chamisa

This 6"x6" is probably not finished, but I am setting it aside for now. One of the most plentiful bushes in this corner of the world is chamisa, or rabbitbrush, and I look at several large specimens from my studio. I love its shape and color (our flowers are a pale cream -- elsewhere, they are golden yellow). It is an irresistible subject, and it pulled me away from pure abstraction into this little portrait.

While this may not have gone as abstract as I intended, it afforded a rich exploration of cold wax and its properties. A base of rust hue smoothed on with a dough scraper received a brayerful of sage color, then an arc of cream (using the edge of the brayer). I scratched in directional stems, then added turquoise touches with an oil stick. A bit more sage (in lighter and darker values) applied with a palette knife brought it to this stage. I like it, and my sense this afternoon was to leave it alone, lest I go too far!

pondering pattern

Working on my representational pieces today, my thoughts drifted to abstraction, and to the relationship between the real and the abstract in what we observe. Shapes and patterns observed in nature can of course be very abstract, especially when taken out of their context. My project is to explore these rather than paint the landscape (context).

I am strongly drawn to the shapes, patterns, and textures in the country around me. Some are miniscule, like the pattern on a piece of piñon bark, and others are on a grand scale, such as the flow of sandstone down a deep slot canyon. I've tried to represent the latter by texturing the cliff formations that I've painted over the past couple of years, but I have not been entirely successful. The abstraction of the texture on the canvas sometimes clashes with the realistic representation of form and plane. In retrospect, using light as a factor might have helped unify the two, but right now I am pulled more strongly toward trying the completely abstract, even if later I work my way back to a measure of representation. If I get rid of the form and plane, I'm left with shape, pattern, texture.

the plan

So here is my plan to begin to explore both cold wax and abstraction:

First, I have a small show coming up at the local Gallery 24 in July, so I have to get pieces ready for it. Exploration must come second. I have about six paintings close to being finished, and another four that I could wrap up by then.

But, I also have ordered in (no art supply stores around here!) a modest stock of 2"-cradle Gessobord, all with multiples of 6" per side (6x6, 6x12, 12x12, etc.) so that they can be assembled together in various ways. By working with small pieces, I can focus on small chunks of abstraction, but each with a focus. And I can play with cold wax and all the tools that I have gathered over the years to create texture, in small bits without commitment to a huge canvas.

If things go well, I may be able to assemble up to six montages of these small pieces in time for the show in July. This gives me a goal and some limits, while at the same time allowing freedom to explore.

Another aspect of this montage approach is that it addresses the vastness of this country that I am trying to portray. Limiting the scope of a 50-mile vista to a 30"x32" canvas does not carry the impact I seek. Intimacy is required, as, for example, when we look at a specific angle of light on a specific ledge of cliff, rather than the whole cliff expanse stretching for miles in either direction. (At least, this is my hypothesis.) Creating small snapshots of "cliffness", abstract vignettes of sagebrush plains, color-fields of skies, and then assembling them according to how they fit together as an artistic form (back to Diebenkorn and the importance to him of the actual surface being created), might evolve into the effect that I want. The image above, for example, is my first attempt (6"x6") at abstract "rockness" -- with reference to a real piece of sandstone lying on my table.

Diebenkorn

Ruth Fine's article on Richard Diebenkorn ("Reality: digested, transmuted, and twisted", in The Art of Richard Diebenkorn) reassures me that, while I may be groping for answers, my questions are valid. (The image at left is his Ocean Park No. 107 (1978).)

I ground myself and my paintings in the real: the earth, the rock, the sky. At the easel, I abstract what I have seen. Fine writes about Diebenkorn merging his observation of the visible world into the creation of his artistic form. The interaction between observing reality and creating a painting is at the crux of my deliberations at the moment, and it is as though I must choose what my language would be. Diebenkorn went for "geometric structuring and painted light" in both his representational and his abstract work, and these are the two aspects of his work that speak most strongly to me. I share the geometric bent, but I haven't paid much attention to the role of light in abstract work. I use light in my figurative and representational work, but have not found a way to use it in abstraction. I do pay a lot of attention to color, and if Diebenkorn responded to "the interaction of color and light in the visible world" (Fine), perhaps I should hone my observational skills and, while studying forms and translating them onto the support, include the study of light on those forms and their color. But, without actually representing the form itself in a painting, how can I represent the light?

Fine also notes Diebenkorn's "search for structure, space, color relationships, surface tensions, diverse marks, and scale" in the works he created, which provides a checklist for exploration in abstract painting. Similarly, she states that "the real subject for Diebenkorn was always form, light, and structure." It would be good to analyze a landscape -- or anything else I'm observing -- in those terms.

Behind all of this is an almost-decision to let representation go (except for exercises and when inspiration strikes) and become an abstract painter. Do I dare? A topic for later posts.

abstraction

My experimentation with cold wax as a painting medium is a push-pull between exploring the materials and exploring abstraction. When I let myself focus on the materials, I automatically create abstract pieces. When I try to control my composition and create “pictures”, I lose the beauty of the materials and of the abstraction.

This is an old story. Ever since I began painting in 1998, I have struggled with a pull toward abstraction. In learning “how” to paint, I learned the rules of representation: shape, shadow, perspective, and so on. By following the rules, I turned out quite respectable paintings. People responded well to them, and my teachers approved. But it was not my voice that was speaking.

My voice seems to be abstract. But the rules of abstraction seem more to be basic guidelines, beyond which you are on your own (but isn't that part of the freedom?). I have always worried that my abstract pieces weren’t real “art” but rather amateurish play. Perhaps, like its rules, the criteria for judging abstract art are vague. This route, for me, is a paradox: it is easy because I just speak with my voice. But, because there are no rules, it is hard to know if what I am creating is worthwhile.

getting started

Some background: I have been painting in oil since 2002. My passion is to try to convey the beauty and spirit of the southwest mesa-mountain-canyon country in which I live. The landscape is vast, and is a challenge in itself. Other challenges for me include a natural attraction to abstraction, a love of experimentation, and the relative isolation of Torrey, Utah, where I live and work. The latter has meant that my art education has been through workshops, taught by excellent artists and professors, but mostly limited to the hands-on nature of that forum. I lack a formal theoretical background. It also means that it is difficult to get feedback from fellow artists on my work. Hence, this blog.

Recently I have begun to experiment with cold wax as a medium for oil paint, inspired by the work of Rebecca Crowell, who also maintains a thoughtful and informative blog. That experimentation has raised old and new questions about my work, its purpose and its processes. I hope to use this format to explore all of the above.

The painting above is "Hidden Chambers", which I painted in 2008.