large and small

Sometimes I get myself tied up in knots over questions that, in the end, seem pretty simple. Much of my thinking in the past couple of weeks has been almost Gordian in nature. It all started with a simple question from a friend to whom I was describing the challenges posed by working small (I was working on some 6" x 8" panels). What, she asked, is the difference between your small pieces and your large ones?

How are small pieces different from large (other than the obvious fact of size)? I had never stopped to ask, at least in terms of my present work. There are clearly two parts to the question: differences in process, and differences in product. It was the former with which I had been concerned, but the latter came to mind almost immediately.

Researcher that I am (25 years as a librarian doesn't fade quickly), I turned to my favorite sources of art wisdom to see what they had to say. Robert Genn has addressed size in his twice-weekly newsletter, but from the opposite end of the process: choosing the right size of canvas for the subject matter. In my case, the subject matter (such as it is) grows out of the process, and there is no predefinition to determine what size of panel to use.

I then searched Rebecca Crowell's informative blog for related discussions. In February 2008, she addressed the topic of size:

When I paint something large, I love the sense of being surrounded by the paint...while the challenge is to make something that justifies its own scale. I feel there needs to be something monumental about the piece, that will hold up in its largeness, over time and repeated viewings. 

Very small paintings have to be intriguing enough to withstand close-up viewing -- to have presence though occupying little physical space. It's really pleasurable for me to give due importance to slight shifts in color or texture, or to a few lines or some interesting mark -- and to bring that appreciation to viewers, whose faces will likely be inches rather than feet away from the work. 

In between these extremes are paintings (with) medium dimensions (30”x28”). I think the challenge here is to rise above what seems an ordinary or expected kind of scale. To stand out in a world of objects of similar size -- not just other works of art, but all the things in ordinary homes and buildings that vie for visual attention -- windows, computer screens, furnishings. While this presents a challenge, it's also a strength -- this is an accessible scale, that requires no special exhibition space, and feels comfortable to people as an object to contemplate. 

Rebecca's thoughts were helpful, but I still felt caught up in questions such as, can small pieces be anything but decorative? Small paintings have to relate to their surroundings in a way that a large piece does not, precisely because the edges are part of the viewer's experience: A 6"x6" panel cannot surround anything. Can I create a small abstract painting that also has meaning?

It is perhaps part of the phenomenon of midwinter blues that I let this whole subject bother me probably more than it should have. (It didn't help that I wasn't happy with the 6" x 8" pieces.) How could I avoid small pieces being denigrated from "art" to "decor"? Then finally, walking back into the house from the studio yesterday, I realized that I was letting "product" get ahead of "process" and intent, and it all became quite simple. If my intention, with all pieces of all sizes, is to fulfill my artist statement (see post of October 17th), then the product will flow from that intention, and although Rebecca's points remain completely valid, as does the "decorative" issue, my purpose/intention remains primary, and the other issues secondary and, with luck, not dominant.

I'm still not happy with the 6" x 8" pieces, but I've set them aside for the moment. The image above is of my most recent finished piece, 24" x 18", as yet untitled.

scraping back

In a moment of impatience this morning, I employed my painting knife, which I was using to mix some fresh paint on my palette, to scrape off a lump of oil stick from the panel I was working on. The knife -- a blunt, triangle-shaped metal blade angled down from its handle -- left an ugly mark, at which of course I scraped some more. Apparently I used a different angle with the knife, because the mark it made was completely different from the first. My attention diverted, I forgot the paint on the palette and continued to scrape the panel with the painting knife, investigating the effects on the semi-wet surface. The angle of the blade was critical to the result, as was the pressure used against the surface. I spent the next several minutes exploring this new (to me) phenomenon.

The use of the smaller painting knife produced more subtle transitions than broader-bladed scrapers (see post of November 1, 2012), and allowed for blending as well as separating the semi-wet paint. With appropriate pressure, lower, drier layers could be removed as well, producing a rich and complex surface that revealed hints of the history of the panel. I had gotten into the habit, as my technique to reveal lower layers, of dissolving applied paint with mineral spirits and then smoothing or lifting it off. This scraping with the painting knife provides a completely different effect.

To the experienced artist, this revelation will seem simplistic, since scraping with a painting knife is assuredly neither a new nor a sophisticated technique. I felt a little silly at it being a "discovery" for me. But it is not a technique to which I've paid much attention in the past, for whatever reason, and I was intrigued by the difference between the effects it produced and the effects that scraping back with wide flat-blade metal scrapers produces. In my exploration, I put down more paint and more oil stick, and kept scraping. The result, shown in the image above, was a more active, more colorful surface than I usually create. It is not a final surface, but it is a lovely preparatory expanse for some calming top layers. And in taking the time to follow my curiosity and experiment, I found a new way to develop the lower layers of my work, one that complements my intentions and goals. Scraping back is certainly a geologic phenomenon of the Colorado Plateau, if on a somewhat grander scale!

And I learned another lesson, which is how unconsciously entrenched I can become in habitual techniques, and how valuable it is to follow a serendipitous discovery no matter how seemingly simple and basic. My painting process, and my finished work, will be the richer for it.

color play

Four small (8" x 6") panels are developing together but as separate pieces, in part so that they are coherent with the rest of my work (I tend to wander off on tangents with individual small panels), in part so that I can try different techniques across similar compositions, and in part with the idea that they might end up for sale as a group. I am not forcing the latter idea, but I also am interested in the idea of series of paintings, and this seems a good opportunity to investigate it.

Working small is a welcome change from my recent struggles with larger boards, and is also educational: For example, perhaps one way to address a large board is by dividing it into smaller sections for detailed work. Also, it is less intimidating to experiment with techniques on a smaller piece; one has less invested, especially at the later stages.

I had conceived of a theme of the four seasons as a way to approach the quartet of panels, to differentiate among them while at the same time relating them to each other. As often happens with what seems like a good initial idea, the theme didn't take me far except in the area of color, since I differentiated among spring, summer, fall, and winter in terms of hue. In terms of marks and composition, my actions were fairly random, and I couldn't identify lines, shapes, or divisions that self-differentiated as seasonal.

This morning I explored color interaction among closely related hues. I was partly inspired by a 2013 wall calendar of Rothko's works that I recently hung on the studio wall. I knew that I was not yet at a final surface, which gave me freedom to play and to steal ideas from the calendar. My main purpose was to create four surfaces that reinforced the color ideas that I was developing for each "season". I also used the opportunity to experiment with creating deliberately shaped patches of color with deliberate edges, whether sharp and well-defined or blurred and fuzzy. The image above is the result for the "spring" panel, which I find particularly pleasing.

going back in

Winter weather extended our trip to the coast from eight days to ten, since we drove the longer southern route to avoid Pacific storms in the north. That, combined with a bout of nasty stomach flu, took me away from the studio mentally as completely as I was removed physically. But I took my camera along on the trip, and on the days of better health I managed to record small, informal, subjectively compelling photos of water and reflections. The practice had the desired effect of moving my mind into its visual artistic mode, if only briefly, and provided a link to that aspect of my life in a way that neither sketchbook nor journal has done in the past.

Today was my first opportunity since getting home to go back into the studio, and to go back into that mental space where my painting happens. I took advantage of the first few moments to take a fresh look at the current work hanging on the pegboard, and I could feel myself being pulled back into the process. Before immersion happened, I made mental notes about the new ideas that presented themselves.  Then I put on my painting apron, and got to work.

One piece in particular, a 24" x 24" study in browns, is very close to finished and needs only a session or two of small, thoughtful mark-making and blending. Much of the painting can stand as it is, with some areas (such as the 4" x 4" excerpt above) delightfully crisp and complex. But other sections are dull or awkward, and call for going back into them to add interest. Rather than tackle this today, I eased back in more slowly, revamping an unsatisfactory 12" x 12" (still unsatisfactory but improved), messing up a pair of too-precious 8" x 10"s, and generally reacquainting myself with the materials and the rhythm of work. It is good to be home.

change of venue

We are off on an eight-day trip to the San Francisco area to visit friends and family. I closed up the studio with some reluctance, since I have been enjoying the momentum of the daily sessions of the past ten weeks. As I looked around my space today at the paintings completed, the paintings nearly done, and the paintings just begun, I couldn't help but have a sense of accomplishment. And several of the incomplete pieces are calling out for more development, so that I think it will be easy to get back into the rhythm of work when we return.

My hours today were spent on a 12" x 9" piece that has been through so many "final" iterations that I ended up dissolving and scraping back two separate surfaces that had thickened the piece without bringing it to a conclusion. This is a simple matter of spraying mineral spirits onto the surface and scraping and brayering off layers of paint. Fun but also dangerous, this process reduces paint thickness and also reveals (often unexpected) treasures on the lower layers. The danger is that those surprises may not complement the vision of the upper layers, and I sometimes have to reassess what to do next. I have discarded more than one piece that became so mangled that I despaired: One of the pleasant developments of the past few months is that I seem to be able to manage things better now.

This morning, after an hour-plus of work, I had a very pleasing result, and thought, "Finished at last!" But then I wondered if a mist of mineral spirits might clarify some of the colors (applied correctly, mineral spirits can cause some pigments to separate from others and bring a pleasing brightness to a surface). This led to fiddling and nudging, more misting, and, ultimately, taking off too much paint in too many places. Nonetheless, I had the sense to stop before losing all of the work I had just done, and I left the painting hanging on the pegboard to dry. It is one of the pieces to which I am eager to return. It may in fact be finished; I was too close to it to tell by the end of my work today.

The image above is not of the 12" x 9", but rather a finished 16" x 12" from last month -- another that was sprayed and brayered twice before coming to conclusion. I have the honor of its being part of a new web site, Resources for Cold Wax Painting, created by Rebecca Crowell. The site provides a wealth of material about this flexible and expressive medium in which I work.

mixing business with pleasure

So far in my brief career as a painter, I have had the luxury of sending my work off to others and letting them tend to the business of sales. I began painting seriously about the same time that friends founded Gallery 24 here in Torrey, Utah, where I live, and they were kind enough to represent me. Over the years I have been with two other galleries in southern Utah. My production level has always been slow enough that I never had more pieces than the galleries could handle (not that everything sold!). In the last couple of years, however, as my style has become more consistent, my production has increased a bit, and I have begun to consider other ways to sell, either through a new gallery or through direct efforts.

I am still considering these options, and plan to investigate them actively after the holidays. In the meantime, though, the owners of Gallery 24 decided to retire and close the gallery. Chagrined by the idea of Torrey losing one of its two galleries, and by the thought of not having local representation, a small group of us artists who have been with the gallery decided to investigate the idea of keeping it open ourselves. The result is a six-partner agreement, about to be filed as a business with the state of Utah, and the organization of a new... well, organization. We are a friendly group, and so far are working well together. We each have different strengths and interests in terms of the business side of things, and so are sharing tasks as much as we are sharing ideas. It is both exciting and scary, to be in charge ourselves. If nothing else, it guarantees that 2013 will be an interesting year.

There is a lot to learn and experience, and while I know that it will be fun, at the same time it is not something I would have sought without the incentives of the specific situation. I am far more interested in creating than in selling (yes, I know, selling can be creative, but not in the same way!). On the other hand, if I intend to explore other options for marketing my work, the experience of being part owner (yikes!) of a gallery can only enhance my efforts. It is an opportunity for growth, in what I hope is a manageable way, and I hope that the experience will complement my efforts in the studio.

The latest of these efforts, above, is 16" x 16" x 2", as yet unnamed. I like it.

vision and revision

There are times when the work just flows, and times when it doesn't, as creative people generally know and experience. For seven weeks now, I've been painting for fifteen hours or more each week, showing up in the studio on a daily basis, and the practice has become an established habit, which was my original goal. (Yay! Check that one off the list!) As time goes by, I experience both days when the work flows and days when it doesn't. Because I know I'll be back tomorrow, I don't panic when things don't go well. Nor do I take it for granted when the process flows and the results are pleasing. I pretty much know that it probably won't happen two days in a row, but it happens often enough that I don't get discouraged.

I would like to figure how what it is that makes things go well when they do. Am I more relaxed? I don't think so. Do I have a different attitude, for example curiosity and playfulness rather than determination and focus? I don't think so, either. Do I have more of a plan for what I do, or less of one? Neither. Do I paint more quickly, more instinctively, more carefully, more casually, more daringly, more cautiously? I can’t say that any of these characteristics are consistently present when the process flows, nor when it doesn’t. Whatever happens, just sort of happens.

If I can’t identify what makes things flow – or not – the implication is that I will never be able to count on the process going well. Books and magazines are full of articles about how to get the process flowing, from carefully planning and executing to relaxing and letting things go, and numerous methods in between. My personal tendency is to try to note what techniques work, and when, to achieve some effect that I want, and to consciously know what I am doing. This is much of what my hours in the studio are spent doing: experimenting and then documenting the successes.

But if I can’t control the flow, I would still like to know how to encourage it, if such a thing is possible. At present, about all I can do is show up and have faith that it might happen. Maybe someday I’ll find a hook that helps it happen on a consistent basis.

Another salient issue related to this phenomenon is how to make progress when the materials aren't cooperating. I am gradually learning tendencies to avoid (my obsession this past week has been about piling up paint too thickly). Looking for danger signals as a painting progresses is a good method for avoiding major problems, but it is inevitable that the learning process be full of problem solving. I’ve done a lot of dissolving and scraping this past week, and it has been something of a breakthrough that I have successfully brought to conclusion two paintings that in earlier stages had been “ruined”. I do generally have a vision – if a vague one – of what I want to produce, and in many ways these days it is just a question of how much revision it will take to get there.

The image above is of a much revised 24” x 30” piece that I have declared to be finished. The bottom section is thicker than I like in some areas, but I have reworked it so many times that I finally declared, “DONE!” I think it will do. On the other hand, I can always scrape it down again….