One day I was walking through one of the parking lots I frequent that is adjacent to a park beside my stream.  A retiree in a folding chair and a cigar who was familiar with me, and who’d seen me go back and forth with all my gear many times, asked: “Why don’t you just take a picture?”  First of all, let me just say that in my mind; a stream, shade, and a seated retiree with a cigar is just one of many snapshots of all being well in the world. In that moment, I gave a short friendly answer: “Well, cameras don’t see color quite the same way our eyes do.” That is my go-to-answer whenever people ask in passing. But this is such a good question, that I wanted to share my thoughts about it more thoroughly than any of those moments offer the chance to, and I hope these thoughts might help enrich the appreciation overall of this artform that so many of us love.

It is true that our eyes do see color differently than cameras, but they also engage in a different way of seeing. As quickly as possible, I want to say that I thoroughly respect and enjoy the artform of photography.  I want to leave that impression, even with some of the critical observations that I’m about to make. My own dad was a photo enthusiast, and it gave him a lot of joy, and a lot of common appreciation for us to share.  I also want to mention that I do appreciate how the camera supports what I do.  Photos I take are vital to my studio work, and they occasionally help me with my plein air work. “Why did that shadow stop appearing on that rock?” was one question I’d asked, and photos of its progress helped me to understand that the arc of the sun’s path had changed enough in three weeks to have the shadow miss it. I’ll hope to see you again next year, was my response to that one : >) Other times, some of my more complex pieces might involve a handful of things happening at once, and a few snapshots can help me come to understand what is happening with the many things while painting the area of my current focus.

While cameras are very good at some things, I would have to call my relationship with them “odd.” It’s a little like having a friend that is lying half of the time, and you can usually tell when they’re lying, but not always. I experience their interpretation of color as like that of another language.  It is possible to become somewhat fluent in the language of cameras, and different cameras have different accents by the way, but the translation from camera toward natural does cause a headache. One of the camera’s strengths is detail … but it’s a funny kind of detail.  It’s excruciating how specific it is.  My sarcastic commentary would go like this: “Thanks very much camera, for showing me that the 52nd clover leaf on the left is leaning in front of the one blade of grass, while the other blade of grass is twisting unexpectedly behind the one next to it”. Well, the shame of this is that all of these clover leaves and grass blades are not the true greens, and the color of the actual green of the grass and the way it feels are what I’m trying to paint. I want to be fair though, so we’ll have another comedy moment to explain why we don’t work with crime-scene painters: Investigator:“Why did you leave out the gum wrapper, the gum wrapper was the key to solving this crime!?!” Artist: “Uhhhhhhhh, sorry ... I got more interested in the mood ... have you ever felt it?”

This way-of-seeing difference also comes into play around motion. My stream is my muse, and a lot of what I am trying to paint are its motions.  Some are gentle, and others more dramatic, but they tend to have their own rhythms that we can watch and soak in.  Because the camera sees in split-second realities, their visions are remarkably different from each other.  When looking at a handful of water photos of the same passage of stream, it is very difficult to tell which one of those split-seconds is the most typical, and often it’s very hard to tell what that relaxed gaze would look like. The relaxed gaze is the way of seeing that I am trying to paint, and I find that being with the water, and painting with the water, are the way to capture that sense of gaze. This is also true with sun-sparkles, which is a subject that I am especially fond of. The brightness of them really tends to overwhelm the camera’s ability to see color, and there is color in them.  There’s also a delightful dance. I find that dance has scale, motion, and direction, and these things just don’t show up in photos. I like to joke that, with the colors of nature: “You have to see them to believe them,” and this is especially true with all the effects of sunlight on water.

One of the foundation ideas for me is in the awareness that I am painting a living thing.  I tend to paint recurring things, and their stories are being told in an ongoing manner.  This may be even more important than the color aspect of things, even though you can probably tell how important color is to me.  While my smaller paintings happen somewhat quickly, my larger paintings can take weeks, and even years.  At the onset of these paintings, I can’t see the finished piece at all.  I know from experience, that I have set up in front of a subject that has called to me in an important way, and at the beginning I have just begun to get to know it.  It’s a little like entering into a relationship.  My posture is that of a happy and patient listener, who is ready to hear some stories. These stories are authored by Nature and are told in sight and sound, motion, and this music of color.  Painting feels like “humming along.” 

Each piece is completely unique.  It really varies when I fully “get” what a painting is about.  In my working process, I almost always begin with a mineral spirits wash painting.  This serves both to establish a composition, as well as to begin down the road towards color.  This is an important introductory phase, and the fluidity of the medium, and the ability to “erase” with a paper towel both help it all to move along comfortably.  Either during this time, or beforehand, possible titles start to occur to me.  It’s interesting how natural this is, and I think it might be my sub-conscious at work with the “what is this painting about” part of things.  This really does help me to have a purpose to each piece. It serves as a clarified direction, during the many variations that Nature is going to be displaying. I will often reference the title when I am seeing many of the subject’s compelling moments, and this can really help in the sorting of these things out. It is possible for a subject to convince me of a title change over time.  I’m always open to that too.

One of the most important decisions is the “when” of the painting.  By that, I mean that I am needing to decide between many of the “golden moments” that a subject will be displaying.  Experience has built into me a great deal of trust around this.  It can cause some pain, not to know, but I find that the “knowing” does come along eventually, and that it is entirely okay not to know before you know.  There are always things to work on that are somewhat constant during the window of time that is developing for each painting.  With some pieces, it isn’t known at the beginning whether it is a morning or an afternoon painting, and so an entire day, or two, or three can be used to sketch and watch, and notice how the different flavors of daytime feel.  At some point, the natural knowing will emerge, which brings with it a sense of calm because, an important part of the process has worked itself out without being rushed or forced.  The same process happens as this “when” component works toward which ten or fifteen minutes the painting is about. I watch and wait until the many “maybes” become possible “yeses”, and then the one “yes” can finally stand alone.  It sorts itself out in person so naturally, by watching the show over and over. I remind myself that like an elder in a village, when the young folk question: “How will you know?” I can smile and say: “You’ll just know.”

Of course, any piece of Nature has a lot of particulars to it.  These can be overwhelming at the beginning, and the component of trust in this process comes into play again.  One of the things that I love about the oil painting medium is that anything can be added, and anything can be removed.  The painting serves as its own world, while the living world around it changes.  I can offer a recent example of a March/April painting.  I had painted the forest understory in the March coloration of warm orange grays, and as I was concluding that season, I noticed how beautiful the April greens were.  I got a little disturbed because something inside me knew that the following year I was likely to paint the April over the March.  And sure enough, when I saw those new greens again the following April, said: “Yes!!”  I always wait for that level of reaction.  It is a very trustworthy guide.  In the same painting, there had been a wiggly tree out near the edge of the composition.  I’d experienced it as a slight distraction after painting it in.  That same following year, it had been undercut by the flow of the water and fallen in.  Seeing the space without it looked better than with it, and I painted the new version with what had been behind the now-missing tree.  So, things can be added or subtracted.  When facing changes, if I like what was, I leave it, and if I like the new, I change it.

While those stories could make me sound quite “literal” and possibly inflexible, or unimaginative; I do have a terrific imagination, but my process emerges out of a real curiosity, and a philosophical attitude toward Nature.  I am happy in the posture of the student, and one that is not eager to tell her what she is like, or should be like, but rather the one that wants to hear those stories with open ears, because there is so much reward in that listening.  It can be noticed that Nature does make some things very oddly, things like: “Do maple tree roots really do that?”  And the answer is: “Yes, they do, and there it is.” I try not to dwell on these oddities, or seek them out, but given that they are authentic and true, my inclination is to paint along with them as they are, or what can be called, the “what is.” The truth is never corny, or cynical, or mundane.  It is such a reliable thing to lean into, while knowing that it is a guide to excellent adventures, which have their puzzlements and challenges, but also have an awful lot of discovery and fun.

 I am nearly a 50/50 plein air and studio painter.  This emerged over time because I am a fan of what can be done, both with the energy and exhilaration of painting along with Nature, and also what can be done with more time to visit, revisit, and move patiently in the studio.  I do paint in my studio with photos I’ve taken, and don’t consider these to be “less than” artworks.  I feel very comfortable in the authorship of my work.  I have a lot of experience of painting with life, and in the studio with memories only, and or with pictures I’ve taken.  The reference materials, which can be life, memories, or pictures, do not do any of the painting.  I do. My goal is always towards a good painting, and it is the painting at the end that I am dedicated to, not the process.  A good painting can be something different to everyone, but to me it is one that delivers a sense of the subject, and one that shares a relaxed gaze at something worth seeing. I have found many things worth seeing, and many more than I have had time to paint. There can be a little bit of pain there, but these are some of the slings and arrows of being an artist.  One has to choose, and maturity does help with these choices.

I notice that ideas and inspirations have a range in scale.  I have been growing in comfort around my own “BIG Ideas,” and have begun approaching them, but I also enjoy the smaller ones, that can be tidbits or morsels of time and life. I think of this as the width to the artist’s path. The studio offers the chance to both work and play with these different-sized ideas at different paces. I can toss some of that outdoor energy at a canvas, or slow it down for a more meditative feel. I value that time of exploring the “heart’s content” around those different flavors of painting, and it’s always my hope that it is a good experience to see some of the things that I have thought were worth seeing.