier Canova, in Rome. In each of her workshops and regular class sessions, she offers a healthy balance between exacting skills and personal interpretation. Moreover, she has developed a specific way of teaching students to work with oil colors that goes well beyond what is typically offered in the United States and Europe.

To understand Smith’s independent view of classical art education, it is helpful to know about the peripatetic life she has pursued since leaving the small town of Mildura, Australia. After graduating from The University of Melbourne in 1982, she made a backpacking trip through Europe and held jobs as a barmaid, a nanny, and a furniture restorer before enrolling at The Florence Academy of Art and deciding to pursue a career as a painter. In 1999 she won the A.M.E. Bale Art Award, an Australian painting prize that enabled her to visit European museums in 2000, and in 2001 to travel to New York. This move proved to be a crucial shift in the direction of her development as she became part of a community of representational artists and was accepted for representation by Forum Gallery. In November of 2003, she founded The Harlem Studio of Art (with artist Judith Pond Kudlow). “The core curriculum was my version of the program at The Florence Academy of Art,” she explains, “but the atmosphere in the studio was more in line with an atelier rather than a traditional school in the sense that the students were working alongside professional practicing artists. I would often call the students into my studio to show them what I was working on, and that was beneficial to their learning as well as their morale. It broke down the dry formality of the preliminary exercises of Bargue copies and cast drawings, and it helped students understand why they needed to acquire skills as they saw how effective they could be in solving problems.”

After studying at The Florence Academy of Art, Smith became one of the principal drawing instructors at the academy. The drawing program in Florence involved a disciplined, sequential series of distinctive steps aimed at teaching students to draw exactly what they observed from a vantage point at a measured distance from the subject and the student’s easel. This sight-size method [see sidebar], as it is called, would first be applied to making copies of pages taken from the set of 197 loose-leaf lithographs produced by Jean-Léon Gérôme and Charles Bargue in the 19th century that was called the Cours de Dessin (drawing course). Later, students would be allowed to use a similar process to draw figures or still life objects.

Glasshouses
2007, oil, 32 x 40. Private collection.

“Basically the students learned how to work sight-size by making copies of the Bargue plates,” Smith explains. “I call these copies ‘the flat,’ with the drawings first being done in graphite, then in charcoal. The next challenge was to apply this knowledge to draw a simple, three-dimensional object and then to make a series of cast drawings in charcoal. Finally, one drawing would be developed in charcoal and white chalk.

“In Rome, the drawing section of the course is completed and the students begin the painting course by returning to their black (charcoal) and white (chalk) drawing of the cast and making a grisaille painting,” Smith says in reference to the Atelier Canova. “The painting course continues with simple still life arrangements using a limited palette of colors, and then students move on to more challenging still life setups that consist of complex objects and saturated local colors. The method of instruction can appear to be quite rigid, but it is designed to teach very specific skills. It is extremely effective in equipping students with a wide range of resources that can be utilized in developing more complex and conceptual paintings.

“Unfortunately many people still do not understand the concept of sight-size,” Smith points out. “The most common misconception is that the paintings or drawings will turn out life-size. This is absolutely incorrect because artists can draw or paint subjects the size of a postage stamp or more than life-size. A lot depends on the direction the artists wish to pursue, and my course is just another way to help artists get where they want to go.

“The method equips the artist with a fast and economical way of drawing from nature,” Smith adds. “During the initial stages, attention is paid to the most basic proportions and the contour edge. Only the most simple of geometric shapes, the most important plane changes, and the shadow patterns are put down in the preliminary stages. And all are indicated with straight lines. This stage is very sculptural because it is similar to starting with a big chisel to carve the big shapes and finishing by developing surface texture and detail. The drawing is then refined by rounding out the block-in with the simplest range of value shapes. Students then continue the process by modeling the form from the darkest values to the lightest until the drawing becomes more solid and three-dimensional. The same principles and working method are applied whether one is working with graphite, charcoal, or oil.” Once Smith’s students have successfully copied Bargue plates, they move on to drawing plaster casts, and have the option to enroll in the Saturday model classes. Here the students work in graphite or charcoal on a single pose a model might hold for 12 to 24 hours.

Although some of Smith’s classes are regularly scheduled with up to six students per session, she also offers short-term workshops. These are conducted in the atelier (still life, figure, and portraiture), out in the parks and piazzas (Roman cityscapes), or farther afield. This past summer she taught landscape-painting workshops in the coastal region of Puglia, Italy, and in the southern part of the Tuscan region. This fall, she is offering an intensive workshop in still life painting in the mornings combined with a cityscapes-painting program in the evening, and she will teach an intensive workshop in portrait painting along with cityscapes in the second half of October.

Mandarins
2007, oil, 7 x 11. Private collection.

“Most of my students have full-time jobs, so I have to offer a variety of options to accommodate their schedules,” Smith explains. “Sometimes I’ll offer drawing classes at night in the winter months, other times a model class on weekends, and occasionally a few special painting workshops during holidays. The schedule depends on how far along the students are in the course. It can be very frustrating and counterproductive to introduce a new subject to a student who is not yet prepared.” Although there is a nice balance of nationalities and age groups at the Atelier Canova, most of the students are Italian, so Smith gives her critiques in either English or Italian.

Smith named her school the Atelier Canova because the building in which it is located was once a studio used by Antonio Canova (1757–1822), the Italian artist who was famous for his marble sculptures and nude figures. Fragments of ancient sculptures and a portrait bust of the artist decorate the exterior of the building, which is one block away from the Accademia Di Belle Arti. Her top-floor studio space provides wonderful north light and a small balcony where students can sit and enjoy their breaks.

Smith allows some students to progress more rapidly through the course of study than they would at other classically-oriented schools. “My experience living, working, and teaching in New York for seven years convinced me to be more flexible about the way I respond to each individual student’s skills and ambitions,” she explains. “I thank my fellow New York painters for that.”

Although Smith’s program may be less rigid than other curricula, she still expects students to devote a significant amount of time and attention to their studies. For example, in recent weekend still life workshops, that ran from May 2 through 17 and June 6 through 21, students spent a total of 36 hours drawing, working on color studies, and finally painting the finished pieces. Smith helped the students cut down on costs by providing the paints, and the students brought along their own still life objects, brushes, and other small supplies. “We began the course with an outline of the development of the still life genre and finished with a salute to some contemporary artists,” the artist describes. “All the students had completed at least three drawings from ‘the flat,’ so they were familiar with the sight-size method of drawing. This made their job much easier, as they could focus on the process of painting.”

Many of the best classically trained artists admit they are not as skilled at working with color as they are with drawing and value painting. Smith made up for that deficiency as a student by spending a great deal of time learning to evaluate various oil colors and how they might be combined to make a full range of harmonious colors. “I developed my own way of working with a limited palette of colors, and now that is one of the distinctive aspects of my workshops and classes,” Smith says. “I spend a lot of time helping people understand how to use a few tube colors in order to prepare a full range of secondary and tertiary colors that are appropriate for whatever subject they select. I encourage them to premix small amounts of the colors as needed before they begin each painting session. This is the process I follow when I paint, and it is the same one I use for still lifes, figures, landscape, and portraits.”

Melissa
2007, oil, 14 x 14. Private collection.

Participants in Smith’s classes are introduced to color theory through a quick sketch to help them understand how to use a limited palette of colors. The instructor also works alongside them and stays one step ahead by giving a formal demonstration each morning. “Some of the most basic techniques are explained during these demonstrations, such as the differences between opaque and transparent colors,” Smith explains.

The specific limited palette Smith recommends includes lead white, yellow ochre, English red or Indian red, cobalt blue, alizarin crimson, and ivory black. “These colors can be intermixed to create warm and cool versions of the needed colors,” she explains. “For example, students can make a beautiful green by combining yellow ochre with either ivory black or cobalt blue. An extended palette of colors that might be used for a complicated still life or landscape painting would have the addition of cadmium yellow, Indian yellow, vermilion, cerulean, or viridian.” The brands of paint Smith uses include Michael Harding, Old Holland, and Robert Doak. The medium she recommends is produced by Robert Doak in Brooklyn and is a combination of turpentine, sun-thickened walnut oil, and balsam.

About the Artist

Andrea J. Smith graduated from The University of Melbourne, in Australia, and studied at The Florence Academy of Art, where she later taught drawing. She then taught at the New York Academy of Art, The Harlem Studio of Art that she co-founded with Judith Pond Kudlow, and at the Atelier Canova, in Rome, which she founded in 2008. Smith is represented by Forum Gallery, in New York City. For more information, visit her website at www.andreajsmith.com.

Tension and Abstraction in Realism

2009-08-07T10:00:00Z

Catherine Murphy’s provocative and tense graphite drawings defy category, leaving the viewer wondering if she is tightly rendering abstraction or abstracting realism.

by Lisa Dinhofer

Mowed Field
1985, graphite, 14 x 17.
All artwork this article private collection
unless otherwise indicated.

A lone cake in a lit oven, a cat-scratched chair, the back of a crudely stretched canvas, and a pile of sweepings from a dirty floor—these are the unusual, yet oh so ordinary, images from the extraordinary draftsman and painter Catherine Murphy. Unusual because the images chosen are rarely presented as subjects for large, complex, beautifully rendered drawings; and ordinary because they depict everyday, common experience. After all, who hasn’t swept a floor?

Catherine Murphy is at once a minimalist, a realist, a Northern Renaissance-style master, and a 21st-century abstract artist. Is this possible? Are these contradictions? Or different facets of the same gemstone? Let’s take each idea separately: Murphy composes her pictures as an abstract painter would, observes from life as a realist painter does, renders every detail like a Northern Renaissance master, and treats her surface equally—millimeter by millimeter—as would a minimalist. “Contradiction is the way toward harmony,” Murphy said in a recent telephone conversation. This may be the key as to why Murphy’s artwork has intrigued and beguiled the New York art world since the early 1970s.

Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1946, Murphy came to New York City to study, graduating from Pratt Institute and the Skowhegan School of Painting & Sculpture in the mid-1960s. The timing here is crucial. The late ‘60s and early ‘70s were a time of great ferment in the New York art scene. It was the time of abstraction versus representation—never can the two be reconciled, was the widespread critical thought. The established and recognized artists were the Abstract Expressionists. “The figure is dead, therefore figurative painting is dead!” was the common cry.

Never say never, and never say dead. Alice Neel, Philip Pearlstein, Alex Katz, and Neil Welliver on the East Coast—along with Wayne Thiebaud, David Park, and Richard Diebenkorn in the West—revived the figure. Representational painting was reconsidered. Catherine Murphy came of age at this time. Her first New York show was at the cooperative gallery named First Street. She was quickly picked up after this introductory show by noted dealer Xavier Fourcade and is now represented by Knoedler & Company of New York City. Murphy has received numerous grants and awards from organizations such as the Guggenheim Foundation, the Ingram Merrill Foundation, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Today, she is a senior critic at Yale University, in New Haven, Connecticut, and continues to show her artwork regularly. Her most recent solo show of new artwork was at Knoedler Gallery in 2008.

Split
2007, graphite, 36 x 42 1/2. Collection
Maxine and Stuart Frankel Foundation
for Art, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.

What distinguishes Murphy as an artist is the arc of her growth from her first known drawings in the ‘70s and ‘80s to the present. Mowed Field (1985) is a beautiful landscape drawing without prejudice, but safe. The viewer is positioned at a conventional distance from the scene, far enough away to look at this lovely space through a proscenium arch of branches and sunlight. It is a beautiful landscape, but a predictable one we have experienced before. Compare Mowed Field to Split (2007). We are no longer at a safe distance but instead forced deeply into a scene in which a dead tree trunk has been split by man and nature. We see its inner core and feel the texture of its rotting wood as it returns to the earthen floor. Every grain is drawn, every weed exposed. The scale has also changed from the small and intimate (14" x 17") of the mowed field to the large and aggressive tree trunks that are drawn on a 36"-x-42 1/2" surface. Murphy has pushed her imagery into our faces. We have become a physically active participant in her work.

This is radical. This is dangerous. Few artists ask so much of their audience. In Oven Light, we bend over to peer into an open oven at a bubbled layer cake, tin and all. The corners of the drawing are rounded to enhance this recognizable experience.

Murphy takes no shortcuts in her rendering; there is no blank space in any of her drawings. There’s no place to catch our breath. We are forced to slow down and to actually experience it all. It’s very hard to quickly walk by any of these pieces. This artwork takes time to look at—and a great deal of time to create. Split took three summers of sunny mornings to get the right light, according to the artist. Oven Light took up to six months to complete, with the artist freezing the cake in the tin every night. Most of Murphy’s drawings are meant to be finished pieces; they are not preludes to a painting. Some drawings, according to the artist, can take more time to complete than a painting.

Many of Murphy’s drawings express a moment in time—that is, the period between an action and its resolution. In the drawing Spill, we are witness to a broken glass with the spreading spill of milk on a wood table. We catch sight of the spill just when a beautiful window reflection hits the pool of milk. Happenstance? Hardly. None of Murphy’s still lifes just happen.

Oven Light
2008, graphite, 29 5/8 x 37.

The vision may be fleeting but the rendering is not. Constructing this setup is a carefully engineered process. How do you contain the image of spilt milk for months while you wait to see just the right reflection? In answer, Murphy spilled white gesso on a wood table and allowed it to harden and dry. The gesso unfortunately dried matte, which was the wrong surface to catch the light, so Murphy brushed acrylic medium on top to give the spill a glossy, reflective surface.

Originally, according to the artist, the glass in the drawing was unbroken. “The drawing just didn’t work,” relates the artist. “I would come into the studio day after day, and it just didn’t work. Finally I took a hammer and smashed the glass, and there it was.” This is why Murphy’s drawings feel immediate. They surprise us because the artist is willing to risk a six-month piece with the smash of a hammer. Now, Spill has a story line with a violent edge. Who spilt the milk, and why? Who broke the glass, and how? Who is going to clean it up on such a beautiful sunny day?

All of Murphy’s recent drawings are black and white and completely tonal. These are two distinct choices. A tonal drawing is one in which the surface is built up over time, obliterating the lines that separate the edges of the objects to the ground. “For a drawing that may take months, I spend about an hour on the initial line.” Murphy states. One way to study an artist’s technique is to look for areas that may not be complete. In these areas we can observe the artist’s hand. In Murphy’s case, the best place to look is at the edge of the image, where the line of demarcation occurs between white paper and graphite. Normally this area is covered by the mat in a frame. Studio Shelves, when observed closely, reveals a heavily built up surface of graphite on heavyweight paper. Murphy uses Arches paper from a roll, usually 140-lb, and 5B Prismacolor Turquoise graphite pencils sharpened to a needle point. She builds the graphite surface by working into the darks, leaving the white of the paper as the lightest highlight. At times the artist works from left to right, gradually layering the drawing with graphite and reducing it with erasers until the right effect is achieved. Working from a roll of paper instead of individual sheets allows the artist to choose the size and shape of her picture plane. For example: Studio Shelves measures 29½" x 36 3/4", Split is 36" x 42 1/2", and Swept Up is 25 5/8" x 33 1/2".

Studio Shelves
2008, graphite, 29 1/2 x 36 3/4.

The choice of black and white is significant. Part of the emotional experience of observation is taken away by the removal of color. These drawings become journalistic in their presentation. The focus is the objects, the relationships between objects, and the light that falls on them. Interestingly, in order to create a believable object in value, the artist must be well versed in color reaction. Each gray portrays a different color—in Yellow Beads, the gray of a yellow bead is completely different from that of the flesh color of the sitter’s neck or the green of her blouse. Drama is another element inherent in a black-and-white drawing with a wide value range. The narrative of the image becomes key, as in Scratches. Here’s the tale of an unseen cat, a family chair, and the destruction thereof.

Asking an artist to name the artists he or she most admires is a tricky business, mainly because taste and opinion change so frequently. Today’s influences will probably change in the morning. So what—we ask anyway. Murphy’s reply to this question was interesting. Minimalist painters Robert Mangold and Ellsworth Kelly are major influences. In minimalist painting and drawing, the idea becomes key, and style becomes irrelevant because there’s very little, if anything, on the surface. What interests the minimalists is the geometry of the picture plane. Catherine Murphy loves geometry—it’s the way she composes her page. For example, Swept Up portrays an oval of debris with marks from the broom pointing toward that oval. Murphy treats her surface evenly from left to right, and with no change of focus this can flatten the picture plane, as in some minimalist artwork. But here the influence stops. For some, minimalism is an end. For Murphy, it is just the beginning.

Spill
2007, graphite, 28 x 40.

Murphy’s true passion is in observation—being true to what she sees. Being true to one’s physical vision brings a whole slew of new elements to the page, not the least of which is the psychological and the physical dimensions of the subject. For example, Eileen’s Back is a geometrical study of a woman’s back. Yes, but one can’t dismiss the fact that this is a middle-aged woman’s very freckled back, the composition cropped at the neck to focus attention on the shoulder blades between her bra straps. We touch her skin with our eyes. In Swept Up we have a mouse’s-eye view of a pile of dust. In short, the minimalists push us away, but Murphy brings us up close and personal. Sometimes too close, and too personal? Certainly, she shows us the overlooked corners of our lives. There’s poetry in those corners, and music. But no romance—Murphy’s art is the art of the real and unvarnished.

About the Artist

Catherine Murphy was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and studied at Pratt Institute, in Brooklyn, New York, and at the Skowhegan School of Painting & Sculpture. She has been the subject of numerous solo shows and has been a senior critic of painting at Yale University, in New Haven, Connecticut, for two decades. She is represented by Knoedler & Company, in New York City.

The Sublime and the Beautiful: Painting the Hudson Valley

2009-07-17T10:01:00Z

In honor of the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson’s voyage, the art community prepares to celebrate the extraordinary history of painting along the Hudson River.

by John A. Parks

Scene from The Last of the Mohicans,
Cora Kneeling at the Feet of Tamenund
by Thomas Cole, 1827, oil, 25 3/8 x 35 1⁄16.
Collection Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford,
Connecticut.

Although Henry Hudson was presented with a series of magnificent vistas in September of 1609 as his ship worked its way up the river that was to bear his name, his observations were scarcely poetic. “It is as pleasant a land as one need tread upon,” he wrote in his log. “The land is the finest for cultivation that I ever in my life set foot upon.” Engaged on a commercial expedition to find a passage to the Indies, Hudson saw the landscape in purely commercial terms. The grandeur of rocky escarpments, forest-clad hills, and distant mountains enveloped in a luminous haze was lost on him. Disappointed that the river eventually became unnavigable, he turned around and sailed back to sea.

For the next two centuries, settlers’ relationships with the river remained almost entirely commercial, first as a trading ground for beaver fur and then as farmland to feed the growing city at the mouth of the river. Nobody painted the scenery, because it was not yet considered a subject of aesthetic merit, and early colonial painting limited itself almost entirely to portraiture. It wasn’t until the early 19th century that the idea of seeing the Hudson Valley as an object of beauty and wonder made itself felt. When this finally came about it was largely as a result of new thinking from Europe about the promise of landscape imagery.

The ideas that would fuel the Hudson River School of painting developed in a discourse in Europe during the 18th century about the way in which people respond to landscape. Philosophers as renowned as Immanuel Kant and Edmund Burke weighed in on the idea of the “sublime” and the “beautiful.” The sublime was apparently a feeling of awe and even fearfulness that might be experienced in front of the vastness and power of nature. It was held that the 17th-century painter Salvator Rosa (1615–1673) had exemplified this sense in his highly dramatic paintings. The beautiful, on the other hand, was a softer, more alluring sense, most perfectly seen in the artwork of another 17th-century painter, Claude Lorraine (1600–1682). To add to these concepts came the idea of the “picturesque,” a notion of beauty propounded by William Gilpin, of Salisbury, England, who defined picturesque as “that particular quality that makes objects chiefly pleasing in painting,” listing rough texture and small scale as key elements of a picturesque. By the beginning of the 19th century, this new interest in landscape moved British artists such as John Constable (1776–1837) to paint directly from nature. Meanwhile J.M.W. Turner (1775–1851) began to make his mark by conveying in his landscapes the emotional nature of the artist’s response to his subject.

It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the first artists to make notable landscapes of the Hudson Valley came from the British Isles. William Guy Wall (1792–ca. 1864) followed a business model that was already established in Europe by making paintings to be reproduced as a set of engravings, which could then be sold at a good profit. His set, titled the Hudson River Portfolio (ca. 1820), provided the first glimpse of the splendors of the river to a wider public. His style, developed in the burgeoning romanticism of early-19th-century England, displays the valley as a desirable Eden—an attractive and beguiling world. Many others would follow in his wake.

View Toward the Hudson Valley
by Asher B. Durand, 1851, oil, 33 1/8 x 48 1/8.
Collection Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art,
Hartford, Connecticut.

The first truly great painter of the Hudson Valley was Thomas Cole (1801–1848). Cole was born in Lancashire, England, and had already served part of an apprenticeship as an engraver before immigrating to the United States in 1818. After a sojourn in Ohio, he eventually moved to Philadelphia, where he was impressed with the canvases of two early pioneers of American landscape painting, Thomas Doughty (1793–1856) and Thomas Birch (1779–1851). These painters, like Shaw, were familiar with developments in landscape painting in England and Europe. Thomas Cole immediately saw the possibilities inherent in this new romantic approach. He set off northward to find a place where he could be close to nature and eventually settled in Catskill, a small town on the west side of the Hudson river, near the town of Hudson. There he found a perfect combination of mountains, forests, rocks, waterfalls, and the vast splendor of the river. From the beginning, Cole’s canvases brilliantly combined a lively brush and a direct response to the landscape with some of the more artificial devices of European painting. His artwork was exhibited for the first time in a New York City frame shop in 1825, and it was immediately discovered by three artistic luminaries of the day, Asher B. Durand (1796–1886), John Trumbull (1756–1843), and William Dunlap (1766–1839). Their enthusiasm quickly led to a firm reputation for Cole and to the beginning of what is now known as the Hudson River School of painting, the first truly American art movement.

1825 was a good year to start a career in the arts in New York. The Erie Canal had just opened, providing a passage for goods from the Great Lakes down through the Hudson Valley to New York City. The vast increase in wealth this trade produced quickly led to the formation of a moneyed middle class capable of collecting art. Galleries and art societies began to proliferate. The new river traffic also made the Hudson Valley more easily accessible to a wider public. The general admiration of nature and the various responses to it, now being felt in poetry and painting, led to more active exploration. A year prior, the Mohonk Mountain House was opened, which provided pleasant lodging and good wine amid glorious views. Tourists and artists flocked to it. Moreover, the condition of the landscape itself was a perfect vehicle for all those new ideas about the sublime and the beautiful. Along the banks of the river the farmers had domesticated the land to provide picturesque points of interest. Farther inland, however, nothing much had changed since Hudson’s day, with mountains stretching far in their grandeur and wildness. Not that there was any real danger any more—the Indians had long since been driven away, and the wilderness could be contemplated in tranquility.

In the Mountains
by Albert Bierstadt, 1867, oil, 36 3⁄16 x 50 1/4.
Collection Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art,
Hartford, Connecticut.

Cole pursued a very active career, exhibiting his artwork and traveling to Europe to familiarize himself with the world of painting. He visited Turner’s studio in London and got to know some of the major collections in France and Italy. Inspired by these experiences, his ambitions stretched far beyond the simple recording of landscape to embrace a somewhat grandiose version of classism, most famously demonstrated in a series of five canvases titled The Course of Empire. These paintings, which show the emergence, triumph, and eventual decline of a notional empire, appear to the contemporary eye as a curious mixture of Claude, Poussin, and rather earnest and slightly heavy-handed Hudson River School painting. Fortunately for us, Cole always had trouble selling his more ambitious pieces, and the necessity of supporting himself and his family kept him producing the landscapes whose direct and lively confrontation with nature remain compelling to this day.

Cole was soon joined in his enterprise by Asher B. Durand. Like Cole, Durand had begun his career as an engraver, but by the mid-1830s he was able to obtain sufficient sponsorship to become a full-time painter. He became a close friend of Cole, and the two collaborated on painting excursions in the Hudson Valley and up into the Adirondack Mountains. Durand produced artwork that lacked some of the fire and vigor of Cole’s, developing instead an exquisitely subtle and accomplished finish. When Cole died in 1848, Durand produced one of the most celebrated American paintings of the century, Kindred Spirits. The picture shows Cole in conversation with the poet and artist William Cullen Bryant as they stand on a rock amid a densely packed landscape of forest and waterfalls. The setting is in fact a compendium of Hudson River locations, stitched together to provide a powerful sense of the wealth and splendor of nature. The two men discoursing on the pleasures that nature provides is perhaps the quintessential image of the passions of the age.

As the century proceeded, the growing art market and general interest in the outdoors attracted new generations of painters to the Hudson Valley. Jasper Cropsey (1823–1900) began his long career with highly energetic and painterly pictures inspired by the work of Thomas Cole. Cropsey became expert at painting the brilliant fall foliage of the valley and famously countered the incredulity of Queen Victoria, who thought his color exaggerated. The artist sent leaves to the Queen as evidence of his truthfulness. Like Cole and Durand, Cropsey also spent considerable time in Europe and lived in England for seven years during the 1850s and 1860s. His later paintings reflect the quieter approach and interest in atmospheric and light effects that were pioneered by Durand, forming a style now known as Luminism.

Niagara Falls
by John Frederick Kensett, 1855, oil,
45 x 32 1/2. Collection Wadsworth
Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford,
Connecticut.

The Luminists included John Frederick Kensett (1816–1872), who began his career as an engraver and was at one time employed engraving bank notes. Eventually he went to Europe for seven years to study painting, returning in 1848 to produce landscapes that combine thoughtful compositions and a delicate touch. He specialized in a subtle and restrained palette, observing that “bright colors are sparingly distributed throughout nature.” The Luminist most thoroughly devoted to the effects of light and atmosphere was Sanford Robinson Gifford (1823–1880). He was born in the town of Hudson, close to Cole’s home, and continually traveled back to the region throughout his life to enjoy the golden sunsets and rich twilights that occur in the humid summer atmosphere of the valley.

The most famous and most accomplished of the Hudson Valley artists in the second half of the 19th century was Frederic Edwin Church (1826–1900). Church was born into a wealthy family in Connecticut and moved to Catskill as a teenager to study with Thomas Cole for two years. Church’s abilities were evident right from the beginning as he quickly proved himself able to control the color and light in broad compositions and then endow it with a wealth of meticulous detail. He made his reputation painting exotic and grand panoramas of scenes in South America, which he visited after reading the descriptions of the area by the explorer Alexander von Humboldt. In his Cosmos: A Sketch of the Physical Description of the Universe, published in English in 1848, Humbolt propounded a religious view of nature as evidence of a divine order, an idea that was already popular with American landscape painters.

Eventually Church built Olana, his famous home, on a hilltop opposite Catskill. Olana is a towered, Persian-style structure that commands an enormous vista of the Hudson flowing southward, flanked by mountains, forests, and plains. In spite of his worldwide travels, Church always maintained that the Hudson Valley had the best light in the world. And it was there, late in life, that he produced so many remarkable small oil sketches that conjure immensities of space and light from a few sensitive touches and strokes of the brush.

Many other great American artists spent time in the Hudson Valley. George Inness (1825–1894) was born in Newburgh, and his early artwork is rightly associated with the school. Albert Bierstadt (1830–1902), always out to produce images of the wild splendors of the American landscape, created several memorable paintings in the area. Martin Johnson Heade (1819–1904) made many paintings in the Hudson Valley while forging his own version of the Luminist style.

By the 1880s the great age of the Hudson River School was coming to an end. Collectors were becoming interested in Impressionism and more inclined to collect French painting and urban scenes. The call of nature and the wilderness was losing its appeal for the public. Despite this shift, the natural beauty of the Hudson Valley continued to attract artists into the 20th century. In 1902 Ralph Radcliffe Whitehead and Harvey White opened a community settlement of artists and craftspeople in Woodstock, an idea inspired by the writings of John Ruskin and William Morris. The settlement was named Byrdcliffe and soon drew a growing number of artists to the area. Between 1906 and 1922, and again between 1947 and 1970, Byrdcliffe was the summer home of the Art Students League of New York, exposing new generations of young artists to the joys of landscape painting. The Woodstock art community can name Eugene Speicher, Milton Avery, Bradley Walker Tomlin, Yasuo Kuniyoshi, and many others among its luminaries over the years. Another lively contributor to the visual arts in the region is the Hudson Valley Art Association, which was formed in a ceremony in 1928 in Jasper Cropsey’s former studio at Ever Rest, in Hastings-on-Hudson. Its members keep alive their passion for painting the area to this day with annual exhibitions and a number of special events.

The Half Moon
by John Beerman, 2008, oil, 36 x 60.
Collection the artist.

Since the 1970s, the Hudson River has recovered some of its former glory, largely due to a strong local environmental movement. It has also attracted the attention of a number of highly talented contemporary painters. John Beerman, who lives in Nyack, has made a career of rendering the river and its surroundings in a modern Luminist style in which forms are simplified and bathed in a fantastic light, kindled from layers of saturated color. Beerman is a distant relation of Henry Hudson, and his painting The Half Moon, which shows the explorer’s ship on its voyage up the river, is to be presented to President Obama in September by the American Heritage Rivers Alliance to mark the 400th anniversary of the journey. John Phillip Osborne, a New Jersey-based artist, has made many paintings of the Hudson in a style that marries the Luminist tradition with a somewhat more open and direct brushing technique. Marlene Wiedenbaum makes dense, rich pastels that savor the considerable visual splendors of the region, which have now been preserved by both public and private entities.

The Hudson Valley has also attracted new art institutions. Storm King Art Center, in Mountainville, is a sculpture park of international repute, where contemporary pieces are displayed in the grandeur of a sweeping Hudson Valley estate. Maya Lin, the sculptor best known for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, in Washington, DC, has recently installed a piece titled Storm King Wavefield, in which acres of grassland have been molded into the shape of waves. This eloquent and simple melding of natural forms seems entirely in keeping with the 19th-century reverence for nature that inspired Cole and Durand.

Another art power moved to the Hudson Valley in 2003 when the Dia Art Foundation took over a vacant printing facility at Beacon and transformed it into a vast museum for its collection of modern art. On a smaller scale, there is an abundance of county art associations, small museums, plein air groups, and private galleries all contributing to a vibrant art scene. And the Hudson River Fellowship is picking up where Cole, Durand, and Church left off, with its landscape-painting curriculum modeled after the artistic, social, and spiritual values of the Hudson River School painters. It is perhaps this continued joy of creativity in an area of remarkable natural beauty that is the true legacy of the Hudson River School.

Creating Movement in a Still Life

2009-07-17T10:00:00Z

Whether painting in oil or pastel, Connecticut artist Claudia Seymour avoids static compositions by using line, color, and design to move the viewer’s eye through the painting.

by Linda S. Price

Persian Bittersweet
2003, oil on linen, 20 x 16. All
artwork this article collection the
artist unless otherwise indicated.

“Still life is inexhaustible,” Claudia Seymour says with the enthusiasm that permeates all her conversations about art and the art world. She should know. She paints still lifes exclusively and never runs out of ideas. Her paintings are usually inspired by props—gorgeous flowers from her garden, luscious fruit from the supermarket, or an antique-store find with an interesting shape or texture. These objects, she explains, are not symbolic of anything deeper. “A pear is just a pear,” says the artist. “I combine lovely objects to create a new message of beauty.”

Seymour is adamant about always working from life. “There is no need to insert a camera between my setup and my painting,” she says. “By painting from photos you are using the camera as a substitute for your eyes and are tempted to become too reliant on the photo. You’re also basically creating two dimensions from two dimensions. When you’re painting from life, you’re much more aware of spatial relationships, color, lights, and darks.”

Integral to Seymour’s setup is the wooden box on wheels (copied from those used at the Scottsdale Artists’ School) on which she arranges her still lifes. The interior is painted the same neutral gray-green she often uses for backgrounds in her paintings. The back opens, allowing her to arrange drapery. The sides have flaps that she can adjust to control the light. An Ott light—a very cool white light that Seymour says is the closest she’s found to north light—illuminates the setup from the left, which means that the color of the background is most intense in the upper-left corner and lighter toward the bottom right. Another Ott light attaches to Seymour’s French easel and illuminates her palette.

In deciding what objects to include in her still life and how to arrange them, the artist’s prime concern, aside from providing variety, is avoiding a static composition. Using line, color, and design, Seymour moves the viewer’s eye around the composition. The lines are often branches, as in Persian Bittersweet, or ribbons, as in such holiday paintings as Winter Radiance. Notes of color, such as red persimmons, are picked up by the similarly colored lady apples, effectively creating a path for the eye. In An Autumn Obi the brown color of the squash is echoed by the flower at the top of the arrangement. Often Seymour designs her painting so that the diagonals create movement. Folds of fabric—frequently on the diagonal—drape over the edge of the table, providing a way to enter the painting. “This is very important,” she explains, “because the eye needs at least one way into the picture—preferably two or three because one can look stagy.” Dried lemon leaves, fruit peelings, and bunches of grapes are other effective devices to break this front plane.

Often Seymour chooses a triangular composition, selecting one object to provide the high point—which she generally places slightly to the right of center—several middle points, and some small objects to set them off. For a background she uses either fabric (preferably without a busy pattern, although she’s been known to turn paisley prints into stripes when necessary), a variation on the neutral gray-green of the inside of the box, or at times, as in Cinnabar Plate, posters from The Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York City, which provide an Oriental design that enhances her props. Because she doesn’t have a large number of tables yet wants variety, the artist keeps a file of photos of tables and chests clipped from magazines, catalogues, and books. Some, such as the Chinese cabinet in Bartok’s Mandarins, are products of her imagination.

An Autumn Obi
2004, oil on linen, 20 x 16.

“Some still lifes set themselves up,” Seymour says. “Others can take hours or days to get right.” Once she has the optimum composition and lighting, she turns to her canvas or paper. (The artist is equally adept at oil and pastel.) Seymour has canvases prepared to her specifications by a Brooklyn company. They take Belgian linen, size it with rabbit-skin glue, then double-prime it with lead white—Seymour doesn’t like painting on acrylic gesso. The canvas is lightly toned with a combination of raw umber and blue, with some burnt sienna added if the painting will be predominantly warm. Seymour sketches the scene with a brush and a gray-green mixture of ultramarine blue and yellow ochre, a color that holds up against the toned canvas but doesn’t become obtrusive. Then the artist blocks in local colors, establishing the lightest lights and a few of the darkest darks to set the range. She paints in many layers, glazing at the end to warm up or add depth to the shadows.

“On the last day, I add the details that make the painting come alive for me,” Seymour explains. “By that time the setup has been dismantled—I break it down when I’ve finished my direct observation. Then, when I do the final touches, such as punching up the lights and adding highlights, I’m not concerned with reproducing what’s in front of me and can deal with the painting on its own. That way the painting—rather than the setup—has the last say.” This is also the first time Seymour turns on the overhead lights in her studio so that she can get a better idea of how the painting will look under gallery lighting.

The artist loves the last step of painting details almost as much as that first day of sketching when she’s convinced the painting is going to be wonderful. But she confesses to suffering from what she calls “the misery of the middle.” “It’s when I think I was either stupid or brain dead when I started the painting and wonder if it will ever be finished,” says Seymour. Yet she believes that a painting can almost always be fixed and says she’s only abandoned a few. “The problem,” she explains, “usually is that there aren’t enough darks in the objects.” The artist points to the red peppers in Indian Country Pot and admits they were once a disaster. Then, because she happened to have a brush loaded with black paint, she outlined a few of them, giving them greater depth. It worked, as it did with an amaryllis in another painting, in which she discovered she had to use black to set off the edge of a bud. “In some ways it’s the darks, rather than the lights, that do the modeling,” she notes. “But I’m also getting bolder about pushing the light. I used to think it would look too cheesy if certain elements were too bright, but now I go for the effect and make light edges pop.”

The Cinnabar Plate
2004, pastel on La Carte pastel
card, 19 x 15.

Seymour’s palette consists mainly of Old Holland oil paints and includes cadmium red medium, alizarin crimson, and Gamblin perylene red, the latter a quite transparent paint that falls somewhere between the orange-leaning cadmium and the blue-tinged alizarin. She also uses French ultramarine, cobalt blue, Naples yellow light, cadmium lemon, cadmium yellow light, cadmium yellow medium, cadmium orange, burnt sienna, and burnt umber. Asphaltum from Gamblin, a transparent gray-brown that makes a good glaze for deepening shadows, is a recent addition. To lighten colors she chooses Old Holland yellow light, which looks white but has a slightly yellowish cast that helps to keep the lightened color from becoming too cold. Only for the brightest white highlights on china and glass does she use either flake or titanium white. Ivory black completes her palette. Because she cleans her palette after every painting session, she takes careful notes on her color combinations.
Her medium is Liquin, used sparingly. Seymour’s favorite brushes are Signet and Grand Prix bristle brushes, mainly filberts and flats. She prefers filberts for the way they hold paint and allow her to build texture. For her final detail work she relies on Winsor & Newton and Creative Mark sables.

The artist considers it a compliment when people say they can’t tell the difference between her oil paintings and her pastels. “I’m not a strokey pastel painter,” she says. “I like to make things look solid.” She works almost exclusively on Wallis paper, which she says allows good color coverage. Seymour first executes a detailed drawing with fine willow charcoal and indicates the major shadows. Next, she blocks in the local color with hard Nupastels, after which she studies the painting carefully, making sure all the sizes, proportions, and relationships are correct while they can easily be changed. Then she moves on to the softer Terry Ludwig and Girault pastels, her so-called “workhorses.” Because her limited studio space denies her the luxury of laying out all her pastels, she works in layers, going from hard to soft, laying out collections of colors she is using on paper towels. She finishes up the highlights and truly intense colors with very soft Great American or Schmincke pastels. Between layers and at the very end, she takes her paper outside, gives it a whack to shake off any loose pastel dust, and sprays it lightly with Lascaux aerosol fixative. “Used properly and sparingly,” she says, “fixative is a godsend.” The artist “absolutely, but not always” blends the pastels with her fingers, explaining that she usually blends her backgrounds because she doesn’t want any texture showing through, and she often blends pastel depicting glass and porcelain objects. Other times she uses a stick of Girault pastel close in color and value to blend softer pastels together. For Seymour, pastel pencils are not only terrific for details but also work as blending tools in design-heavy areas. Whether she’s working in oil or pastel, Seymour says, “My goal is always to make my painting even more beautiful and luminous than the setup.”

About the Artist
Surprisingly, Claudia Seymour is a relative latecomer to art. She took her first art class in 1996 as something to do with her time when her son went away to college. Silvermine School of Art, in New Canaan, Connecticut, was close by, and Seymour was lucky enough to find a very encouraging teacher in her first drawing class there. She went on to study painting privately and at the Art Students League of New York, in Manhattan, where her she studied with Eleanor Moore and the late Richard Pionk. As her abilities and confidence grew, she entered juried shows, and today her list of exhibitions and awards is long. Seymour is a member of Oil Painters of America and Pastel Society of America, and she holds signature memberships in the International Association of Pastel Societies and Allied Artists of America. She is the current president of the prestigious Salmagundi Club—only the second woman to hold that office since its founding in 1871. The artist is represented by Hoorn-Ashby Gallery, on Nantucket, Massachusetts; Handwright Gallery, in New Canaan, Connecticut; and W. H. Patterson Gallery, in London. For more information, visit www.claudiaseymour.com.

Painting Roses and Delphiniums

2009-05-29T10:01:00Z

In the Watercolor Fundamentals article in the Spring 2009 issue of Watercolor, I explained how to set up and paint a basic floral still life. This time I will demonstrate a more involved arrangement of roses and delphiniums. As I’ve suggested here, you might want to practice drawing and painting the shapes of the flowers first, because the forms are more complicated. Doing this will help you paint with more confidence, and you will be better able to capture the effects of light and shadow that will bring your setup to life on the paper.

Exercise: Practice Painting Roses

Photographs of two roses.

Begin the exercise by painting the whole shape of these roses without adding details.
In my demo, the small white-tinted shapes usually designate the edges of a petal.
Both shapes were painted at the same time—moving from the rose shape to the leaves.
Note the variety of the outside edge shapes. Most important, remember that you do
not need to paint every petal!

Graphic rose

1. Begin by sketching the rose petals.
2. When you are satisfied with your sketch, transfer it to the watercolor paper.
3. Paint a base color. Allow the paint to dry.
4. Load a round brush with a darker color than the rose. Starting at one of the
inside edges, paint along its curve, immediately switch to your flat brush, and
pull the paint away from this edge toward the outside of the petal shape.
This suggests how the form of the petal turns.

The Finished Exercise

Exercise: Painting Delphiniums

The sinuous, multiflowered branches of the delphinium can be somewhat befuddling to
paint. For this reason, take your time drawing and simplifying these shapes on your
paper. Resist the temptation to paint everything you see. Begin at the top with violets,
blues, and greens, changing colors as you move from the small, delicate buds to the
larger shapes, finishing with the stem.

Demonstration: Roses and Delphiniums

Reference
In designing this setup I made the roses the focal point and the delphinium and foliage
less important. Overlapping these shapes helps to create the feeling of dimension. I also
decided to use the white of the paper as a background and not add a container. Last, this
arrangement was designed to be a vignette, meaning the subject matter does not touch
any of the edges of the paper and has a balanced middle placement.

Step 1
I lightly sketched the placement of the various subjects.
The two roses were painted before the delphiniums.

Step 2
Next, I went back into the rosebud and added too much detail. To correct this problem,
I washed out a good part of this detail using a slightly wet natural sponge.
I then considered the painting at a distance.

Step 3
I added negative shapes to a few of the delphinium buds, as well as a third rose.
I started defining the rose petals (using the size 10 round brush) with paint that was
slightly darker than the base color. Then I came in with the flat brush (not too wet) to
move the paint to the edge, creating the rich and subtle colors and values in the rose.
I considered the addition of foliage under the single rose, so I laid some natural foliage
on the spot to see how it would look. I decided to include it and other pieces as well.

Step 4
At this stage I worked out the design of the stems on tracing paper.
To transfer the drawing, I taped the tracing paper directly on a window, then taped
my painting over the tracing paper using matte-finish Magic Tape.
I lightly traced the image onto the watercolor paper.

Step 5
I painted the stems using a variety of shapes and soft greens.

The Completed Demonstration:
Roses and Delphiniums
2009, watercolor, 20 1/2 x 16.

Minimal Means, Maximum Impact

2009-05-29T10:00:00Z

Using subtle washes and minimal detail, Keiko Tanabe creates a powerful sense of time and place.

by John A. Parks

Paris, North Station
2008, watercolor, 14 x 21. Collection
the artist.

Keiko Tanabe uses little more than open washes of watercolor to suggest the deep, moody shadows of a street in Naples or the broad, wet grayness of a rain-washed Scottish thoroughfare. Buildings, cars, and figures dissolve into the air and light around them, subsumed into a continuum of space and atmosphere. In Paris, North Station, the artist conjures up the thick dampness of the morning air as it hangs over the old buildings, and in Coronado Sunset VII, the warm depths of a Californian twilight are built out of nothing more than a patchwork of suggestions and a rich layering of paint. In Andalusia, Spain I, the heat and dryness of the scene come to life as the green of the trees floods upward into the landscape and sky, re-creating the experience of shimmering, overcooked air and the blasting light of a Mediterranean noon. It’s hard to imagine paintings that have a stronger sense of place and time, and the images remain in the mind’s eye like privileged glimpses or treasured memories. “I’d like my audience to feel a sense of connection, of belonging, when they look at my paintings,” says Tanabe, who was raised in Japan and now lives in San Diego, “and also a feeling of joy and peace.”

The artist bases much of her work on images she collects while traveling. “I look for scenes that have a strong mood and atmosphere, good light-and-dark contrast, as well as exciting shapes, forms, and perspective,” she says. “I am also interested in subjects that tell the story of a people—their culture and traditions.”

Although she enjoys plein air painting, Tanabe is a strong proponent of using photography as reference. She takes her camera wherever she goes, in fact, and considers it a kind of sketchbook where she can capture the essence of a place for paintings she makes in the studio. Tanabe admits that photographs do not entirely replace doing sketches by hand, but they have enormous advantages when it comes to collecting new imagery. “When I am traveling, I take 200 or more photos a day on average,” she says. “I can’t possibly achieve so much if I physically draw everything that inspires me.”

Coronado Sunset VII
2008, watercolor, 8 1/4 x 11 1/2.
Collection the artist.

The artist is not interested in photo-realism, however. “When I make a painting, I use one or more photos principally for design and atmosphere,” she says. “I’m not so much interested in the details or accurate rendering. I find that sometimes good paintings come from out-of-focus photos if they capture the mood just the way I remember it.” Tanabe also points out that using photography allows her to work largely from her home studio, which she values because it allows her to be available for her 13-year-old son.

Tanabe begins a painting by taping a sheet of Arches rough or cold-pressed watercolor paper onto her drawing board and then stapling over the tape to prevent buckling. She then begins drawing lightly with a soft pencil, 4B to 6B. “My pencil drawing is usually very quick and simple with no intricate details,” she says. “Pencil lines serve mostly as guidelines. I mark clearly where I want to keep the white of the paper so that I can paint around it. I never use masking fluid.”

Once painting begins, Tanabe relies on a wet-in-wet technique. “I basically wet the entire surface of the paper, except the areas where I want to keep white highlights,” she explains. “I then go on dropping and pushing paints here and there in order to lay down base colors. I also attempt as much as possible to establish the full range of tonal values that will appear in the finished painting.” Tanabe usually allows this first wash stage to dry completely. “I then keep laying down as many glazes as needed to strengthen the middle and dark values while refining and defining shapes by creating hard edges,” she says.

Andalusia, Spain I
2007, watercolor, 14 x 21. Collection
the artist.

The dazzling results of this technique are much in evidence in Procida, Italy IV, in which a hazy light envelops a waterfront scene. By carefully leaving the white of the paper open in the bottom left, the artist created a dazzling reflection of sun on water. The sustained closeness of the blue-gray washes throughout the painting secures a highly convincing continuum of shadowy space pitched against the glinting warmth of the sunlight. The artist achieved enormous depth and scope with minimal means.
Asked if she feels there is any influence of her Japanese heritage in her work, the artist is thoughtful. “I never consciously connected my art to my Japanese heritage,” she says. “If my art should reflect who I am, my visual expression may be influenced, to some degree, by my being Japanese. Technically, I think my brushwork, dry brushstrokes in particular, reflect several years of my training in Japanese calligraphy that uses a brush and ink on paper. I took calligraphy lessons for about five years when I was around 10. I learned how to handle a brush to make a variety of marks. The lessons also taught me something about balance, form, harmony in space, and how to concentrate.”

Perhaps some of this early training is evident in the deliberate way she prepares to paint, making the most of the time. “I always stand up to paint,” Tanabe explains, “and I buy the best-quality materials that I can afford. Before I start painting I organize my work area, prepare my paper, squeeze more than enough paints onto the palette, and throw away hardened paints. I make sure that I have plenty of water in a bucket for washing brushes.” The artist paints every day and allows no interruptions. Working on a number of paintings at the same time, she listens to music while she paints.

Edinburgh, Scotland II
2007, watercolor, 14 x 21. Collection
the artist.

No doubt the artist’s previous experiences contribute to her discipline and organization. Before dedicating herself to fine art some five years ago, Tanabe pursued a career in international relations, working for several large organizations, first in Japan and then in the United States. The artist observes that this background brings an unusual perspective to the business of art. “I believe there are some business principles that are universal and essential for success,” she says. “I think good businesses place importance on the high quality of products and services, marketing, communication, customer service, and philanthropy. I try to remember these things as I do business as an artist. Some people may have no clue to what an artist’s life is and don’t treat you seriously if you say you are an artist. They will eventually understand, though, if you always mean business.”

Tanabe’s study and work in the field of international relations has led her to especially value communication. “I still remember in my first communications class at a university, a professor tossed a ball to a student sitting in the first row, and asked him to pass it back to her,” she recalls. “As they continued passing it back and forth, the professor said, ‘This is what communication is all about.’ I make art to be shared. I complete a painting, but that is only one part of the process. When I share it like ‘the ball,’ the viewer receives it, interprets it, and brings a new meaning to my painting. Then a communication cycle is complete.”

Tanabe is just as serious about marketing. Although she is represented by several galleries, she sells directly from her website as well. Having a presence on the internet also allows her to establish closer contact with her collectors. “I use my website, blog, and social-networking sites to enjoy conversations with my viewers and other artist friends,” she says. “I also publish a quarterly, free e-newsletter to people who subscribe online. And I am on Facebook, too.” In addition, the artist is represented by the website dailypainters.com and posts a new painting almost every day. Doing this provides not only income but also the discipline of producing a new painting each day, as well as contact and encouragement from other painters in the group.

Journey Home VI
2008, watercolor, 14 x 21. Collection
the artist.

Asked what advice she would give young painters, Tanabe responds with a long list: “Be truthful to your dream; make painting a top priority; make a serious commitment; take a step at a time; make good friends who support your dream; lose time-wasters; be thick-skinned; don’t take rejections, criticism, and negative comments personally but learn from them; have a mentor or colleague who can advise you; set goals; visualize your dream; prioritize daily activities in order to treat art seriously; prepare to spend a lot of time in the studio, alone; don’t be a workshop junkie; make a lot of mistakes in your studio—there’s no shortcut and that’s the only way to find your own voice or develop your style; and enjoy the journey.”

Tanabe has clearly taken her own advice, producing a large body of high-quality artwork in a surprisingly short time. Recent pieces such as Journey Home VI show a sure command and control of space and light, as well as an uncanny ability to suggest a wealth of detail and texture while allowing the air and light of the painting to dominate. Her travels have also allowed her to make paintings that show great warmth and interest for other cultures. In Marisqueira, Portugal, for instance, she presents an intimate glimpse of two ordinary women talking casually on the sidewalk in the early morning. And in Market Day, Venice, Italy II, a man pushing a cart and various passersby are integrated seamlessly into the light and air of the scene, giving the viewer the sense that he or she is participating in the life and work of the place. “Years of working in international fields taught me to be open-minded and respectful to people and cultures outside my own,” says the artist. “The experience also helped me to learn my own culture for real, maybe for the first time. Because I always wanted to work to enhance cross-cultural understanding, I like to do a small part in my art today by delivering an underlying message that the world is one; despite many differences, we are all the same as human beings.”

About the Artist
Keiko Tanabe was born in Kyoto, Japan. She worked in international relations in Japan and in the United States before devoting herself to painting. Tanabe started taking classes in San Diego with Kate Fitzsimmons and eventually joined the San Diego Watercolor Society. She is also a member of Watercolor West and the American Watercolor Society. She has won many awards for her work, most recently the David Gale Memorial Award in the 34th Annual Western Federation of Watercolor Societies Annual Exhibition. Learn more about the artist at www.ktanabefineart.com.

How to Triumph In Spite of the Odds

2009-05-26T10:00:00Z

Emerging artist Daniel James Keys couldn’t enroll at an art school, but he used every other available means to educate himself as an artist, to connect with other painters, and to promote his artwork. His experience proves that with determination, support, and computer savvy, artists can make significant progress.

by M. Stephen Doherty

Tea Still Life
2008, oil, 24 x 30. Collection the artist.

After posting photographs of his still life and landscape paintings in the gallery section of the American Artist website (http://www.artistdaily.com), Daniel James Keys attracted the attention of the magazine’s editors who posted messages indicating they were impressed with the conception and execution of his oil paintings. The members of the New York staff had no idea he was a 23-year-old man living in a rural California community with limited access to galleries, museums, art schools, workshops, or other artists. Somehow he had learned to create an outstanding collection of paintings even though most of the normal paths that aspiring artists follow were unavailable to him.

On his 11th birthday, Keys received enough money to buy his first set of oil paints, the present he most wanted to own. “I hated them at first because all I had ever done was cartooning, and I just couldn’t understand how to apply what I knew about drawing to the techniques of oil painting,” he explains. “I put the set away until I happened upon reproductions of paintings that were so appealing I just had to learn how to paint. Then I discovered magazine articles and library books on Richard Schmid and other gifted teachers who explained their creative process. All that helped me understand the basics.”

Even now after several years of disciplined education, Keys has not taken an art course or participated in a workshop; and the only original paintings he has seen by major historic and contemporary artists are those he viewed during infrequent gallery and museum visits in Fresno, Carmel, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, California. Nevertheless, he carefully studied every article, book, and painting that became available and took to heart all the advice that was provided. For example, he set up a small studio area in his parents’ home that had north-facing windows, and he placed still life objects a short distance from his easel. “I read a lot about the value of being well prepared before I begin painting, of working from life instead of from photographs, and of having a subject illuminated by a cool north light,” he says. “I also followed the advice of choosing things to paint that had personal significance so that there would be a level of expression in my carefully observed representations of the objects.”

Red Geraniums
2008, oil, 16 x 20. Collection the artist.

Keys also learned about the necessity of following the rule of oil painting that one should work from thin to thick applications—that is, thinning his initial strokes of paint with odorless mineral spirits to reduce the percentage of oil and allow the paints to dry more quickly and applying the oil color straight from the tube when adding the lightest and thickest strokes of paint. “I’ll admit to being a bit too impatient to do a lot of preliminary compositional sketching, but I try to follow the advice I’ve read about working from darks to lights, from background to foreground, and from thin darks to thick light values,” he explains. “I have also learned the value of making every stroke count—of carefully considering the color and value mixtures and laying the strokes of paint down and not overworking them. That keeps the colors clean and bright, and it adds some vitality to the look of the painting.”

As the son of a minister, Keys is actively involved in his church and proudly says his faith is a factor in motivating his efforts as a painter. That’s one of the reasons he has gravitated toward other painters who base the subject matter of their paintings on themes of family, faith, and service. “I recently watched a Liliedahl Video Productions DVD of Daniel F. Gerhartz painting in his Wisconsin studio, and I gained a great deal of insight into the personality and process of a man I have admired for a number of years,” he says. “Many of his paintings are of friends and family members, and they explore his devotion to God, community, and family. I really admire that.”

Although Keys does most of his painting in the small studio, he does make an effort to paint landscapes outdoors. “I am fortunate to live near the San Joaquin River and lots of wonderful views for plein air painting,” he says. “I spend from two to three hours developing a painting while the light is consistent, and I do make some minor adjustments later in the studio. Occasionally I work from photographs if the weather makes it impossible to paint outdoors, but I really enjoy the challenge of gathering all the information on-site and keeping a freshness and immediacy in the paintings.

Grey Afternoon
2008, oil, 10 x 10. Collection the artist.

“Quite often I make quick oil sketches when I’m outdoors, never spending more than a half hour on any one study,” Keys explains. “I do the same thing developing quick sketches from photographs. For example, Narcissus Sketch was done in just a few minutes in my studio, and I really enjoyed trying to capture a fleeting impression of the subject. Those kinds of studies are helpful in sharpening my skills of observation, my handling of a paint brush, and my ability to accurately record the colors, shapes, and values in the subjects that catch my attention.”

Whether working indoors or out, Keys uses essentially the same palette of Winsor & Newton, Rembrandt, and Gamblin colors that includes titanium white, cadmium yellow deep, cadmium yellow lemon, cadmium yellow pale, cadmium orange, cadmium red, viridian, transparent oxide red, transparent oxide brown, ultramarine deep, alizarin crimson, yellow ochre pale, terra rosa (for monochromatic under painting), and permanent rose. He prefers to paint on Artfix oil-primed Belgian linen canvas because it is easier to wipe preliminary marks off the smooth surface than it would be if he worked on acrylic-primed cotton duck canvas.

Because he is an artist in his 20s, Keys is adept at using the internet for education, social networking, promotion, and sales. “I rely heavily on the internet to explore images, find articles, learn about other artists, become friendly with other painters, and get feedback about my work,” he says. “I’m actively involved in the forums section of American Artist’s website, in the groups on Facebook, and in watching videos on YouTube. I also have my own website and online newsletter (www.danielkeysfineart.com), so I hear from people who become interested in the drawings and paintings I’ve posted.

Keys is currently in the process of approaching galleries around the country that currently exhibit artwork that has a similar style and range of subjects. For more information on the artist, visit www.danielkeysfineart.com.

Qiang Huang: Myth Buster

2009-05-20T17:30:00Z

This Texas oil painter shatters multiple myths—including the notion that artists are myopic and single-minded. Qiang Huang helps workshop participants learn how to draw, paint, and sell their artwork using modern technology and traditional painting methods.

by Kim Carlton

Qiang Huang helped a student
understand how to measure elements
of a still life setup during his workshop
at the Artists Retreat & Learning Center,
in Magnolia, Texas.

Rudyard Kipling once wrote, “Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.” That’s not true anymore: we have Qiang Huang (pronounced “Chong Wong”), born and raised in China, now a proud American, and in him, East truly does meet West.

But that’s not all. Science also meets art, abstraction meets realism, and business meets pleasure in this oil painter’s work. In these belt-tightening times, Huang’s paintings have been selling like hotcakes, galleries are wooing him, and his workshops are full. Workshop attended one of his recent still life painting workshops to find out why.

In passing on his knowledge during a recent three-day event at the Artists Retreat & Learning Center, in Magnolia, Texas, Huang used a three-pronged approach. First, on the mornings of days one and two he delivered thorough PowerPoint presentations. He followed each of these sessions with a demo that illustrated the lessons he had just taught. Third, during the afternoon sessions he allowed the students to practice what he preached, and he took meticulous care to guide them, from designing the setup to signing the painting. On the third day, as a practical postscript, he taught a class about his online business techniques to show students how to establish an outlet for selling their work.

The first day’s PowerPoint presentation focused on composition. Huang emphasized that the subject of a still life is not the assorted items in the setup but rather the light. He explained different light effects, including spotlighting, silhouetting, and others, and he described the items being portrayed as “abstract light manipulators.” Huang explained that these pieces of the abstract whole must be strategically placed to allow the viewers to read the painting. They may read in a linear or curved direction; they may read fast or slow. The artist must decide these things during the planning stages of a painting. The abstract concept of the work must be fully formed, and the center of focus determined in advance for the piece to be a visual event and not “just a collection of artifacts.”

The second day’s lecture covered painting elements: drawing, value, color, edges, and brushwork. Drawing, the foundation of all representational art, requires an understanding of linear perspective, measurement and proportion, and structure and anatomy—plus a trained eye, according to Huang. He draws with simple, straight lines, mostly just marking boundaries. “You are not to render a copy of your setup,” instructed the artist. “The purpose of the drawing is placement.”

Value is the design tool that shows shapes through the contrast of light and dark. Huang encouraged his students to employ as few values as possible in order to keep the statement strong.

Huang spent a lot of time discussing the role of color in painting. The artist believes that a painting communicates better if it has a dominant color. Sometimes that dominant color may be what Huang calls a “noncolor”—a muted color—in which case it would support saturated colors at the center of focus. For color continuity, he uses hue sequencing to describe flow, such as the sequence of yellow to orange to red that follows the curve of an apple.

Huang advised a student on the
importance of the background’s
value and hue.

Huang prefers to use transparent colors for shadow and limits visible brushwork, applying the paint with large, flat synthetic brushes. He uses opaque colors for areas in the light, delivered with a bristle brush for pronounced texture.

Edges are an artist’s secret weapon for creating dynamic paintings. “Edges orchestrate the painting with priorities: Sharp edges draw attention, soft and lost edges show continuity,” he explained. Later, when he was monitoring the students’ painting progress, Huang often used his finger to brush a smudge between objects, smearing a hard edge. Students noted that one motion can transform a pedantic effort into a moody and dramatic work of art.

One of the defining aspects of Huang’s own paintings is his strong brushwork. “Use big brushes. Use a lot of paint,” he emphasized. “Use a palette knife to mix paint piles. Otherwise, you will be miserly and waste too much time mixing.” The stroke orientation controls the reading pace and creates abstract patterns, lending mood and energy to the surface. In conclusion he asserted, “Brushwork provides the power of the painting.”

Watching Huang set up to paint is like being backstage before an important production. He already knows what’s going to happen, but he collects himself and mentally rehearses, carefully orchestrating and thoroughly scrutinizing the still life setup. He stands back, then steps forward and drops a flower petal onto the foreground. He adjusts a stem, fiddles with the light.

For a demonstration at the Magnolia workshop, Huang clamped a blue filter to a spotlight that illuminated his setup at a 45-degree angle, then arranged another one for the spotlight on his canvas and palette. He chose blue so that students could see a light similar to north light. Huang does this in his own studio, as he usually paints at night. He discussed the impact different light temperatures will have on paintings. His paintings are generally warm, so cooler light provides a counterpoint and prevents the paintings from having a subtle blandness. He prefers a Philips 60-watt Natural Light Plus bulb for its cool light. Huang’s studio is dark except for those two spotlights. In the instructor’s workshops, there is also the light from a large projection screen that allows the audience to see a close-up view of his process and progress.

The instructor reminded a student to
think about the setup as a composition
framed by the limits of the painting
surface.

Huang explained that he likes to raise his still life display to eye level because he feels it has more visual stability that way. He avoids having a horizontal line travel uninterrupted across the canvas, saying that, “In a gallery situation, the viewers will glide right through your painting to the next one if there is nothing to stop the eye.” He arranged his tablecloth and articles accordingly.

The backdrop for the demo was a homemade device consisting of two pieces of plywood, hinged in the middle, and Huang draped fabric over the backdrop and the foreground. As is his custom, the light came from the top left, creating a shadow pattern that he says is the key design feature of the painting. “The objects are secondary to the shapes and colors, which I will manipulate for their shadow play and spectral interaction,” he said. “A painting is a piece of music in the spatial domain. The light and color at the foreground present a high-pitch melody, and the dark background provides a low-pitch bass.” One could almost hear the conductor tap his baton as the painting began.

Huang started by toning the canvas with his trademark dark—French ultramarine and burnt sienna (cool and warm)—the way he starts most paintings. He likes to set this tone in part to “destroy the devastating perfection of the white canvas. From then on, your canvas is always getting better and better.” To tone the surface, he applied undiluted paint, then wiped it down with a paper towel. Sometimes, he thins it with a tiny bit of turpentine, but this is kept to a minimum—even when it comes to cleaning his in-use brushes—because turpentine dries fast and makes the finish matte. Huang just wipes the brushes clean while he’s working and doesn’t use any medium.

At this point, Huang removed his glasses and squinted at the arrangement he was preparing to sketch. During the drawing stage, his quick, straight lines delineated large shapes only, following the light direction. He used a bristle brush and undiluted paint—the same mix he used for the tone. With a paper towel, he then wiped out his lights. Huang strives to have a “finished” painting at each stage, never overdeveloping any one spot before the rest. Once the drawing was satisfactory, Huang moved to the darks, blocking them in, still using only one neutral tone.

Next was the color. Since slavishly copying the scene is discouraged in his approach, Huang was not as concerned with the setup as with the painting. Color would be adjusted later if need be. Huang carefully mixed his darks, taking time to get them right. He kept a pile of his background color handy for integrating into his other colors for harmony. Pure white was reserved for the very end. At this stage, the painting was still fairly monochromatic, and the major design had been achieved with shapes and values.

The instructor picked up the brush to
demonstrate a point on a student’s
canvas.

Huang usually works left to right, back to front. Most of the light area will be cooler than the dark, due to the coolness of the spotlight. He pointed out that this is usually reversed when painting en plein air, where the sunlight is warm and the blue sky is reflected into the cooler shadows. He began the lights in much the same way as he did the darks, carefully mixing colors, then applying them with large brushes at first, progressively downsizing as he got more detailed. Eventually, he donned his glasses again and got after the fine details with small sables. He warned his students, “Do not work on an area for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time. You will start adding too much detail. If you’ve spent 10 minutes, begin to look for another area to pay attention to. If you listen to your painting, it will tell you what it wants.”

To sculpt the shapes, the artist painted out of the boundary lines with the positive color, then cut back in with the negative color, pulling the wet darks into the body of the shadow. These soft and lost edges provided the underlying flow that one senses when looking at Huang’s artwork. He takes care to blur all lead-in edges around the borders of a painting to help the eye stay content in the body of the composition.

When working with the darks, Huang’s colors were already related, but when it came to the lights, he kept the colors protected, pure, and unpolluted. One careful stroke at a time, he sensitively shifted the temperature in the halftones and double-checked his edges. The final details were rendered with great care. “Very small shapes, such as apple stems, should show strong contrast,” he advised his students, “so take your time with them. Use a clean, dry brush to feather edges where needed.” For the highlight, he suggested using the opposite temperature, applied perpendicular to the surrounding strokes.

As the painting began to feel finished, he stepped back and began asking questions that the painting would answer. Huang’s counsel: “Once you get to the final stage, stop looking at your setup altogether, and just relate to your painting alone. The painting is your teacher.” The following queries spilled forth. “Are the reflections believable?” Huang asked. “Are the light effects consistent with the lighting? Maybe a dark accent is needed. Check to ensure against any color appearing too isolated. If there is some discrepancy found there, add a color echo or some background color to bring harmony. Look for design elements that might be repeated. This is your rhythm and melody. Double-check that the center of focus remains the star of the show. The most important thing to know is when to stop.” The artist announced that he would wait until the painting was completely dry before signing his name.

Students in Huang’s workshops were
provided with much information about
how color and light affect the success
of a painting

Huang has a rapacious curiosity and a highly developed work ethic. As a child, he spent a lot of time drawing, and admiring his artist uncle, but as a student he pursued science, viewing it as a practical course of study. Now a doctor of physics, his extensive education affords him an unusually thorough understanding of light and color. He works full time as an optical engineer—a scientist of light, working with holography and optical systems. This was enough until about 10 years ago, when Huang attended an art symposium in Austin, Texas, the town he now calls home. There he watched slide after slide of popular works of art, while within him grew the conviction that he could create such art himself and maybe even surpass it. The sleeping artist was awakened.

Huang began directing his own art education, attending many workshops taught by such teachers as David Leffel, Sherrie McGraw, Gregg Kreutz, Jean Chambers, and others, practicing what he learned whenever time allowed. Although primarily a still life painter, Huang was not originally drawn to still life as a genre. His feeling was that a still life was something that was “not quite dead; it is still life!” That changed when he met David Leffel. Leffel taught him to paint the passage of light instead of portraits of objects. In the properties and effects of light, engineering and painting suddenly found common ground. This idea was exciting to Huang. It has since been a bridge connecting his scientific mind to his artistic heart. The concept leads him to tinker with color theory, to clamp tinted filters to his studio lamps, and to experiment with setups that flow in spectral sequence (an orange placed between a red apple and a yellow-green pear, for example).

Upcoming Workshops

Qiang Huang has the following workshops
scheduled for the remainder of 2009:

Hot Art in a Cool Space
June 18 through 20
Lacombe, Louisiana
Contact: Barbara Shaw,
barbarashaw13@hotmail.com

Three-Day Still Life
Painting Workshop
August 14 through 16
Granbury, Texas
Contact: Theresa Navan,
Artistic Retreat Center,
Iron Horse Inn,
theresanavan@aol.com

Three-Day Still Life
Painting Workshop
September 18 through 20
Austin, Texas
Contact: Karen Wilkerson,
karenkaren13@gmail.com

As his love of fine art increased, he made more and more time for it. Huang’s weekday looks like this: He works 9 to 5 as a physicist, and when he gets home he has dinner and visits with his wife and son. Then from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. he paints. The next morning, he photographs his painting before going to work. At lunchtime, he uploads the image onto eBay and manages his blog, his many memberships, his sales, and the associated administrative work. He packages and mails paintings within a couple of days of the sale—as soon as the paint is dry enough to ship.

His deepening affair with art has produced a desire to share what he has learned, both the business strategy and his approach to painting. His very example teaches that a disciplined life rewards you with the freedom to create and enables your creations to be seen. One pearl of workshop wisdom he now passes on to his students is to allow themselves to be in the process of creativity. He advises students to sincerely follow an instructor’s teaching during a workshop by suspending their own style but says that they should not remain followers after the workshop. Once home, participants should incorporate into their style only that which advances their art.

Huang’s own style is bold and strong. Although he completes a small painting in about two hours, he does not paint quickly; rather, he paints intentionally. He will consider his subject carefully, mix an accurate color, and then place a single stroke. If it’s inaccurate he will scrape it, but he will not paint over it. This way his colors stay strong and pure, and his brushstrokes are gainfully employed in the composition. He says that smearing thin paint around the canvas is “staining, not painting.”

Huang believes that there are three levels of artistry: craftsmanship, aesthetics, and communication. In his workshops he tries to teach all three, to enable his students to have as rich a relationship as possible with their art and their public. He sees craftsmanship as the language with which the artist speaks, so it must be mastered first. The painter will use this language to interpret what he has witnessed aesthetically. Believing that artists possess a unique vision and appreciation for beauty, he teaches that it is their responsibility to convey their vision to canvas, not to make verbatim copies of what is seen. The highest level of art, he believes, is communication. If the artist’s painting causes ambivalence or confusion, the effort has not achieved its highest possible purpose. If, however, the painting is able to touch the viewer and communicate, the work has achieved transcendence. As he delivered his PowerPoint presentations, as he demonstrated his painting style, as he tutored his charges while they painted, Huang was meeting artists at their current level and helping them to the next.

To see some of Qiang Huang's finished paintings, click here.

About the Artist

Qiang Huang was raised and educated in China. He is a member of Oil Painters of America, Plein Air Austin, Daily Painters Gallery (www.dailypainters.com), and Daily Paintworks (www.dailypaintworks.com). The artist is represented in Texas by Riverbend Fine Art, in Marble Falls; Galerie Kornye West, in Fort Worth; and InSight Gallery, in Fredericksburg; as well as Fountainside Gallery, in Wilmington, North Carolina. Visit his blog at www.qiang-huang.blogspot.com or his website at www.qhart.com.