Working Methods and Materials
Oils - Drawings - Pastels - Working Outdoors - Photography
I produce all of my oil paintings on linen canvas. I've done many paintings on Artfix L64C (oil-primed), and have liked that, although I also like to work on the lead-white primer of the "L-Lead" canvas sold by New York Central art supply. Currently, I use Old Holland paint almost exclusively. As for painting tools, most of the work gets done with the use of ordinary bristle brushes - I use filberts and flats almost exclusively. In addition to the bristle brushes, I also use a selection of softer brushes to carefully smooth the paint surface, reducing the visibility of brush marks, primarily because I don't like the distracting effects of glare that so often occur on the ridges of thicker applications of paint. I've lately been using brushes made by Silver, specifically their Bristlon (stiff bristle) and Silverwhite (soft, synthetic sable) series - I've found that these hold up quite well to repeated use over time, and they don't fall apart during cleaning.
I'm a very tidy painter, and I thoroughly clean my palette and brushes every four hours or so. I like to return to a clean, organized palette after taking a break.
As with my drawing papers, I initially tone my canvas completely with a very thin layer of some neutral color, such as burnt sienna or raw umber or some similar earth-tone. This can be done quite easily by spreading the paint onto the canvas with a folded paper towel - I prefer the blue "shop towels," which are a bit more durable for the job and leave far less lint in the paint. I'll often begin drawing directly into this wet layer, using the towels as a drawing tool instead of a brush - an underlying, monochrome drawing can be established quite quickly in this manner, without ever getting a brush dirty. I often complete a fairly elaborate, well-considered under-drawing before beginning to work with color, since I like to know that the primary drawing issues (composition, proportion, symmetry) have all been resolved in the early stages of the work. This leaves me free to concern myself entirely with color as the painting develops, and it always makes the work proceed faster.
To thin my paint when necessary, I may lightly dip my brush into odorless mineral spirits (typically, Gamblin's "Gamsol" product), or I may use a small amount of refined linseed oil, or sometimes a combination of the two. I never use turpentine as a solvent, due to the harmful effects of its fumes - I always get terrible headaches from turpentine (in contrast, Gamblin's odorless mineral spirits seem to produce no ill effects with me). There is a balance to be achieved in the thinning of paint, since free-flowing paint is desirable, but too much thinning can be destructive to the integrity and binding power of the paint. The addition of too much oil to the painting's surface can also lead to a yellowing of the work over time, so I strive to avoid the excessive use of oil as a thinning medium. I never use any of the thick, resinous mediums that are widely available, since these tree-derived resins are known to contribute to cracking and yellowing.
I've been trending toward a more limited palette over time, and now rarely use more than five colors (including white) in the production of any painting. Cadmium Yellow and Cadmium Red generally suffice for the warm side of my palette, while Ultramarine Blue and Manganese Blue are usually the source of my cool colors. I'll use either Titanium White or Lead White, depending on my needs at the moment, since these whites have very different properties. The Titanium is very opaque, and has strong covering power, but I find that it can darken in value slightly while drying, and therefore is less reliable for over-painting when an exact color match is required. When in need of a transparent white, or one that will produce a more reliable color match for over-painting, I use Lead White.
Speaking of over-painting, virtually every square inch of my paintings receives at least two applications of paint, since I'm a perfectionist and in search of a very specific result. The first pass in any area rarely hits the mark quite accurately, and requires further attention after the first layer has dried. There is a long-standing rule in painting, generally expressed as "fat over lean," which simply means that the initial, underlying layers in a painting should contain less oil than the final layers applied on top. The problem results from a disparity in the rate of expansion and contraction between the layers. "Fat" or oily layers are more likely to expand and contract during the drying process or in response to changes in atmospheric conditions - the more oil, the more lateral movement of the paint film. If the lower layers are more oily and mobile than those on top, they can pull the more brittle top layers to pieces, resulting in cracking. As a result, it's necessary to ensure that the greatest percentage of oil occurs in the top surfaces of the picture. I try to observe this rule strenuously.
In applying one paint layer on top of another, I've found that the underlying layer often develops a glassy surface resistant to oil - by applying linseed oil to such a surface, the oil can be seen to bead up, rather than coating the surface evenly. This resistance would logically seem to undermine the chances of a healthy bonding between the old and new paint layers, and can definitely interfere with the achievement of subtle effects while painting, so I attempt to prepare the dried surfaces before painting over them. I do this by mixing refined linseed oil with "Bon Ami" powder, a common, gentle abrasive used for household cleaning, made entirely from harmless calcium carbonate. A small amount of powder is all that is required to perform the task, after being mixed thoroughly into a puddle of oil until the powder is reduced to tiny, invisible particles. I then use a bristle brush, loaded with the powder/oil mixture, to carefully scour the surface of the painting in the area to be retouched. Although the oil initially beads up, it will soon begin to cling to the surface quite evenly, a sign that the powder is abrading the old paint surface. If this is done gently, and without too much powder in the solution, the surface can be altered without any visible harm to the paint layer (for instance, grinding away too much paint or otherwise changing its appearance). I've found that attempts to perform this same function with a solvent, like mineral spirits, will invariably cause visible damages to the underlying paint layer, which can be difficult to hide even with a great deal of overpainting, and is absolutely ruinous if one intends to apply transparent glazes. The Bon Ami powder is much more gentle, and has the added benefit of lacking noxious fumes. After the surface has been adequately prepared, I use a towel to rub away as much of the excess oil as possible. No residual trace of the powder can be detected, and the next application of paint will adhere to the old surface without resistance.
I do many of my drawings on Lenox 100, a common drawing paper that is readily available from most major art suppliers. The "100" refers to the fact that Lenox is made from 100% cotton fiber. Cotton papers are always to be preferred over standard wood-pulp papers, due to the superior longevity of cotton and the more agreeable surface qualities of cotton paper. Lately, I've also been using a colored paper made by Fabriano, which is a mix of cotton and wood fibers, but I like their surface texture and range of colors very much.
When working on white paper, but I ordinarily begin a drawing by toning the entire surface of the paper, either with layers of pastel or with a mixture of charcoal and conte crayon. Each tone is completely unique, and provides a richer surface on which to work than white paper alone could offer. The tone can be sprayed with fixative in order to prevent erasure, or can be left untreated to allow for a subtle erasing away of the tone as I work. Whatever the case, the mid-range value of the tone allows me to work in two directions at once: rendering shadows by adding dark marks with charcoal, while also creating bright areas of light by erasing the tone or by adding marks with white conte crayon. The bright marks are dynamically visible because they're isolated against the darker tone that covers the entire paper. This is a very effective technique, adding extra richness and depth to a drawing. My drawing tools include vine charcoal, charcoal pencils, and conte crayons (in various colors, including sanguine, sepia, black and white).
Although I do some drawings as independent, stand-alone works, many of them serve merely as relatively small scale drawings in preparation for subsequent paintings. I like to do these preparatory drawings on location whenever possible - the drawing helps me to get well acquainted with the subject as I finalize the composition and confidently determine the placement of all elements within the picture. I then transfer the drawing to the larger canvas by means of a grid system which allows me to reproduce the drawing with some accuracy at a larger scale.
This procedure is made easy by the use of a simple device: a sheet of clear plexiglass, on which I've drawn a grid of one-inch squares. I lay the plexiglass grid over my finished drawing - in this way, I can avoid having to render the grid lines directly onto the drawing itself, so the integrity of the drawing is preserved. I then establish a larger grid on the canvas, which may be two or three times bigger than the scale drawing, and then I simply copy the drawing one square at a time.
For my pastels, I work on black paper almost exclusively. Since the pastels are absolutely opaque, the dark paper does not present a problem - rather, it allows the bright colors to be seen in all their glory in contrast against the black. I've used a soft, black paper made by Arches, but I often prepare my own custom paper surfaces, as well - to do this, I use heavy watercolor paper, sanding down the surface to soften it and reduce excessive texture, and then I apply a coat of gesso mixed with India ink to make the surface more durable and to darken it.
I find pastels to be especially useful for night scenes. The paper is always completely covered in a finished pastel - the dark areas in my night pictures, for instance, are represented by black pastel, which is even darker than the black paper itself. The black of the paper, then, is mainly of use during the creation of the work, and is eventually obscured by deep layers of color. The marks of color are cross-hatched and interwoven into one another as I gradually build these layers, and I try to limit smudging to a bare minimum, especially in the later stages of the work (although a lot of smearing does occur initially as I try to establish base tones and work them into the pores of the paper).
The creation of artwork in wild areas, far from any shelter, is no simple task. Nevertheless, some of my best drawings have been done under the cover of an umbrella during drizzling rain - to do this, of course, I’m obliged to balance the umbrella in one hand while drawing with the other. I did the small drawing "Study of a Eucalyptus" in this way. And I completed the larger drawing "Triffids" from the shelter of a small cave on a rainy day. I don't necessarily try to go out on rainy days - but the mountain weather is unpredictable, and I do have a preference for the softer light and atmosphere of cloudy or foggy days, and that increases my risk of getting caught in the rain, so I simply go prepared. Occasionally, though, even the best preparation can't provide sufficient protection from the elements - as during an especially memorable incident when I was surprised by a sudden downpour so intense that water ran off my umbrella in drenching torrents.
Rain, however, is often less problematic than wind. A light rain can be easily deflected with an umbrella, but Maui's notoriously powerful winds are much more difficult to contend with. A canvas on a standing easel becomes an effective sail, and I've watched my easels collapse or blow away on more than one occasion. Or there was that time when an unexpected gust of wind threw an entire box of pastels onto the lava, smashing many of the colors into tiny bits. I lost a glass palette in the same way (I don't use glass palettes outdoors any more).
By far, though, the greatest difficulty of outdoor painting is the issue of safely transporting the artwork from one place to another. Wet paintings and fragile drawings are very delicate objects to carry around. They must be protected from rain and from all contact with tree branches and airborne debris. To solve this problem, I designed and built wooden cases in which to securely hold a drawing board or a stretched canvas - my paper or canvas is held within the empty interior of these shallow boxes, where nothing can touch the surface of the work. The boxes are heavily varnished to render the wood waterproof, for extra durability in wet weather. An enormous back-pack attaches to either box, to carry not only art supplies but also food, water, warm clothing, etc. The entire arrangement probably weighs more than 30 pounds when fully loaded, but the boxes are equipped with adjustable straps and thick padding which allow me to carry it all on my back with reasonable comfort.
Many of my subjects are so remote or of such difficult access that the creation of a painting on location is flatly impossible, or simply so impractical that I could never finish the work in a reasonable period of time if I were to insist on travelling to the site again and again. In such cases, I rely on the use of high-resolution digital photos, which provide large images with great detail. I generally use many photos of each subject - sometimes more than 100 photos for a complex scene - including numerous close-ups of critical areas, in order to capture all of the visual information that I'll need in order to complete a large-scale studio painting. I view these images directly from the computer screen while working, since printing them is impractical, expensive, and usually results in a loss of color quality. The majority of my landscape paintings have been photo-based studio productions since the beginning of 2001, but I continue to enjoy doing drawings and small paintings on location when possible.
I would be remiss if I failed to mention my feelings about projection. Projection is the practice of using an ordinary photographic projector to do exactly what projectors are meant to do: project photos. But an increasing number of artists are projecting their photos onto canvas, for the purpose of tracing the subject in order to skip the process of drawing. There are a variety of ways in which some contemporary artists justify this practice, especially in regard to very large work or very complicated subject matter - and, since art is an inherently subjective realm, the legitimacy of this procedure is ultimately a matter of personal opinion.
My opinion on this matter is very simple: projection is the work of the Devil.
Apparently, projection is now being taught as a general practice at some universities today, which I think is simply disgraceful. I'm a purist in regard to drawing, so I shun the use of such an aid. While a mechanical approach is certainly faster and easier, this is precisely why I don't favor it. I adhere to a strict rule of free-hand rendering because it constantly puts my drawing skills to the test, in the interest of keeping those skills sharp. I also think that projection undermines the integrity of the craft element of drawing and painting - there is something inherently absurd about the prospect of a free-hand realist showing work in an exhibition where his/her work is to be compared directly with that of other artists who use projection, as if the two types of work could be regarded as demonstrations of the same level of craft and skill. Projection has become so widespread that many artists with strong drawing skills are automatically assumed to be using projection, and this may ultimately have the power to permanently denigrate representational art altogether. That may be saying too much, but this issue does concern me, and it's one of many reasons why I don't project.