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I just read a quotation attributed to Columbian artist Fernando Botero, now living in New York, who is famous for his very "well-rounded" figures, particularly of women: "When you start a painting, it is somewhat outside you. At the conclusion, you seem to move inside the painting." Although our styles are very different, that quotation speaks to me. As common procedure, I can imagine Botero plots out the mechanics of his painting, where the figure will stand, what activity will take place, what color scheme would be appropriate , and so forth . He would start drawing, or laying in colors as he normally does, and the painting would be "somewhat outside" of  him, as he put it. However, at some point he would begin to feel almost "inside" the painting, maybe even adjusting his original plan as he becomes more and more a part of it. Maybe he tests various colors to suit  his new understanding, or removes some parts of what he has begun, trying a slightly different pose as he now is experiencing it. Botero paints figures, but landscape painters go through a similar process - moving vegetation to more appropriate spots, darkening  shadows, and so forth, as they begin to feel themselves in that setting.

 

I just finished an oil painting of "a woman riding a horse down a hill in a snowstorm." The words in quotation marks were what I envisioned this painting to be "about". I first planned  the scene, plotting the size and shape and subdued colors. In other words, my painting was still "somewhat outside me," as Botero has described the process. I was intellectualizing the painting, careful to render an accurate horse and rider, chosing colors that were appropriate to the dullness of a darkening snowy day, and so forth. Having experienced many snowstorms as a child growing up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I eventually began to sense the feeling of cold air and  wet snow on my face, my skin remembering how it would tingle with the cold. As Botero might have put it, I "moved into the painting." I could feel that the rider's upper legs would get the brunt of the snow's chill settling on thin denim jeans,even though this rider's legs were partially protected by wooly "chinks", or short chaps. I knew that  farther back behind the horse and rider, the sky would be darker and colder, with snowflakes beginning to obscure those evergreens in the distance, a thickening veil of obscurity between the trees and the rider. The snow would appear less dense on the rider, as the viewer sees her from a closer vantage point, with fewer intervening flakes than those veiling the trees in the distance. I have been in such a setting and everything felt right.

 

The more one can "move inside the painting," as Botero stated, the more fulfilling will be the effort, and the truer will be the result. 

Artists inwardly groan when people say something like: "It must be lovely just painting every day...so calming and relaxing." In this scenario I picture an artist painting daintily with a long-handled brush (for elegance), wearing an unsullied and attractive artist smock, and perhaps a beret, gracefully dabbing precious touches of paint on the canvas, sipping a bit of wine for added inspiration. Classical music plays softly in the background, and one breaks often for tea and crumpets. Right.

 

More accurate is the concept of painting as problem-solving and answering questions: What do I need to paint first - what needs to be where? What IS that deadline, anyway? What size canvas should I use, what shape, what color theme, light or dark color key (practical side items: do I have enough oil paint, do I need to stretch or cut a canvas, how much time to I have in the studio today, and how much paint should I mix up, where is my tube of cadmium red, is yesterday's work dry enough to paint on?) If this is a commission: will this blue match her sofa? This is  a joke among artists, of course, but people often do have preconceived ideas about what they want. One of my personal favorites is, "Make me look younger, please." Even non-commissioned work has its stresses: will the gallery like this, will anyone want to buy it, did I order a frame yet? How did that blob of cadmium red get on the floor, and who walked through it? Where is the white cat, anyway?

 

More typically, instead of smocks and berets, I wear cutoff jeans, oil-smeared tee shirts, old golf socks, and rubber gloves. My beverage of choice is diet cola, I listen to a radio news network rather than classical music (I know, I am weird), and my brushstrokes are not dainty, but energetic swoops of juicy color. Winston the cat saunters by wearing a bright streak of red.

 

But there must be something mystical in painting, or why do we do it? Something draws an artist to create - heaven knows, we could probably make more money doing something much more prosaic. Something makes us go to our studio every day to make art, subjecting our fragile egos to comments and sometimes rejection, waiting for a kind word here and there. And a sale...here and there. I love it!

What kind of art do I paint? This is a good question, and I am not sure of the answer.

 

Seems as if I am always needing to define myself as an artist. When people learn I am an oil painter, they ask "What kind of art do you paint?" I know all the definitions, but I don't seem to fit into any of them - which actually pleases me, I suppose. Defining phrases quoted below are mostly from Wikipedia. Parts of each of them seem to fit me, parts don't.

 

Realism: easy to define, and I am not one of those. Don't want my painting to look like a photo (although I can appreciate others that do.)

Impressionism: "short, broken brush strokes " (not all of mine are, many of my  strokes 'swoop'), "of unmixed color, not blended" (yes, or maybe just a bit of blending in the face), "to achieve color vibration" (yes!), "strong use of natural light" (sometimes, although I also love the effect of strong artificial light), soft, broken edges (not always in my paintings).

Expressionism: "bold colors" (definitely, not always realistic)," distorted forms" (yes, for a purpose, like the length of the oriental lady's right leg in the picture above, stretching back to elongate the twist of her body), "two dimensional and without perspective" (don't think so) "often hard edges" (sometimes, in that I am definitely not a soft-edge blending fanatic - actually, I dislike images whose edges have been softened to oblivion).

Abstract: Using form, color, and line to create a composition "which may exist with a degree of independence from visual references in the world", showing "alternative ways of describing visual experience" (if an artist can't find a different way of describing what he sees, why bother? However, my paintings are still based upon reality.)

 

"Rialto Blue"

 

So what style is the "Rialto Blue" painting? A viewer knows what the painting is about, even though it is not "realistic" - but it is not "abstract"; colors are laid down, unblended, certainly showing color vibration, but a viewer certainly doesn't think "impressionism" here; bold colors, not too much perspective, some exaggeration, but not totally "expressionistic".

 

Does it matter how I define myself? Probably not, except that art competitions have expectations of what they want to receive, and people also seem to expect an answer from me. I usually say something like: "I paint colorful figurative oil paintings that are mostly impressionistic, with touches of expressionism and abstraction."  However, I welcome your suggestions.

                                                                                         

I have just finished viewing a very strong series of art lectures by Scott Burdick on Utube, "BeautyPart1-4". Gorgeous photos of paintings, too. He maintains that art is not Art unless there is beauty, and that what has been passing as art - expensive art at that - such as Jackson Pollak's spattered paint offerings, does not have any beauty at all, and therefore is not art. 

I agree with Burdick, but I guess I have a broader definition of art...or maybe a broader definition of beauty. The Bellows paintings of boxers just wow me, even though they are tough and sinewy. So, I guess the well-executed depiction of strength and power is also a type of beauty. But, this is not disagreeing with Burdick, just interpreting. I find the lovely colors in a Mark Rothko painting pleasant to look at, so it is art to me - just maybe not the best art, at least to my eye. Surely skill should come into the picture as well, and painting squares, even without masking tape, is not all that hard...come on! Another bias I have is this: if it has to be explained to be appreciated, maybe it isn't good art anyway. Just saying...

But anyone with any common sense would draw the line at true art atrocities, such as Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain", which plunks a urinal on a stand and calls it "art". And yet I read that in 2004 his "art" was voted the most influential artwork of the 20th century by 500 selected British art world professionals. That is stunning - stunning and scary.
 
So that leads us to wonder just who these "experts" are and how strong is their power. The answer is that their power - what Burdick calls "the power to ignore" - is why many "important" art museums are filled with art that representational artists laugh at, why National Endowment for the Arts funding goes to the most outrageous examples of creation, and why large newspapers such as the New York Times announce through their art critics that the most important works are the ones that are uber-modern, ostentatiously ignoring the wonderful, important works by representational artists, whose works will be around for hundreds of years - long after the urinals of the art world have been laughed at and demolished.

You should watch Burdick's lecture in its entirety, and he ends by saying that today's art critics and curators have The Power to Ignore (representational art, that is) and that they get rich knowing who is going to be promoted by the elite art world, like a Ponzi scheme in an esthetic underground. Wow.

In talking with other artist friends and family members, I am always surprised and strangely comforted to find that, like me, they have days of supreme confidence in their artistic abilities and days of wondering why they even bother, and, of course, many middling days in between. One of my wonderful daughters-in-law, Skaie Knox, whose voice is so powerful and beautiful it is astounding (go listen for yourself at www.bigbuglunch.com), said she agrees and feels it is because "We artists are an emotional bunch..Yes?!" Yes. Probably true.

However, I am guessing that our product, whether visual art or music, is so damned personal. We can't help but put a part of our soul into what we create, and it is hard to think that someone might stomp on our soul.

And, if an artist does not put any soul into his/her work, I wonder if it is really art at all.

Excited about a new painting I completed yesterday. It was fun to paint, and I think maybe that comes across to the viewer. Art should move you in some way, not just be an academic exercise. With this painting, I am hoping a person might be moved to happiness - always a good thing! Do you agree?

Recently I attended a discussion seminar to meet and interact with experts from across the United States. I am certainly not "expert" as many people that were there, and probably not as expert as many readers of this blog. However, I was placed on  a panel to discuss the subject of "art" and was stunned at what took place.

One participant gushed on about an art exhibit that, apparently, consisted of one large, empty room filled with four inches of talcum powder. And nothing else. Another person spoke on (and on) about the lacy beauty of a rusted toaster she found, which she felt was certainly "art". It is proudly displayed on her fireplace mantle. To my way of thinking, if she had done a watercolor or oil painting of that toaster, it might actually be art! Or am I just being plebian about the whole subject?

So, what is art?