Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Tour Guide Harmon Simmons


I enjoy sketching people when they're talking and moving around. This is Harmon Simmons (1931-2013), a tour guide at the Vanderbilt Mansion in New York, back in 2001. 


He described himself this way: "I'm Irish, Dutch, English, and Indian—Duke's mix. Open the can and I come out."

Doing a sketch of a highly animated person means choosing a characteristic expression and locking that expression in the short term memory as the person moves around.
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Harmon Simmons obituary

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Happy Birthday, Adolph Menzel


Today marks the 200th anniversary of the birth of the German artist Adolph Menzel.

Adolph Menzel’s drawing supplies accompanied him everywhere, whether on a short walk or a long journey. He was always prepared to draw. One of his overcoats had eight pockets, each filled with sketchbooks of different sizes. On the lower left side of his coat was an especially large pocket which held a leather case with a big sketchbook, some pencils, a couple of shading stumps, and a gum eraser.

His personal motto was “Nulla dies sine linea” (”Not a day without a line”). He drew ambidextrously, alternating between the left and the right, sometimes on the same drawing. If he was ever caught without drawing paper, he sketched on whatever was available, even a formal invitation to a court ball. Whenever he was spotted at a social event, the whispered word went abroad that “Menzel is lurking about.”

He was known to interrupt an important gathering by pulling out his sketchbook, sharpening his pencil, casting an eye around the room, and focusing on a coat, a chair, or a hand. This sometimes brought the proceedings to a halt until he finished. He preferred to draw people unawares, often catching them in unflattering moments of eating, gossiping, or dozing. Once his friend Carl Johann Arnold awoke from a nap to find the artist busily drawing his portrait. “You just woke up five minutes too early,” Menzel told him.

The above teaser excerpt is taken from an introduction that I wrote for a book on Menzel's Drawings and Paintings that will be coming out next year. About that, more later. But for now, There's an exhibition at the Stiftung Stadtmuseum in Berlin to mark the occasion.

If you do a sketch today, do it in honor of Mr. Menzel. It's always good to have his ghost on your side.
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Adolph Menzel on Wikipedia

Monday, December 7, 2015

White Cloud Worlds 3

The third collection "White Cloud Worlds" has just shipped to its Kickstarter backers.


The book is a beautifully illustrated collection of artwork by New Zealand concept artists. I had the honor of writing the following introduction for the book:

Many of us as kids spent an afternoon sitting on the grass looking up at the white clouds, where our imaginations reshaped them as elves and snow people. These are the “white cloud worlds” that everyone experiences, but there’s something about New Zealand, the “Land of the Long White Cloud,” that has nurtured a special crop of dreamers.

The artists in this book do such daydreaming on a daily basis. They’re all humans who inherited the DNA that allows them to appear as adults on the outside, but remain young on the inside. They have each found a way to channel the pure stream of youthful energy into a river of creativity. They all know that inspiration is for amateurs. Professional artists have to show up for work each day and put in the hours.

Most of them have done their time working for top movie directors to help dream up spacecraft, creatures, robots, and aliens. Their names roll by among the hundreds of credits at the end of mainstream motion pictures. While they have thrown their hearts into their day jobs, each of them has ideas of their own that keep them up late at night. As Ben Wootten describes, working with a big team of creative people on a gigantic project can be exciting, but it can also leave an artist feeling like a small cog in a machine. Each of these talented individuals has skills beyond their professional specialties. Their imaginations are teeming with so many characters and stories that their skulls can barely contain it all.

Some, such as David Tremont, of them build 3D maquettes, either from spare parts of other models that they put together in new ways. Or, like Garry Buckley and Peter Kelk, they sculpt their creations from polymer clay. Others, such as Stuart Thomas, use digital wizardry to engineer a single frame from what looks like a continuous movie that’s playing in their minds. And some, such as Nicholas Keller, rely on the physical tools of pencils, brushes, and paint to conjure the living appearance of their creations. All of them share not only their artistry, but their writing as well, giving us a window into the infinite labyrinths of their minds.

What makes this volume special is that the artists share their life stories, the tale of how their characters came to be and why they need to paint them. Paul Tobin and Ben Hughes tell how creating their own worlds is almost like an addiction that consumes them. Tom Simpson relates how the writings of Joseph Campbell and Friedrich Nietzsche inspired him. Rebecca Kereopa describes how her artwork explores both the vulnerability and the strength of femininity.

For most of them, their rare specialty grew out of the exposure they had as kids to the pop culture stew of books, movies, games, and stories. Others spent hours of undirected time exploring nature, or making forts or treehouses with their siblings. For Nicholas Blazey, the muse arrived on the wings of the wind as he sailed along the coast of the Northland and the Hauraki Gulf. Ruby Lee remembers how when she was very young, she was paid for her faerie drawings with paper-craft currency. Few of them expected they would become professional concept artists, a term and a job description that scarcely existed when they began to dream of being an artist.

This book will be a lifeline for young people growing up now who have that same strand of DNA, and for their parents who might be glad to know that there's a place in this world for people who see things in clouds.
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White Cloud Worlds 3 Kickstarter Page
Volume 3 is not available yet to those outside the Kickstarter campaign, but you can get the original edition of White Cloud Worlds on Amazon.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Joseph Crawhall (British, 1861-1913)

Joseph Crawhall (English, 1861-1913) was so demanding in his expectations of his artwork that he produced only two or three paintings a year.



He went back through his earlier paintings and destroyed most of them.


He was not a steady, industrious artist, but rather his art was the product of fleeting moments of inspiration, punctuated by frustrating dry spells. Another of his passions was raising horses.


Many of his works show his enduring admiration for Japanese art.



He had a prodigious visual memory. He refined his ability to recollect complex scenes, grasping essentials with elegant simplicity, and placing in the picture only the important details.



His memory was so powerful that he could watch a coach pass by, pulled by a team of four horses, and then go home and paint an accurate picture of the entire scene.



Sometimes a memory would lodge in his mind and wait days or weeks to crystallize and demand to be painted.



Though he started his career in oil, he finished in watercolor. Many of his pictures are painted on a prepared gray-brown ground.



writer in his time described his painting Piebald Driving: "He sets down with absolute directness the effect of the walking horse, with his hind legs partly obscured by the cloud of dust he himself raises; and such is the painter's facility, his absolute control over his method and his medium, that with one touch of his brush he gives us color, contour, modeling, movement, structure, and texture.
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Book: Joseph Crawhall, 1861-1913: One of the Glasgow Boys
Studio Magazine, 1904, Volume 32
Joseph Crawhall on Wikipedia.
Bio on the Tate website
Related post on Cecil Aldin

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Please Don't Take My Coke Can


Can ponders fate: recycled or immortalized?

I'm waiting for my son in a beer garden in Clonmel, Ireland. There's nothing to do, so I pick up a Coke can from the ground and get busy drawing it. But halfway through, when I look up from my sketchbook, it's gone.  


There's my can, heading off on the tray of a waitress. I jump up in pursuit. "Can I have that back?" 

"What back?" she says. 

"The can—could I have it back? I need it." 

"Tis empty." She looks at me like I'm daft, but she extends the arm, shakes the can and drops it in my cupped hands.

I return to the table and get back to work. Let's see...slopes...measurements...shading. I glance back to the can.

Oh, no. It's gone again, this time heading into the kitchen on the tray of a busboy. I follow him and ask for it back. He didn't know, he was just doing his job. 

Now I hunch over the can, glancing defensively from side to side. All the servers are looking at me like I'm the man from Mars.

This happens four times. And I just wanted to let you know how I persevered to bring you this little study. 

Sometimes still lives don't stay still.
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The title, first line, and last line of this post are six-word stories. Here's more info about the Six-Word-Story Challenge on GurneyJourney

Friday, December 4, 2015

Harold Speed, Chap. 3: Technique of Painting


Today we'll take a look at Chapter 3: "The Technique of Painting" from Harold Speed's 1924 art instruction book Oil Painting Techniques and Materials.

I'll present Speed's main points in boldface type either verbatim or paraphrased, followed by comments of my own. If you want to add a comment, please use the numbered points to refer to the relevant section of the chapter.

Ada in Her Garden, by Henry Hensche,
an example of impressionistic vision.
1. "Few people realize how little they really see of the marvelous things happening on the retina of the eyes."
Several times in this chapter, Speed repeats a common logical fallacy. The idea is that we see the image on our retinas, as if there's a homunculus farther back in our heads watching the movie at the back of our eyes. This kicks the can farther down the road and doesn't really explain anything.

The retina is better understood as an extension of the brain. Basic visual processing such as edge detection begins happening at the retinal level, and higher-level visual processing occurs as the neural pathways travel back to the visual cortex. The image is processed even further as it moves to the outer cortical areas of the conscious brain.

Nevertheless, what he's saying at its core makes sense. Learning to see as a painter sees involves marshaling our awareness on many levels, and it doesn't come naturally.


Drawing by the sculptor Carpeaux
2. "Sight as a faculty is not so essential to our survival as some of our other senses, such as touch."
This assertion, which he develops throughout the chapter, puzzles me on its surface. How could touch be more essential to our survival than vision? How many things do average modern humans actually touch throughout an average day beyond doorknobs, keyboards, silverware, steering wheels, coffee cups, beer tabs, and the TV remote? Our eyes take in everything from oncoming cars to houses to trees to other people's facial expressions.

What he's trying to express, I think, is the idea that we form mental understandings of things that differ from the "impressionist" view of subjective appearances. Mr. Speed may be using touch as a kind of metaphor for a more Platonic "grasp" of objects that is symbolic and simplified, in the manner of cartoon drawings or Egyptian images.

Touch is an interesting sense compared to sight because it is view-independent, and also separate from any sense of color and light. It's fascinating to look at drawings by the great sculptors, such as Carpeaux, above, because the drawings show little concern for lighting, tone, and color, but rather are more concerned with structure and volume.

Last night Jeanette and I wanted to play with this idea, so we took turns putting an unfamiliar object in a paper bag and asked the other to recognize and describe the object without looking. This would be a fun art school assignment--get a bone or tool or sculpture, and put it in a black box with holes in the side and ask students to come up and feel the object, then go back to their seat and try to draw it. Doing so would require that they invent a POV and a light source and a color scheme. Very interesting challenge.

3. "...the surprise that greeted the first pictures of the impressionist movement."
The principles and practices of impressionism have been so thoroughly integrated into the contemporary academic movement that it's hard to imagine how revolutionary they must have seemed to a Royal Academician a century ago.

Chauvet cave art. Speed suggests that such art is an early example of impressionistic vision.
To my eye, they make a case for art informed by a sense of touch.
These were people who actually killed and dissected these animals,
and they would have known them inside out.
4. Parallel between developments in art history and the individual's development of the faculty of sight.
This is an example of "recapitulation theory," something Speed might have read in Freud. The technical development witnessed throughout art history he argues, develops from cartoon symbols to line to shading, to coloring, to impressionistic vision. Art students learning to paint follow the same course of development.

In this chapter, as with the last book on drawing, Speed is suggesting that all this development may not entirely be progress, and that artists shouldn't lose sight of the importance of line, touch, or the Platonic sense—whatever you want to call it.

5. "The extreme impressionists said there was no outline, and no use for line drawing."
Well, maybe the extreme impressionists such as Monet were using that argument as an excuse because they didn't know how to draw very well in the classical academic sense. There were plenty of great painters who achieved a synthesis between accurate drawing and impressionistic painting, such as Sargent, Zorn, Sorolla, Krøyer, and Mucha, just to name a few.

We sometimes hear art teachers say "There are no lines in nature." I've always thought this was a bit of a silly saying because even if you're drawing with cut-out shapes, every shape has a boundary edge, which is a kind of line. And if you want to argue that there are no lines in nature, you might as well admit that there's nothing visual in nature. There's no color in nature either. What we see is created in our heads by our eyes and brains, and edge detection—the perceptual mechanism behind our sense of line—is a very important element of visual perception, as important as any other feature of perception.

Speed has set us up for a system of instruction where he takes us all the way from line—that is, form regarded view-independent, tone-independent, and color-independent—to the full music of subjective appearances.

Next week—Chapter 4: The Painter's Training
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In its original edition, the book is called "The Science and Practice of Oil Painting." Unfortunately it's not available in a free edition, but there's an inexpensive print edition that Dover publishes under a different title "Oil Painting Techniques and Materials," and there's also a Kindle edition.
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Thursday, December 3, 2015

Inviting questions about sketching in concerts

Does anyone have any questions about sketching in live concerts?

Shishkin Painting Methods

Ivan Shishkin (1832-1898)
A couple of months ago we took a look at Ivan Shishkin's opinion of photo reference in his landscape painting. Now let's examine more about his specific working methods.

Preliminary Drawings
He would advise his students: "Before starting the painting, you have to do a sketch to clarify the idea and plan what you're going to be doing on a big canvas."

Note in the sketch at left, Shishkin draws a grid, probably to help him enlarge the composition onto the canvas. 

Shishkin continues: "It's also important to do a preliminary drawing [on the canvas] with charcoal. Put a layer of charcoal on a clean canvas and wipe it with a dry tissue. You'll have a smooth base tone, and you can draw over that with more charcoal. You can erase off halftones and lights using an eraser made from a chunk of black bread. If you do that you will get the effect of lighting you need, and then you're ready to continue with the final painting."

Shishkin typically used ink to clarify the outlines of the trees in his preliminary drawings. Once the preliminary drawing was finished, he would proceed to do a tonal underpainting in monochrome before painting in full color.

Paint and palette organization
"He carefully mixed organized groups of colors on his palette. All the colors must be prepared in groups in advance on the palette. He began by applying the darkest tones of paint. Then he proceeded to the halftones, and so on up to the light." (From a letter from Ivan Shishkin, St. Petersburg, 1896).

Shishkin studied in Düsseldorf, so it's not surprising that he used primarily German paints. "He used zinc whites for big studio paintings and lead whites during his traveling and for outdoor painting, because they dry more quickly. He painted on canvases from Dresden if he could." 

"He used to buy a lot of different paints. But if he didn't know the specifications of a given kind of paint, such as lightfastness and durability, he avoided it." 

"Because of this he completely stopped using carmine oil paint after [Vasily] Polenov showed him a chart of paints that was left in the sun for 10 years, and carmine completely disappeared."

Ivan Shishkin and A. Guinet in the studio on the island of Valaam
Here's a list of Shishkin's paints:
Red paints: 
English red, Chinese vermilion, rose madder, and rose doré, mostly used for glazing. Burnt sienna was his favorite.

Yellows: 
Yellow ocher, cadmium yellows and oranges, zinc yellow (for backgrounds and leaves in the sunlight), raw sienna, chrome yellow (rarely), and Indian yellow (for glazing). He never used gamboge or aureolin. Sometimes he used Naples yellow for sand and roots. Occasionally for foreground textures he would mix fine sand into the paints. 

Blues: 
Sky blue (?) and Prussian blue.

Greens:
He used a lot of different ones, including: permanent green, cobalt green, chrome green, vermilion green, emerald green, and others.

Blacks: 
Ivory black and lamp black oil paint.
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Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Diner Portrait in Watercolor

I paint this portrait sketch of Ralph Giguere while sitting in a booth in the diner. He is sitting across from me, with soft window light coming from the left. 

Ralph Giguere, UArts professor, watercolor
I do the painting in two stages. I have a 15 minute session before the food arrives to sketch in the basic shapes and to lay down a few watercolor washes. 

Then after the plates are cleared, I have another 15 minutes or so to come back in with more washes and define some lines and textures with the watercolor pencils. I try to capture the animated look Ralph gets when he talks about something that excites him.
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Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Foliage is Lightest at Its Outer Edges


In indirect light, foliage tends to be lightest at its outer and upper edges, and darkest at its base or its core.
Micronesia foliage from U.C. Berkeley
This is true at the level of individual leaves or fronds, such as these leaves in a rain forest. Note the gradations within each leaf, with the lightest values at the tips of the leaves and the darkest values at their bases where they attach.

With transmitted light, this darkening at the proximal end is a consequence of both the greater material thickness at the base, and the lesser amount of light arriving at the top surface due to occlusion from nearby forms.


In this painting from Dinotopia: First Flight, I was conscious of varying the color and value of the leaves and making them lighter at the tips, especially when we see them illuminated by the yellow-green transmitted light. 

The principle is also true on a larger scale, not just at the level of a leaf, but also at the level of entire trees when you look at them in indirect light. 

James Perry Wilson, Summery Showers
In this 12x16 inch oil study by James Perry Wilson (1889-1976), note how each tree silhouette gradates from darkest at the base of each tree or bush to lightest at the outer and upper edges.
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Previously:
Blog posts about James Perry Wilson