2008 Blogs
Paintings from the Spain workshop
Pushing the Boundaries of the Comfort Zone
Paintings from the Spain Workshop
December 30, 2008
Several years ago, my friend and teacher Albert Handell said that he found working in two mediums—pastel and oils—made him stronger in both mediums. He recommended it to me, and I gave it a try, but became frustrated with the oils.
I started as an oil painter, more years ago than I care to remember. I was twelve when someone gave me a set of paint by numbers. Remember those? I fell in love with the experience of oil painting, and over the next year or two acquired every set on the market, even those of subjects in which I had little or no interest. I saved all the unused tubs of paint, and one day I went to the store and bought a blank canvas. I was on my way.
Over many years after that, I worked in oils, and then acrylics. But by 1990, I felt my work was no longer progressing. I was just repeating—repeating what worked, and repeating my mistakes. I needed a fresh start, and I loved the look of pastels. Once I got over the hump of the learning curve with pastels, I was thrilled with their brilliance, luminosity and versatility.
I’m still in love with pastel, and feel it will always be my primary medium. But now and then I’ve itched for a brush, and wondered if I could make anything at all successful with those oil paints.
I decided to give it another try, and have finished several pieces in oil that please me. Here are three of them—top to bottom, Landmark on the Trail, 12x16; El Morro Monument, 8x10, and After the Rain, 8x10.
The interesting thing has been that, aside from the annoying necessity of mixing colors and waiting for paint to dry, I’ve worked pretty much as I do in pastel. I feel that everything I’ve learned about color, value and composition in the years of paintings landscapes in pastel translated fairly easily to oils.
I’ve always thought that understanding values was easier in pastel than any other medium, and working in oils has confirmed that. It’s a lot easier to select a correct value than to mix it. On the other hand, achieving aerial perspective seems a little easier—you just add some blue to make a color recede. And while I’ve enjoyed the ability to mix what seems to be an infinite range of colors, it’s frustrating when I get it wrong and have to throw the paint out instead of putting a “wrong” stick back in the box.
I’m in the middle of another piece at the moment, and have plans for a couple more. Then I’m going back to the pastel easel and see how it feels and if there’s anything different. I’ll post the results.
December 26, 2008
Driving home from Albuquerque a few nights ago, I noticed a strange effect in the clouds. They formed a series of straight lines, pointing from the west to the east—almost as if some cosmic comb with wide teeth had raked across them. The phenomenon stretched from far to the north towards Santa Fe to south of the city.
I wished for a moment that I had my camera, but then asked myself why. What could I do with such a photograph? Show it to others to amaze them, perhaps, but it could never be a painting subject.
The same is true, I believe, of this photo of the sunrise over the Sandia Mountains, taken from my front yard on Christmas day. The colors were spectacular, and the beams of light made amazing formations. But could you, or should you, paint it?
Paintings have to be believable to the viewer. Strange cloud formations, green or purple skies, rocks that look like animals or people—all these may make interesting photographs, but rarely can they make good paintings.
People tend to like paintings they can relate to, of subjects they can believe. When you exhibit a painting, you don’t attach a photograph to prove, “it was like that.” Rather, the painting should be painted in such a way as to explain what must be explained, and perhaps leave a few areas mysterious and enticing, so that the viewer can exercise the imagination. But they should never, in my opinion, either provoke a question as to what the subject is, or evoke a feeling of disbelief.
So I’ll enjoy the photo and the memories of the spectacular sunrise, but paint one that’s more believable.
Paintings from the Spain workshop
December 2, 2008
Our trip to Spain in October 2008 included a day painting at the Alhambra Palace in Granada. My article about this experience, and a few of the paintings, can be seen on The Pastel Journal’s web site:
http://www.artistsnetwork.com/article/pj-alhambra/
Here are a few of my other favorite paintings which I did while we were there.
Early Fall, 6x9, is a little different in that it does not include buildings. This was painted at a viewpoint across from the village of Júzcar, and I fully intended to paint the village itself. But I was attracted to the yellow tree, and it ended up being my subject. Surface: Richeson terra cotta pastel paper.
The Only Eucalyptus, 8x11, includes some buildings and—you guessed it —the only eucalyptus tree in the village. This was one of my “warm-up” paintings done before the entire group arrived. Surface: Wallis Belgian Mist.
Old Walls, 8x11, was a lot of fun to paint. In the end, it’s probably not a great composition or painting, but I learned a lot about painting the texture of the crumbling walls. I also loved the sagging roof and leaning chimney. Surface: Wallis Belgian Mist.
The Fort at Olvera, 11x8, was done on a day trip to a nearby village. I liked the contrast of the old tower and rock outcropping juxtaposed against the stormy sky. Surface: Wallis Belgian Mist.
I have plans for dozens more paintings from the trip, and my plein-air studies will be valuable references as I work on the new pieces.
(All paintings ©2008 by Maggie Price.)
October 4, 2008
It’s easy to get into a rut of painting the same size over and over again. For a long time, I worked mostly on Wallis Sanded Paper, and I cut 18x24 sheets in half for 12x18 pieces. Because I paint mostly landscapes, I ended up with lots of 17x23 image size paintings.
When I paint outdoors, I work on 9x12 Wallis paper most of the time, and again most of my subjects seem to work best in a horizontal format.
A couple of years ago I began using the then-new Richeson sanded surface. I use the 11x14 fairly often, but really like the 16x20 size, and the standard sizes of the boards make framing a breeze.
But I don’t like to get into a rut, so now and then I force myself to paint unusual (for me) subjects, or do a series of vertical-format paintings, or paint odd sizes.
I noticed a while back that odd sizes seem to sell well in my gallery. Particularly, tall skinny pieces seem to interest buyers quite often. Perhaps they think they can find a spot for it on already overcrowded walls, or perhaps it’s just that the different size stands out in a gallery full of standard sizes. Whatever the reason, they do seem to get attention.
In my Albuquerque gallery, we rotate to different wall spaces every three months. The spot I just moved my work to is recessed, with two long skinny spaces on each side wall. I decided to paint a couple of pieces for those spots, and use the opportunity to push myself into doing something different. I took a piece of the Richeson sanded surface on gatorfoam and cut a 4” strip off the bottom of a 16x20 board. Then I cut the remainder in half, giving myself two 8x16 boards. (I cut the board on my mat cutter; it destroyed a blade, but it worked.)
Here are the paintings, Petunia Basket and Lobelia Window. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the 4x16 strip of board that’s leftover, but I’ll find a subject sooner or later that will work. It will be interesting to see what happens with these paintings!
April 3, 2008
I’ve just been finishing up the framing for the exhibition of paintings from the Spain workshop last fall. The paintings are to be delivered in two days for the show opening the following day. As usual, I’m right on the deadline.
Whenever I mention in a workshop that I do my own framing, there are dozens of questions. As anyone who’s paid to have a pastel painting framed knows, it’s expensive. Doing the framing yourself cuts the cost considerably, and gives you total control.
I’m fortunate that my husband and partner, artist Bill Canright, helps with the process. He builds the frames, which is a big part of the cost, for all of our paintings. For some years, we’ve usually framed our paintings with mats; I cut the mats and put everything together.
Some of the paintings we wanted to include in this upcoming show are large—one is 18x24 and there are two 16x20—and we felt they would be better presented with linen liners rather than mats. The paintings were done on Richeson’s Gatorfoam board, so there was no need to worry about hinging paper to a backing board. I wanted the glass and the painting behind the liner, so there would be no chance of pastel dust falling on the liner, and the painting needed to space ¼" away from the glass as usual.
I searched on-line and found a company that sells linen liners at a reasonable cost, and ordered them. It is probably possible to make the liners yourself, but that would involve working with linen fabric, and fabric and I don’t get along well.
Once the liners arrived, Bill made the frames, making sure the inner dimension of the frame would fit the outer dimension of the liner. I ordered the glass (Conservation Clear), and purchased plastic spacers (Framespace) from a local frame supply shop. With all the components in place, I started the assembly.
First, I rubbed the edges of the glass with a whetstone to dull the sharp edges. Then, wearing my glass gloves, I affixed the plastic spacers to the edges of the glass. The spacers are a sort of “S” shape, and the groove fits snugly over the glass. With the glass flat on my work counter, spacers facing up, I carefully laid the painting onto the lips of the spacers, which held it ¼” away from the glass. Then, in order to keep everything tight and in place, I wrapped all the edges with a plastic-like, acid-free framer’s tape (Framers Tape II). In the first photo, you can see the “sandwich” of glass, spacer and painting before it was wrapped with tape. I made sure only about 1/8” of tape wrapped over the front, since that would be hidden by the liner.
Then I put the assembled “sandwich” face-down into the liner. It stuck up a little bit out of the well of the liner, and I wanted to make sure it would stay in place, so I fastened it down with offset clips on all four sides.
The rabbet (depth of the frame from front to back) of the moulding we use for our frames is nearly 1”, so there was still some space to deal with. I placed strips of fome-core on either side of the offset clips, each with a strip of double-sided tape applied to its top surface, all around the outer edges of the liner. This would provide a sturdy support for the final sheet of fome-core, and would keep it from bending over the offset clips. I marked on the frame moulding where the clips were.
Finally, I placed the sheet of fome-core backing, and using my point-pusher, inserted the points all around to hold it in place, making sure not to put a point over any of the offset clips. The sticky-side-up strips of fome-core stuck to the fome-core backing sheet, and could not move once the points were affixed. I covered the entire back with paper, wired the frame for hanging, stuck on “bumpers” and my business card, and it was ready to go.
Once I got all the quirks figured out, framing the next few paintings was faster than when using mats. The cost of the liner is somewhat offset by using a smaller piece of glass, and of course not purchasing matboard. Without the addition of a 3” mat on all sides, the frame is also a little smaller. I’m very pleased with the look of the framed painting.
The painting shown here is Cliffs at Ronda, 16x20.
(For more information on framing, including a section on framing with double mats not previously printed, see my e-book, available here.)
Pushing the Boundaries of the Comfort Zone
February 8, 2008
Working on the painting of the flamenco dancer recently (see previous blog), I enjoyed painting the fabric of the dancer’s shawl and dress. So I decided to push even farther out of my comfortable landscape painter’s range of subjects, and paint a grouping of rugs and fabric.
I noticed this storefront in Marbella, Spain, on one of our day trips last fall, and was intrigued by the patterns of the colors of the rugs and linens. Even more interesting was the way the shadow of another building fell across the buildings and the fabrics, changing their colors and creating a pattern of its own.
Because I needed to create some fairly fine lines and definition, I decided to try this subject on a surface that’s new to me, the Rtistx pastel surface. It worked well, though I discovered I could not put on as many layers as I’m used to when working on the Wallis or Richeson surfaces.
The painting is called Rug Sale, 11x14, and it will be included in the exhibition of work from the Spain trip. But I still needed two more paintings for the show.
I decided to try another somewhat-different subject. One of the things I love when exploring the Genal Valley in Spain is the vastness of the landscape and the views of the white villages. Usually, when approaching a landscape subject, I force myself to “zoom in” rather than painting the broad vista.
But I thought it might be fun to allow myself, just this once, the big picture. I loved the unfolding layers of land, cliffs and valleys approaching the village, and the groupings of the yellowish chestnut trees and the grayer, bluer olives. And I wanted to include the distant mountains behind the village in order to further explain the vastness of this area.
The challenge was to keep the white buildings—or at lest a couple of them—as the focal point while also including all these other elements. I created a suggestion of a path leading up to the village from the foreground land mass to help direct the viewer’s eye through the painting. I think it worked, though the painting is still sitting on a shelf for study for another week or two before I commit to a frame.
Approaching Cartajima is 18x24, painted on Richeson Premium Pastel Surface on gatorfoam. I chose the terra cotta color to complement the greens of the trees, and it worked to imply the reddish dirt of the ground where the pastel did not entirely cover the surface. I also liked the way tiny bits of red warmed up the mountains—the only areas where I totally covered the red were in the sky and clouds.
It’s been fun exploring other subjects and approaches, and it will be interesting to see how my next landscape painting comes out.
Paintings from the Spain Workshop
January 29, 2008
It’s always fun when a group of people who know each other take a workshop together.
In October of 2007, our first of two back-to-back workshops in Spain included a group from Amarillo, Texas, many of whom are members of the Amarillo Art Association. Most of them had traveled together on painting trips at least one or two previous years, and each year, after they returned to Amarillo, organized an exhibition of paintings from the trip.
The exhibition of the work from the Spain trip will be in Amarillo at the Panhandle Art Center in April. An opening reception on Sunday, April 6, from 2-4:00, will feature Spanish food, photos and decorations reminiscent of the trip. All of the painters from the group have been working to finalize up to four paintings each, and it’s been a fun journey through memories, from selecting the subjects to the actual painting.
It’s hard to separate out the highlights of the trip, since every day in Júzcar and every visit to another of the white villages was special in its own way. (See the photo page.) I’m finishing up a landscape piece of the cliffs outside the village of Ronda. I’ve painted the famous bridge several times, but have always been intrigued by the cliffs surrounding the bridge. (El Tajo, 8x11, plein air pastel by Maggie Price)
But I think it’s good to try something totally different occasionally, whether it’s working on a different surface or painting a subject outside my comfort zone. During the workshop, we went to Ronda one evening to watch a flamenco performance. It was a wonderful experience, very authentic traditional dancers, and the costumes were beautiful. They allowed photography, and when I went back through my photos of the dancers, it was a moment of preparation that intrigued me most.
There were a number of challenges in this painting. The placement of the main figure was a consideration—did I really want her in the middle? In the end, I decided that since the contrast of lightest light and darkest dark—the lit edge of the shawl—was off-center, this placement would work. Another challenge was the figures of the guitar player and the spectator, both emerging from the dark background. The spectator on the right is barely visible, but important in the composition. In both cases, I laid in the very dark background color and brushed it with turpenoid, and after it dried brought the lighter values out of the surrounding dark. Finally, the fabric and fringe on the main figure was challenging to a landscape painter, but since the costume, more than the figure itself, is the subject, it had to be right. I’m finally happy with this piece, which I’m calling Ready for the Dance. It’s 11x14, painted on Richeson’s gatorfoam surface (terra cotta color).
We have another trip to Spain scheduled for May. Because most of the area has yet to be discovered by tourism, I plan to keep going back as long as it remains unspoiled (and the most inexpensive foreign workshop I’ve ever done!). In May, the wildflowers will be blooming all over the mountains, and we’re adding a day trip to Granada to visit the Alhambra, and hope to paint in the gardens. There’s still space in the group if you want to join us, and create your own paintings and memories of an unusual and beautiful place.
January 12, 2008
I love painting. I’ve been painting most of my life, and it’s a wonderful thing.
But there are days when I can barely drag myself to the easel. I’ll clean the kitchen, run errands, do the laundry—anything to delay going in the studio.
The worst thing is starting a new painting, even when I’m excited about the subject and feel it’s likely I can do something with it.
What is it about the blank board or paper that’s so intimidating? Every artist I know has experienced that intimidation at some point. It’s one reason I usually begin with an underpainting—it gets color on the surface fast, and gets me started.
There are tricks I play on myself to get into the studio. I tell myself I’ll just do the initial sketch. Then, maybe I’ll just do the underpainting. If it goes well, then, well, maybe I’ll just block in some color here and there. And then maybe I’ll just work on the focal point.
Each step requires a mental push. Sometimes I’ve scheduled an entire day for painting, but don’t feel able to start, and this process gets me going. Somewhere along the way, I get excited about the subject and hours pass. Those are the good days.
On other days, even if the painting in progress is going well and I’m having fun, I get to a point where I’m stalled. Maybe I’ve finished the most exciting part and what’s left looks tedious. Maybe I’ve left the hard part for last and am afraid I’ll ruin the painting if I continue. But I’m obviously not going to frame an unfinished piece, so eventually I must push on.
Deadlines are a wonderful motivation. Give me a deadline for an article that requires a painting to illustrate it, a chapter in a book that needs four paintings, an upcoming show—then I’ll wait til the last possible minute to start, but I’ll get it done on time.
Today, I’m writing this blog instead of painting. The painting on the easel is 75% done, it’s going well, and I’m in front of the computer. But now that I’ve reached my word limit, I’m going back to the studio. Really.