This is a layered, transparent watercolor prepared while applying the operable idea that instead of erasing or starting over when one wants change, one would add paint and brushstrokes to get the desired effect, leading to iterations of darker and lighter colors while allowing drying time in between each iteration.
In the process, the painting may shift moods several times.
For example,
I’m still wondering what I have learned from adding these layers.
Multilayering does encourage the idea that change is inevitable, that opportunities for reinventing the painting are plentiful and it certainly reduces one’s attention to feelings of regret, or focusing on flaws while feeling that nothing can be done about it.
I also see from this exercise how many opportunities crop up when you keep playing with a painting.
By adding layers, it may not always be a better painting, but it will at least be different. It may solve one problem while discovering another. It may also lead one to look into the painting by analyzing the many layers as they emerge, potentially leading to new techniques to be applied more consistently in the future. Or perhaps one might learn to be more exacting and touch the paper only once, much more deliberately.
Sometimes, when observing or painting in watercolors, I find that I have a choice of viewpoints. There is the artist’s view of the painting and then there is the outside reviewer’s perspective.
Is it what the artist sees or is it the perception of others that one hopes to illuminate?
Does the artist aim at controlling the observer’s reaction to a painting or should the artist aim to express their innermost thoughts vis a vis their art without regard to the observer?
How might one strike a balance? And why would one do so?
I have come up with my own approach to this balancing act.
I develop my own idea of what I want to paint.
I paint what’s on my mind.
Once drafted, an outside observer may comment on it or ask a question about the meaning or appearance of the painting.
At that point, I am interested in listening to what they are saying
I try to better comprehend what their observation or question means, in light of what I intend for the painting.
I have learned that when an observer focuses on one aspect of a painting, I may look at the picture elsewhere in order to adjust what they see.
If they say, for example, that an area seems too dark, I may look at other areas of the painting to improve on how colors contrast or how depth of color might be adjusted to better highlight the painting.
These interactions and reactions lead to changes in the painting that are often very beneficial.
If I simply modify something based on the observer’s comments without any analysis, I have lost an opportunity to interact with them and learn more about what they see in the painting and to ask what are the mechanisms in my painting that cause them to see this.
If instead, when I listen to their observations and then analyze them while considering my own intentions for the painting prior to changing anything, I usually gain a clearer understanding of the relationship between my painting (myself) and an outside observer’s viewpoint.
This is beginning to sound like an existential analysis of a painting.
Perhaps that is what it is?
I paint, therefore I am?
You view the painting, therefore you are?
The painting is our interaction.
Much like music and writing, we learn through our exchanges.
It may be useful to conduct multiple interactions before concluding a painting
And now, back to my painting, with these thoughts still in my mind.
Since the beginning of the year I shifted from oils to watercolors. I am currently staying on an island in the Abacos, Bahamas and while painting, I am trying to to use as few chemicals as possible for cleaning up in order to minimize damaging the fragile environment.
What I love most about this island it it’s natural beauty and am personally hoping to disturb it as little as possible with unnatural chemicals, turpentines, gamsols and other chemically derived substances that are hard to remove from water systems.
When I shifted to watercolors after working in oils and acrylics, it felt like going from using a lot of make up on one’s face to going without wearing any. It takes a while to figure it out. But once figured, interesting results do emerge.
In watercolors, I find that not doing something is often planned way ahead of time and may make a stronger artistic statement than doing something. Less may be more. Soft touches and the timidity of watercolors can sometimes offer big results.
I think this may be why transparency watercolorists try so hard to maximize their use of the paper they are painting on by using the pure color of paper white. It is because they are trying to maximize interest in the painting through the things they do not touch.
Oil painters, on the other hand, enhance their paintings substantially by adding plenty of paint for depth of color, texture and brushwork. This may leave little empty canvas behind, with nothing untouched, to tell the artist’s story. In this case, the paint is the story.
My expectations have had to change when I shift to paper and watercolors. It is a different temperament to work in.
Beach Blue, a watercolorStorm Coming, watercolor
The other challenge is that on our island, the constantly shifting combinations of water, atmosphere and light makes one feel a unity, a oneness about them, that may not necessarily be felt so as vividly in other environments. Here, distinctions between sky, the ocean, and that of light may be blurred, leaving the mind completely boggled by the sudden shift felt in moods and color emphasis of the whole arrangement.
Colors can jump into gear on a second’s notice.
Storm Leaving, watercolorFront Yard, watercolor
Common scenes are rearranged by nature’s dynamic, moods are shifted through rapid transitions in light and humidity, our observations bouncing about from rising and lowering tides and winds. This whole sense is ephemeral, further feeding into our awe of all the temporary beauty.
Here I am, with my watercolor paints, brushes and paper, reflecting on this.
It went through several iterations and is part of a project that I am working on.
Beginnings, in oils on canvas, 22” x 28”
There is a feeling of satisfaction and a type of introspection going on in my head when doing a creative study such as this as I freely put up the colors and textures where I want them, adding them with a joyous sort of freedom.
This is the first abstract I have tried that I sense is complete. It is a complete thought, an idea that I envisioned using a brush and some paints.
I don’t want to touch it.
No mini maneuvering would improve it for me. It is a new beginning, unexplained and free.
Water color collageCut up pieces of watercolor art glued on poster board
Some time ago when the Global Pandemic was first announced and before there were Covid vaccines, we were in our home for long periods of time. I started taking some zoom art classes. One very enjoyable zoom class was conducted by the artist Poca Kim and was offered through the Oregon Society of Artists.
Painted over with acrylic
Through our zoom meetings, Poca Kim introduced me to the idea of cutting up old watercolor and acrylic paintings to inspire new paintings. I made a number of collages using old paintings that I had no intention of using. I imagined myself peering into cities from what might be a prison, but also might be tree trunks.
At the time that I did these collages, I thought that I was viewing the city from the perspective of the safety of nature. Looking back on these photos, I now see that I was also indirectly messaging the idea of viewing the world from a sort of prison-like setting of a Global Pandemic.
Much like a diary, old paintings tell stories too.
This watercolor painting, The Flight, was completed as a two-step maneuver. First, I laid out the background to the painting as wet-on-wet watercolors, so that the ocean, beach sand and light would move back and forth as a series of reflections. Once dried, I superimposed the birds in flight, using a combination of watercolor and ink.
In my earlier attempts to paint these birds, I figured out their positions and got them arranged and interacting with the water in useful ways, but still felt that there was more to do than simply positioning. Somehow, the division between birds and water held and I wanted them to be more intertwined. I wanted the birds to be in transition to flight and to represent this by mixing the various approaches to water, the concept of time, the colors of reflections, making it more chaotic. This time, I feel that I got the movement back into the painting as I had initially wanted.
Using this same technique of wet-on-wet followed by ink, I also painted the birds in a more regal way, as they stand, pre-positioned in the water for flight, but not yet moving. The colors of the background are less agitated with reds, and the birds are positioned more stably in the water.
Feeding Time Watercolor and ink
What did I learn from this exercise? I learned that it takes patience to incorporate new techniques into paintings.
I feel that I am finally back on track for painting with my natural style, but with the privilege of understanding some new techniques recently learned from exchanges with other painters. Taking lessons and studying under other painters both digs up new ideas, and also dredges up old habits, allowing these new ideas and old habits to interact, creating new opportunities, but also feelings of frustration.
I am happy to continue working across these two major zones of learning and intuition with new paintings, and am thankful for the lessons learned.
This painting of the birds went through a number of transitions. Each painting that I did on the way, holds personal meaning for me.
I like to paint something using different perspectives, over a period of time. Depending upon my mood and what medium I am using, a painting may be completed in a few minutes. At other times, it may result in a long and more “drawn out” relationship with the subject that has many layers and glazes of paint.
In this water color and ink painting shown immediately below, my relationship with these birds started out in a rather carefree manner. It was a small painting, only 4″ x 6″, and I wanted it to be an inspiration for a larger painting on the same subject. I did this watercolor and ink in a matter of a few minutes.
The Birds (Watercolor and ink)
What is it about this tiny watercolor painting that feels so big and bold? It is actually a very small painting, but I feel that it has the sense of being large. I like the way that the reflections and shadows of the birds dance around in the swirling sand and water. The birds’ dark shadows disrupt the soft blue, reflective water as ocean waves press and pull the birds inward and outward, while they scurry around and search for food.
When I paint them again, this time in mostly transparent oils, using a much larger canvas, the mood changes. The birds become steadier, and more firmly geometrically situated, implying a kind of calligraphy on the canvas.
(Oil)
If I had all the canvas and space in the world, I would not continually paint over what I have painted, but would keep each stage as a chapter of a “book painting”.
(Oil)
Moving from moody and earth toned, I start adding brighter oil colors to the proposed calligraphy of birds.
As this process progresses, the version of the painting becomes less calligraphic, but instead allows each bird and wave to be individually reflected upon.
In the end, I chose to leave the final painting lighter, softer, and less moody than how I started, mainly by smoothing out the ocean water’s movements and lightening it up through a series of tonal washers, or glazes. In the finished painting, the beach was a softer, lighter color of browns than the dark brown birds with their white bellies, offering some contrast between them, but not creating strong calligraphic marks as I initially had. Here is the result.
The Birds (Oil)
This dialogue between the birds and me has been prolonged through quiet moments of shifting dispositions and is now turning into several months of visitation. Our conversation is so interesting that I am sure we could continue this dialogue for several months more. However, I am getting restless.
It is now time to move on, to try new ways of thinking with paint.
What did I learn from this painting? I learned that the quick movements of inspiration are hard to keep. But perhaps they are not for keeping. What they do instead, is attract the painter to the idea of the painting. One might stop there. Or one may press forward and consider the depth of the attraction, sometimes realizing that at the end of the painting, there is a relationship over time rather than a single result.
My painting are already abstract, but I hope to play with abstraction even more. The aim is to keep the thought, without committing completely to the shapes, of reality.
A big part of the enjoyment of art for me, is playing with ideas.
Front yard in moonlight, Abaco, personal photoEdited version, more focused on lightInterpreted scene, oilsInterpreted scene, inkInterpreted scene, Water colorPersonal Photo of our front yard, Abacos
Do I go forward with an oil painting of this, with more vivid colors?
Or should I play with something even more abstract?
What will be gained from taking this to a different concept of artistic thought?
Will anything be learned about its value as a setting?
If I do take such a leap, how can I add to the idea of luminescence?
What is it that lures artists to repeat paintings, differently?
Part of the beauty of gardens are all the hiding places for baby birds who can’t yet fly, for small animals seeking safety while nibbling at low greenery, protecting busy bees and butterflies settling into cooler places during the hottest part of the day. I find when painting these darker places, that they point like arrows to colorful flowers, often contrasting the showers of light that shoot carefree through grasses, and sometimes pointing straight up to daisies announcing, “over here”, “over here” to thirsty birds in need of the bird bath.
This is an oil painting on canvas, 20″ x 24″. My husband asked for the painting before I even took it off the easel in my art studio. I think that he likes it.
How might one strike a balance? And why would one do so?
marysgardens 