The pleine air painting and a question from Pope Julius II

Is it finished?

The story is told that when Michelangelo was painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Pope Julius II would look up and shout to him "When will you be done?," and Michelangelo would shout back "When it is finished!" Of course they were talking about physically finishing the paintings of the entire ceiling and not just one particular segment. This, admittedly is a round about way of taking us to pleine air painting and the question of when it is finished. Pleine air painting poses a very different question of when a work is finished versus a studio painting, of course, because of time constraints. One could argue that this statement is not true, as finished means finished no matter where the painting takes place. I will be truthful and tell you that most of my paintings are not alla prima and require some work in the studio to be "presentable." Occasionally, I come upon a scene that is so perfect for pleine air work that I can figuratively paint it before I paint it. These paintings do not need a single stroke after the work out of doors.  For me, this is rare but it does happen.

This is an alla prima piece measuring 20 x 16

The question is, "How do you know when the painting is complete?" The answer lies in another question, "Does your picture represent all that you wished to say of the scene before you?" We know that something can always be added to a painting to "finish" it. We think that we need more detail, some color correction, maybe some composition rearrangement, more design elements, softening of edges, nicer brushstrokes, and so forth. It is at this point that we should lay the brushes down and take a closer look at the painting. What do I mean by a closer look? Analyze the scene before you and revisit your inspiration for choosing it to paint. What was it that made you want to express your feelings in the painting? Was it the mood or the particular subject or the raw emotion? How could you best capture these feelings in paint? Do you still see these emotions in your painting up to this point? Does something else need to be added to express your emotion more fully? I speak for myself when I say that I have ruined many pleine air paintings by answering these questions incorrectly. Sometimes the rather rough appearance of a two-hour painting worries me. I think that I must do more in spite of the fact that I like what I have done, and I feel that it tells the story. Why do I question the completeness of my work when I am satisfied with the result? Is it because I fear it won't sell or others might say that it seems "unfinished?"

I enjoy painting in the vignette style, which leaves some of the canvas unpainted. I have left it that way because, simply, there was no more to say. I don't know at the start of the picture that it will be a vignette because I haven't concentrated on making the whole canvas a picture. I am working at using the space I need to paint the subject. This is a fault of mine, so I shouldn't be sensitive to comments about completing the picture (*expletives deleted*).  Many paintings can be touched up in the studio... but, be careful! This is where the painting is most susceptible to be ruined. Stand back 4 feet and keep your brush off of the painting until you know exactly what you will do to improve it. If you don't really know what to do, leave it alone! You have then made the best decision.

What we have talked about here is one of the most difficult of questions that an artist asks himself. If you have a good, solid feeling for what you are trying to say, then you WILL know when you have said it. A lukewarm response to the subject before you will almost always result in a lukewarm representation in paint. So, happy painting and remember Pope Julius!

 

Behind the Brushes

"The pleine aire painting and a question from Pope Julius II"

Bill Sawczuk

Trio Fine Art

www.triofineart.com

In Praise of Memory

It is very well to copy what one sees; it's much better to draw what one has retained in one's memory. It is a transformation in which imagination collaborates with memory. (Edgar Degas)



Enlightened, © Jennifer L. Hoffman, 2015,
oil and cold wax on linen, 24x18 in.

Think of a moment that is etched in your memory.  Perhaps it is a moment from your childhood.  Maybe it's something from last week.  What is it that you remember about it?  Why is that moment recorded in your mind?  When I think of childhood memories, I flash back to when I was just two or three years old.  I was in bed in the same room with my baby brother.  The room was dark, with moonlight streaming in from the window.  I could see the baby in his crib, sleeping soundly, when a dragon lifted up out of the small hooked rug on the floor, flew over the crib and out the window.  I was sure the dragon had stolen my brother.  Of course this was a dream, one that I woke from shrieking in fear, but I remember it from a toddler's perspective, as a completely real experience.  I don't remember what the rug looked like, or what color the blankets were, or if there were curtains on the window.  What I do remember are the most significant bits that created my experience of that moment. 

In our memories, the details become soft around the edges.  Sometimes the details even change in our recollections.  But the most important essence, the most indispensable information is stored in our neural pathways.  In art, that distilled essence is the seed of an idea!

Being primarily a plein air painter, I usually paint what I see or at least an interpretation of it.  But sometimes I am gripped by a moment that is too fleeting to capture or too subtle/dark/bright to successfully photograph.  Perhaps inclement weather or other responsibilities prevent me from stopping to sketch or paint.  In those moments, my only option is to rely on my memory.  Trust me - I don't have a photographic memory (or even a moderately good one.  I write notes to myself to remember things, and then forget where I left the note)!  But my ability to recall the essence of my inspiration improves incrementally the more I do it. 


Kealia I, © Jennifer L. Hoffman, pastel on board, 12x12 in.



Some years back I participated in a plein air festival in Tucson.  A group of us went to Bear Canyon to paint one afternoon.  While opening my French easel, I managed to whack the back of my hand into a cactus and came away looking like I'd lost a fight with a porcupine.  That was the beginning of my painting session, followed by dropping a pile of pastels on the rocky desert ground, and ending with a downpour (spring monsoon season)!  As you might imagine, I was feeling less than confident about my efforts that day. Afterwards, while waiting on our dinner at a local restaurant, my friend Greg McHuron pushed a pen and a napkin across the table towards me.  Greg was one of the most knowledgeable and prolific artists I've ever known.  "Draw your composition," he said matter-of-factly.  I looked at him blankly.  "Which composition?"  "Draw what you painted today," he explained.  So I drew a thumbnail of what I remembered as the composition.  "Look!" he said, pointing at the saguaro in front of the mountains that I'd sketched on the napkin. "You've already improved on your idea!"  He was right: I had subtly shifted the main elements of my design into a better version of my original composition.  Without the distraction of a million compelling details in front of my eyes, that idea became my whole focus. 


Fireflies, ©Jennifer L. Hoffman, 2013, pastel on mounted
paper, 8x8 in (private collection).  This piece utilized
 a very blurry photo of a farmhouse near my childhood home
and my memory of fireflies coming out at dusk.

Greg did small memory sketches of compositions and ideas all the time throughout his career.  He encouraged me to do the same.  I have found this to be some of the most valuable advice I've received.  The more I practice, the more I lean on the knowledge I've accumulated from years in the field, and the more confident I am in that knowledge.  A great landscape painter and author of  Carlson's Guide to Landscape Painting, John F. Carlson was also a proponent of memory work. "If you train yourself in memory work, you fearlessly attack and rearrange your material, for you can retain your original impression."

Recently, on a family trip to Kaua'i, I witnessed the full moon rising as we drove by Kealia Beach.  The moist air and the clouds over the ocean were refracting the moonlight, and the scene was so subtle and glorious I could hardly breathe.  I was with my family after a long day of hiking, and even if I'd had the appropriate gear, no one would have had the stamina to wait for me to paint.  So I asked my husband to pull over, and we just watched the clouds drifting across the moon, the ocean rolling - trying to absorb the colors in the sky and how the moonlight danced on the waves.  It was so lovely, I didn't want it to end.  Later in my studio back in Jackson, I could hardly wait to try capturing the moment.  I made a drawing, two pastels, and a large oil, just playing with the elements that left the most impression.  What fun to relive it.

There are no crutches when working from memory.  But often, my memory paintings are the most satisfying to me, because they aren't bogged down by the "reality" of an idea.  Freed from unnecessary detail, they are truly about the essence of an idea. 

Want to give your memory a little workout?  I have a few suggestions to get you started.  If you're an artist, start by making a small drawing of the piece on which you most recently worked - no peeking!!  What are the main elements?  How do they relate to each other?  Afterwards, compare it with the original.  How has it changed?  What did you recall accurately?  Next, pay special attention while you're out for a walk or driving somewhere in your car.  As soon as you can, get out a sketchbook (or a napkin) and draw what you remember most.  Not an artist?  You can try it too - just make notes on paper about something you've recently seen or experienced.  What caught your eye?  What were the sounds, the smells, the light effects that compelled you?  Or try explaining it to someone else in a way that they can experience what you saw/smelled/felt/heard.  You may find your first few tries somewhat difficult, but if you keep it up, you'll find it easier and easier to capture a moment in your memory.  And that is a treat in itself.

Enjoy the memories -
Jen

The Value in Value

by Jennifer L. Hoffman

It is very easy to see value in a drawing, as the entire image is created 
with only black, white, and shades of gray. Behind the Clouds, 
charcoal on paper, private collection, © Jennifer L. Hoffman.

In art, value is simply how dark or light something is.  There are many, many elements that must come together in a painting in order for it to be successful. It can be argued that, at least in representational painting, none is more important than accurate value. 

There are some great quotes out there about value in painting.*  Here's one, oft-repeated by artists, attribution unknown:
"Value does all the work; color gets all the glory." 

Or this one, from the author of Design and Expression in the Visual Arts, John F. A. Taylor: 
"There are painters... who know how to dispense with hues and saturations.  There is no painting which can dispense with values." 

Or this gem from Harley Brown:
"In painting, as in life, you can get away with a lot as long as you have your values right."

There are many similar values in this pastel.

You might think of value as the skeletal structure on which the rest of the painting hangs.  If an artist carefully observes and transcribes the values of a scene, the color he or she uses can be realistic or completely imaginary, but the scene will still make sense to the viewer.  (Click here for some examples of realistic value/imaginative color from a past show on Hungarian Fauvism).  If the values are off, however, no amount of color manipulation will make the painting work.  

Evening Song, pastel on board, 20x30, available. © Jennifer L. Hoffman.

Our brains have a surprising amount of preconceived ideas about what colors and values are or should be. Master artist and teacher Ned Jacob learned a lesson about the difference between our preconceptions and reality when painting with his mentor, Robert Lougheed. "The first time the two worked outside together, Jacob painted a horse with rich, dark color and black shadows.  When Jacob finished the picture, Lougheed walked over and studied it for awhile.  'Now what would you use if you were painting a post hole in that shadow?'" (Sandra Dallas, Sacred Paint: Ned Jacob, Santa Fe, NM: Fenn Galleries Publishing, Inc., 1979.)  The notions that we grow up with (snow is white, shadows are black, etc) often go unquestioned until we learn to truly observe the world around us.

A number of common problems in paintings can be directly attributed to value errors.  Ned provided me with an "Aha!" moment just as Lougheed had done for him decades before, when he made this observation while watching me struggle with a plein air study: "If you can't seem to get your values light enough, you probably aren't painting your darks dark enough."  Whoa.  That one cracked my head wide open!  It made so much sense, but I had never realized it.  Another example of a value problem is something often bemoaned by beginning artists - muddy color.  A muddy color is just a grayed color of the wrong value (and/or temperature - see Kathryn's post on color for more on the concept of temperature). 
  
So how does an artist determine correct values in a subject?  Values are in fact a set of relationships.  Determining the darkest dark in a composition and the lightest light is a great starting point.  And one of the best ways to see general values is to do something you've heard mentioned on this blog before.  SQUINT.  Squinting at a subject eliminates unnecessary detail and simplifies the main information.  In general, the darkest darks will be found in the center of interest of your composition, or in the foreground of a landscape (this is a rule of thumb - many artists have purposefully and successfully broken that rule).  Once the darkest dark and lightest light have been determined, the values of other elements in the subject can be determined through comparison.  Using thumbnail sketches helps to map out the most important value areas and to determine the value relationships throughout the composition. 

The darkest darks are in the cast shadows beneath the eggs in this painting.

 

Four Eggs, pastel on mounted paper, 9x12, available.  © Jennifer L. Hoffman.

Artists often manipulate the value range in their paintings for emotional or artistic effect.  Paintings that stay in the lightest value range are referred to as "high key" paintings, where the darkest dark might be a middle gray. 

A close value range in this pastel creates an introspective, quiet mood.

Whisper, pastel on board, 11x14, available. © Jennifer L. Hoffman.

Likewise, paintings painted in the lower scale of the value range are called "low key" paintings, where the lightest light might be a middle gray.  Paintings with subtle value shifts and close value ranges communicate a different feeling than those with big contrasts.  All of these choices reflect the artistic voice of the image maker.

Value contrasts create a sense of sun and shade.

A Worn Path, pastel on mounted paper, 20x16, available.
© Jennifer L. Hoffman.

I leave you with a quote from the great master, John Singer Sargent:

"Color is an inborn gift, but appreciation of value is merely training of the eye, which everyone ought to be able to acquire."

When you are out and about in the world, take a moment to squint.  See if you can find the darkest dark and lightest light in the view you see.  Do the same when you look at art.  The more you practice, the easier it becomes.  Sargent would be proud of you.
_____________________________________

*A great source for quotes on all manner of art topics can be found on Robert Genn's fantastic website: www.art-quotes.com

What it takes to Paint in COLOR

by Kathryn Mapes Turner

 

"Color in a picture is like enthusiasm in life"-Vincent Van Gogh

 

Volumes can be written on the subject of color. Since it is autumn, we couldn't resist touching on this subject for this month's article.   No doubt about it, the experience of color is a special part of life and no one does color like Mother Nature. In the summer, she exhibits the bright colors of the wildflowers.  Currently, Jackson Hole is ablaze with golden aspen leaves, red mountain maple, and all is off-set by distant blue mountains and evergreens.  Soon, the landscape will be blanketed in white snow with shimmering blues and greys. 

     
As painters, we are challenged and inspired by the effects of light on all these colors found in nature.  Everything has what can be referred to as a color note.  A color note is the combination of hue, value (light and dark) and intensity. 

  

REMEMBERING ROY G. BIV

Depending on how it is being effected by light at that moment, we can identify the color note of our subject. The first thing we can ask is where the color note lies in the spectrum of the rainbow of colors.  This is referred to as the hue.  Remember the acronym we learned in grade school, Roy G. Biv?  Red, orange, yellow...These are the color names, or hues. In this painting of the Gros Ventre range, the hue of the sky is blue and the grass is yellow-green.

Cloud Veil by Kathryn M. Turner 16 x 20 oil on linen. Available

If there is smoke in the air, it is sunrise or sunset, the sky would likely have a different hue.  Similarly, grass is not always green.  Later in the season, this same field is a honey wheat hue. Within each hue, there is a spectrum of value, intensity and temperature.

 

VALUE

When creating a painting, we must also consider the relative lightness or darkness orvalue of an area.  There is a saying in our industry- "Color gets all the credit, value does all the work." It is the relationships of values within a painting that depicts a sense of space and form. In this painting, there is not a broad range of hues represented, but the contrast between the light and dark values describe to the viewer  the shapes of the rocks and how the water streams through them.  

 

INTENSITY

 Each color note in a painting can be bright or dull. This refers to the intensity or relative strength of saturation of any given color.  As a general rule, colors in the distance appear lighter in value and less intense than when viewed close up.  In nature, colors are often less intense than the colors that come out of our paint tubes.  To obtain these subtle colors, we mix colors with their compliments in order to make their chroma  less intense.

The Refinement of Nature by Kathryn M. Turner 9 x 12 oil on linen

 TEMPERATURE

 Each hue also has a relative temperature.  Cool colors have a bias toward blue, green and violet. Warm colors have a bias toward red, orange or yellow.  This is how it is possible to have a "cool" red such as alizarin crimson or a 'warm blue' such as french ultramarine.

 

Everything around us is an array of color. The vivid light and color of the world is what compels us to paint. As we strive to continue to understand the world of color, we do our best to create artwork that moves in a similar way. 

Jackson Peak in October by Kathryn M. Turner 9 x 12 oil on linen

When is Fine Painting Like Cooking?

Q: When is Fine Painting like Fine Cooking?

A: When the artist knows what to put in and what to leave out.

  Bill Sawczuk



Running Horses, oil on linen, 12x16. © Bill Sawczuk, 2014.



When I was a kid in the 50s, we used to eat a lot of soup.  Sometimes the soup contained everything in the icebox (that's right, the icebox), and although it was flavorful, we couldn't tell what flavor it was.  It was called garden soup, but sometimes we called it garbage soup.  I think that the same thing could be applied to painting.  If you put too much in, the picture might be painted well, but the viewer might not recognize the subject .   

Peaceful Afternoon, oil on linen, 8x10. © Bill Sawczuk, 2014.



Stippy's and Moran, oil on linen, 9x12. © Bill Sawczuk, 2014.

We are often tempted while painting en plein air to include everything that we see in the scene.  We may feel that the viewer might need all the facts to understand the picture.  The crucial time to resist the temptation to put everything in the soup is in the early composition stage of the painting.  Ask the question,  "What do I need to tell the story?"  The all-inclusive data is in the scene before me, but what should I leave out?  What can the viewer complete in his own analysis of the painting?  Will I clutter up my efforts to express my reaction to the scene by including every tree, every branch, every rock, etc.?  All of these elements may be hinted at in my painting, and the viewer will know that it is a forested, rocky scene.

 

Zero in on the subject.  Know what you are trying to say.  If you don't know that, why are you painting?  If you are trying to show the beauty of horses running through a pasture , for example, what more do you need than the horses and the pasture?  Do you need fences, barns, rocks or anything else? Paint the horses  as well as you can. Try to show their grace and their spirit .  If you can do  that, you will be successful.  Your painting will be complete, and you won't have to throw anything else in!

Texas Blood, oil on linen, 10x10. © Bill Sawczuk, 2014.

 

 

We want to share our artistic process with you! 

This is a continuing series of posts here on our gallery blog:

Behind the Brushes  -  http://triofineart.blogspot.com

The artists at Trio will be taking turns writing about art and sharing on the last week of each month.  If you have a question or an idea for a post, please email us at trio@triofineart.com

or call 307-734-4444.

 

Visit our website at www.triofineart.com

 

Painting on the Edge

photo © Tammy Christel

By Jennifer L. Hoffman

No, I’m not talking about dangling from the edge of a cliff or balancing an easel on a razor thin ridge line   (though I’ve known a few artists who’ve been close).  When I was first starting out as a plein air painter, an artist I admired gave me some advice.  “Pay attention to the edges when you are painting.  Don’t leave your edges unresolved.”   Lacking self-confidence, I didn’t question the statement, but I wondered what he meant.   The edges of my canvas??

In the years since, I’ve learned the value of that advice.  What he actually meant was, “Pay attention to how shapes come together in your painting.”  Determining how two areas meet and successfully painting that meeting place (or edge) conveys the light conditions and gives the illusion of depth (or lack of it) in a painting.  One technique artists use to see edges is to squint at the subject.  When squinting, some edges will remain relatively sharp, while others become soft or disappear altogether.

There are essentially three types of edges to consider in a painting:

1.       Hard edges, where the edge is crisply defined, for example a roofline in bright sunlight or a strong cast shadow.  The shapes with the hardest edges draw the viewer’s eye and give an object a sense of sharp focus.

The hardest edges are in the foreground tree and its 
branches, making it feel closest to the viewer.
Earthshine, Jennifer L. Hoffman, pastel on mounted paper, 27x19.5 in.

2.       Soft edges, where the edges of shapes are less distinct but still discernible.  This could be the edges of foliage at the top of a tree or a distant hillside meeting the sky.  These shapes tend to recede or sit back from the front picture plane.

 The soft edges of the reflection appear to sit below the hard edges of the creek banks.

Tranquility Study, Jennifer L. Hoffman, pastel on board, 9x12.

 3.       Lost edges, where one form melts into another.  This happens often in low light conditions and in weather like rain, snow, or fog.  These lost edges do not compete for attention but can be some of the most interesting to paint!

There are nearly no hard edges in this pastel.  Soft and lost edges add to the sense of mystery.
Veiled, Jennifer L. Hoffman. Pastel on board, 12x16.

Of course, the degree of hardness or softness (or lost-ness, if I may coin a new word!) is relative, and the artist orchestrates those edges in a painting to draw a viewer’s eye to a specific focal point or to move the viewer through the composition. Interestingly, everyone seems to interpret edges a bit differently, even when looking at the same thing.  Some artists see many hard edges and paint accordingly.  Some see things in a much softer way.  Being able to translate the way he/she sees edges allows an artist to not only create an illusion of space and light but to share a bit of his/her personal artistic vision.

Next time you come to Trio or visit another gallery or museum, look for hard, soft, and lost edges.  You’ll be catching a glimpse into the artist’s process!