In transit: The journey is the destination

 

You'll know by now that people-watching, for me, is a prime spur to painting.  I try not to stare, but I'm constantly observing facial features and I'm fascinated by 21^st century clothing and haircuts.  Until the imposition of Home Alone restrictions, my trips by transit were rich hunting ground for interesting subjects.

Riding the Canada Line in February, my eye locked on an elfin-featured young woman:-- sleek eccentric hair (red!), loose jacket and scarf flowing to mid-thigh of  tights, fashionable Blundstone boots.  But more than these!  She was reading a book.  And not just any book -- Tolstoy's "War and Peace."

In the throng, we got off at the same stop, exiting the car elbow-to-elbow.  I couldn't stop myself from saying, "You are reading the greatest novel ever written."  Her eyes lit up, "Yes, yes!  And it's hard -- but I'm almost finished."  "I saw that -- I'm so happy you're reading it."  "It's wonderful!" she said -- and we went our separate ways, smiling from the brief exchange.

At home, I made a quick note in my sketchbook and started to mull over how to turn it into a painting:  "The Girl Who Reads Tolstoy"

The very next week, riding the line in a different direction, I was astonished to see a different young woman ...not reading a book, but standing in a helpful pose that I surreptitiously caught on my cell camera.  Hey -- it was in the cause of great art, right?

After some thumbnail sketches of possible compositions, I decided to play like the big kids and do some formal studies.  My first focussed on the redhead's face and book, which I began like this:

Then I pulled some 8x10" pieces from my abundant cardboard stash and tried some possible compositions for the scene.   If you mentally sketch in the full figures of the seated passengers in this one, you'll see they'd have to be sitting cross-legged on the floor!

 And this scene, while less crowded than a typical run to the airport, had too much happening of too little consequence:

Simpler is better, I decided, as I pulled out a small canvas and set to work on The Real Thing:

Or so I thought.  I don't know whether I'm on a downward trend or have become more exacting (or both), but after a lot of  poking and prodding, I reached this stage and called it quits:

 So I'm left with the first study in its completed state:--

 ...along with a few deficient mini-studies, a blue-painted canvas (obliterating the scene that didn't work), my trusty sketchbook full of ideas, and a very nice memory of a vivid young woman discovering Tolstoy.

No transit trips for a while, as we all sit tight, but I'm sticking to my resolution to take a daily walk.  There are fewer people en route, sometimes with heads down, sometimes wearing masks, but it's a fruitful time and space for mulling things over and planning next steps.

Do you hear what I hear?

 

 
School bells!   And unless fate intervenes,  I'll be continuing with my ten days of art workshops -- all-day sessions for ten consecutive Mondays, each session taught by a different artist-teacher.  It's a "foundations" course in the basics, some of which I practice consciously, some of which I know in theory but haven't before focused on, some entirely new tricks of the trade.

Our first session touched on elements of design -- line, shape, form, space, texture, colour.  There was some confusion and last-minute-itis about what we were to prepare in advance.  Like several others, I understood we were to bring a simple line drawing on a small canvas.  I brought out some of my favourite artifacts (from among my 500 or so favourite artifacts) and prepared this:--

During the course of the day, we had about two hours here and there to work on developing our example -- presumably giving thought to those six design elements.  At the end, we were invited to finish our paintings at home and send the image to the instructor.  My work-in-progress looked like this:

When I looked at it the next day, I could barely begin to deal with it.  Soooo BORING!  So I pinned up a vibrant fabric (once a cherished skirt) behind my set-up and began to have some fun:--

What the heck.  It was an assignment.  I couldn't start over again.  So I just plain let loose and produced something that I'm not crazy about -- like Matisse on steroids?  I suppose it deserves a title.  I call it "The Pitcher Picture."

I took a photo of the setup for my records, remembering that Picasso had once said something like, "I never met a photograph I didn't like" ....as he counselled moving on from the world of photographic exactitude.  I couldn't find that quote but found another, perhaps more useful:

"I am always doing that which I cannot do, in order that I may learn how to do it."

Heads must roll

When I did a recent glean of sketches from my life drawing sessions, I was pleased to salvage some rather nice head studies I'd achieved.  One of my virtual teachers (as I call those whose books I've learned from), Mary Beth McKenzie  wrote: "You must constantly challenge yourself.  Set ambitious goals and push your limits."

So I decided I'd try assembling four of them for a friendly coffee meet-up -- bodies included.

  

 

For several days, I was pretty pumped as I went downstairs to the studio each morning -- thinking that this foursome might really hit it off together.  As I pressed on, though, things started to get a little weird.

This image doesn't begin to describe how every stroke I made seemed to be the wrong one.  What to do???  Consult another virtual teacher -- wonderful BC artist Robert Genn (1936-2014), whose artist daughter Sara carries on with his  biweekly "Painter's Keys" newsletters.  It happened I'd recently read a post that she'd republished from her father's archives on a learning experience he called "The 37 Club."

The objective? Push yourself to do a painting with only 37 strokes of the brush.  OR, do a painting in 37 minutes.  OR, do 37 paintings in a day.  Whatever.

Okay.  Why not?  I could devote 37 strokes to each face.   And I did that.  Four faces x 37 + an extra 37 for the times I lost count x 2 cycles through the four faces.  Any way you add it up, it was not a magic answer.

 The spacey blonde looked more spacey than ever.

The successful drawing that I'd tried once before to transform into a painting continued to elude me.

The right-hand figure, although looking a little more congenial for a coffee companion, was hopelessly muddled in strokes of paint, pastel, and water-soluble crayon.

And the once-promising female on the left was clearly no Vermeer.

Help!  What to do, Virtual Teachers?   Richard Schmid replied immediately with this stern admonition:  "Never leave a mistake on the canvas."  In fact, this mistake was so pervasive........it was time for it to hit the cutting room floor.  For that matter, I've discovered that there's a whole world of possibilities in painting faces ON the floor -- check out "The Face on the Barroom Floor."

Things are getting surreal

This funny winter, with its record-breaking precipitation, has made me a little unfocussed -- not quite ready to try to break my personal "best yet" record.  That doesn't mean that I've been idle; in fact, I seized on another two bus-riders (favourite subjects for surveillance) and have been helping them bring home their great finds from the local farmers' market.

Our trip began in November when two young women climbed on the bus, one of them verging on ecstasy with the fair-sized white pumpkin she'd found  to match her white hair and contrast with the black coats that she and her white-haired sister wore.  I tried a memory drawing when I reached home:--

The two of them sat on the sidelines as I finished up my 2019 paintings and occasionally played around with a composition.  How's this for surreal?

After a bit, I was ready to start putting paint to paper:

Having spent time with Raphael Soyer's marvellous self -portrait, I was thoroughly disenchanted with the direction these faces seemed to be going.  At one point, I even painted one of them on a 4" x 4" canvas and tried it on for size.

At this point, I faced the decision:-- to finish or to paint over?  For better or worse, I decided I'd see it through and see what happened.  Here's the final version, "Heading Home from the Farmers' Market" (copyright 2020).

Well.  Is this any better than "Dressed for Winter," a similarly inspired painting I did in March 2019? --

The verdict is out.  But this latest painting does at least meet my personal criteria of being Weird and Wonderful -- that surrealist thread that snagged me, courtesy of deChirico.   Also, I've shared with you my sighting of the contented young white-haired woman with her oh-so-cherished white pumpkin. 

Artist David Hockney wrote: 

"What an artist is trying to do for people is bring them closer to something, because of course art is about sharing. You wouldn't be an artist unless you wanted to share an experience, a thought."

I have mixed feelings about Hockney.  Some of his stuff I like, but you have to wonder: Is his frequently reproduced "Pool With Two Figures" really worth the $90.3M paid at auction in 2018?

In any case, looking for a Hockney link, I found reference to his book "Secret Knowledge:  Rediscovering the Lost Techniques of the Old Masters."  Our library has a copy, and it's apparently controversial -- so that should be weird and wonderful indeed.  Surreal, even.

Where do I wannabe?

Torrential rain again, raging in against the screen in my front window.  "But at least it's not snow," we Vancouverites say to each other, as we huddle under umbrellas at bus stops and storefronts.  Would I rather be somewhere else?  Noooooo.  But the thought balloons react spontaneously.

In fact, I *do* want to be right here, doing my own thing -- only constantly doing better.  That's the goal.  One plan, presented by those spontaneous thought balloons, is to return to a practice that proved useful in the on-line course I did in 2018:-- Choose my own subject and emulate the style of an artist I admire.  And so, every few paintings, I'm going to add to my "Wannabe Series".

One of the artists I discovered for myself  in the 2018 course was Ferdinand Hodler.  My Swiss-born friend "Y" tells me, "Hodler's a bit of a joke in Switzerland," but I couldn't pin her down to a reason.  She replied, "Oh, he's just so..." and then shrugged.

No matter.  I really, really like him for his people paintings with the clearly stated outlines and simple background, such as this self-portrait:

In the on-line  course, I modelled Hodler's style for a take-off on 20^th-century photographer Richard Avedon.

And with Hodler on my mind as the first in the Wannabe Series, I came across a publicity photo of the perfect subject -- Otto Tausk, the music director of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra.

The painted outcome?

I have a theory that if I keep working, doing my own thing, studying artists I admire, the skies will begin to clear.  There might be snow on the ground, it might be late in the day, but there will be mountains just visible in the distance, and I'll know I'm headed in the right direction.

Direct to you from Lincoln Centre

Yes!  I was there -- New York City's Lincoln Centre for the Performing Arts.  It was a year and a half ago now, but so unforgettable.  I took a gazillion photos that I'll probably never get into albums to share because when I view them, I get lost in a wonderful reverie of memories. 

When I sought out this photo, I found plenty of "denizens" like these loungers on the 14-acre grounds of Lincoln Centre -- just waiting to be immortalized in one of my paintings?

But...it isn't this Lincoln Centre that led to today's post.  It's this one:--

Hmmmm.  What  IS this?  Let's take a peek inside.

Okay.  It's a well-travelled book, at some time discarded from the Lincoln, Maine, Public Library -- and then wending its way through several second-hand stores until it came into the hands of my niece's mother's cousin in Massachusetts.  She grabbed it with a bunch of others, intending it for the free book exchange in my niece's little town and passed it on to niece's mother -- my lovely simpatico "new" sister-in-law, discovered on that same memorable trip.  Sister-in-law promptly snagged it, read it, and decided it was meant for me.  I opened my mailbox one day to find:--

Now, it happens that I'd long ago seen a book of  paintings by Raphael Soyer, an American artist who's little known today.  They hadn't then appealed to me, but his self-portrait on this cover enthralled me, as did the writings in his diary.  It only made sense, then, to give it a shot -- to try to emulate this marvellous painting.  And so I set to work:

Such an instructive process -- looking every day at the shapes, the tones, the edges, the brushstrokes.  I don't work in oils, as Soyer did, but I still learned a ton.  The outcome, though far from an exact copy, thrills me -- because I can look at it, propped against a shelf in my living room, and be continually challenged:  How did he do it?

My version, up close:

His diary and the further reading I've done about his colleagues -- so many of them known to me -- have made me very fond of this man, who wrote: 

 "From all that I have seen, I am more than ever convinced that art must communicate, and it must represent, describe and express people, their lives and times."

I realized, too, that on my unforgettable trip, I must have seen Soyer at the Whitney Museum of American Art.  Back to my photo collection.  YES!

Huge sigh!  -- I saw so much fantastic art.  Now let's come full circle with New York's Lincoln Centre.  In planning my trip, I knew that I'd be watching for the famous tile art in NYC's subway stations -- a commonplace, I suppose, to New Yorkers but a revelation to me when I first saw the paintings of  Daniel E. Greene.  He was a handsome young artist/teacher when I met him 40 years ago in the pages of the now-defunct magazine "American Artist."  You *have* to see what he did with people and tile art in his Subway Paintings.

This has been a circuitous trip.  Now, as we hop back on board, you might feel inclined to ask, "What's our next stop?"