It's in my genes

 

In the past year or so, I've been able to pursue my artistic passion for the human face and figure.  But it seems inevitable that occasionally, shoots will emerge from my deep-rooted response to nature and thereby to botanical art.  One of my earliest blog posts was on the genetic source of this connection -- I come by it honestly!

While playing on the sidelines of my on-line course, I've been trying to keep up with "my own stuff," the gazillion ideas that have nothing to do with the artist-of-the-week program.  One of those  ideas, convoluted I grant you, was a painting of a botanical artist -- "botanical" in the sense that she'd be covered with tattoos that would intertwine with a leafy background.   Early in the year, I played with this idea in a postcard-sized study that showed me I needed to go back to the drawing board.

As the months passed and I began to assemble a stack of studies from the life drawing studio I attend, I realized I could use one of these as my prototype pose.

Originally, I thought I'd show the Bot-Artist's sketchbook, but I dispensed with this when I saw how limiting it would be within the size of my paper.

Well, it's a good idea to spend time looking before drawing/painting -- so I shifted gears to show her examining a leaf.  And I knew *just* where to find the big leaf I needed.  Back to my photo archives for my 2002 painting, "Dreams of Wild Botanists (warm)":--

 A flip of the orientation, and there was the very oak leaf  I had in mind (hard to see; it's a you-had-to-be-there kind of thing):--

That put me on the right track.  I was able to enlarge the figure on the page to work in the way I wanted to.

Now, what about the background?  In one of  those flashes of insight or wackiness, I had a hunch that one of my early heroes, William Morris, just might be able to supply the....er, wallpaper.

 

Found!  I knew Morris was a kindred spirit.  There's my oak leaf in his "Granville" wallpaper pattern!   I mentally superimposed his oak leaf onto mine and from that, I worked outward, modelling my foliage and its relationships on his.

 And here, in a clearing in the jungle, is the outcome:  "Botanical Artist," copyright 2018.

In the spirit of acknowledging All Those Who Made This Masterwork Possible, I'll sign off with a plate from the works of my many-times-great-grandfather, John Linnaeus Edward Whitridge Shecut.  As you will read, he was a bit of a nut case himself.

Tales told around the campfire

If great art is measured by the number of people made happy, these seasonal hangers-on at my friend G's white picket fence earn sky-high ratings.  Just ask any kid of the past forty years within a mile radius.  And not just kids.  Why else was it irresistible for me to take the photo?

In the smaller circle of this blog, I'm still churning out stuff for my on-line art course.  Here's a recap through the end of June as the lessons work their way through the Art Nouveau period.

First up:  Ferdinand Hodler, whose name I knew but whose work was unfamiliar.  Browsing around, I found that I liked him a lot, especially for his self-portraits like this:

Dipping into my File of Fascinating Faces, I pulled up a photo of the famous mid-20^th century photographer Richard Avedon who, I thought, would be just perfect for "a Hodler."

 And he wasn't bad:

 Of course, Alphonse Mucha had to make an appearance -- one of the great stars of  this period and a hero of mine since I first fell in love with Art Nouveau in my teens.  Nostalgically, I'm so fond of Mucha that I couldn't see trying to emulate one of his lush paintings.  Instead, I tried for a copy of his drawing, "Portrait of a Woman," which he did in blue chalk on grey paper.

 

My version on a painted grey support proved once again the counter-productiveness of working small.  However, I think I deserve a few merit points for inventing the dragonfly armband to cover up a flaw in my surface.

 The following week's lesson offered another opportunity for a cover-up.   The artist, Elisabeth Sonrel, was unknown to me although I'd certainly seen some of her paintings (and thought they were Mucha's).  When I saw this one....

I knew *exactly* what I'd do!  Quick, to the bottom drawer of my paper cabinet where old paintings wait in the dark for a chance to be recycled.  I hauled out this 2004 still life, "Sara's Roses," and started to lay in some lines -- then stopped myself in time to take the "Before" photo.

 And here is my Sonrel-esque outcome. "Yesterday's Roses":  (For the full sequence of vase and cherries morphing into a woman's profile, click here).

 Meanwhile, over several weeks, I had been working on the exacting and exhausting Gustav Klimt spin-off described in my previous post and also on the sidelines, I'm continuing to work on "my own thing," a piece unrelated to the lessons.

When Edouard Vuilllard came along, I just didn't have the oomph to do him justice.  How could I not love Vuillard -- after seeing his work "live" at a wonderful show in Paris in 1993?  But rather than try one of his gorgeously complex interiors, I thought I'd use one of his simpler works as a model, "Two Women Under a Lamp":

 And then.  I thought about it.  I really did.  But:  I cheated.  I hauled out a simple study I'd done in summer 2016 and called it my Vuillard lesson.  Here's "Let's Talk."

 And I feel completely okay about it.  Carefree as a bear with his own honey hive -- with no more troublesome bees stuck to him (the three grey patches on arms and forehead).