News and Terroir

Hay bales at Castelbon, Betchat, France 11 x 14 oil on board.

Sitting in a park in Paris, France, reading the news and it sure looks bad. They won’t give peace a chance, that was just a dream some of us had. - Joni Mitchell, from Blue

The news is bad lately, especially from France; my heart hurts from the atrocities and suffering. Following another horrific attack, a U.S. presidential nominee tweeted that “France is no longer France.” I am back on the blog to report that this is not true. France is very much still France.

I recently returned from a sojourn in France to visit my friend Noelle at her lovely artist residency, Bordeneuve. Each year she welcomes painters, composers, writers, film makers and other artists to stay and create in a spectacularly peaceful and enriching environment. I’ve been painting in France since 2001, and this was my 5th year at Bordeneuve. Arriving there is like coming home.

Trout before dinner - caught fresh from the river near
Niaux by my friend and wine expert Jerome Garcia.

The scenery – the greenery, coming from drought-stricken Southern California – is gorgeous, the rain delightful, even when it keeps me from painting en plein air. Bordeneuve is surrounded by forest and field; bird song in the morning is loud enough to be irritating, especially pre-dawn. Being there is transformative, as I become the painter I need to be, free of external distractions, nourished by the surroundings and the people I’ve come to know, and the local cheeses, produce, meats and wines.

A  perfect melon, 14 x 11" oil on board.

The French have a term, terroir, familiar to wine connoisseurs, to describe the environmental and climate conditions specific to a place that influence what grows or is produced there. For me, a painting is a product of terroir as well, influenced by the place it is created. What I learn when I paint there accompanies me home and continues to influence my work and my life. Many of my favorite painters were French – Monet, Manet, Matisse, Cezanne, Chardin, Fantin la Tour; others, like Sargent and Van Gogh, spent many years there. Over the years I have stood in their studios, wandered through the places they lived and painted, tried to soak up the essence of places that spoke to them.

At the Saturday market in St. Girons, I select produce based on beauty so I can paint it before I eat it. I believe that people are also part of terroir. The farmer asks which day you plan to eat a melon, so she can select one that will be perfectly ripe on that day. I buy chèvre from the cheese monger I first met 5 years ago, and the same goes for the pâté and saucisson. Running into friends, we exchange bises (kisses on both cheeks) and conversation (this year, much on Brexit). Every day I read, walk, paint, nap, do yoga; eat, sleep, repeat. C’est parfait.

Quick 6 x 8" oil on canvas sketch at
Niaux, in the Pyrenees.

Ann Raver, the former garden writer at the New York Times, once wrote that when the ancients were sick, they walked among trees and plants and breathed the fresh air to soothe their pain. For me, travel is a balm for the soul as well, and visiting Bordeneuve is a restorative antidote to bad news in the world.

I read this week that fewer tourists are travelling to France out of fear. I think about it every time I board a plane; perhaps it will be my last trip. But the thought of not going is far more dreadful; and beyond that, the thought of allowing other horrible people to succeed in making me afraid is anathema. That includes one current U.S. presidential nominee.

Girolles et Artichauds (chanterelles & artichokes)
11 x 14" oil on board, as delicious as it was beautiful!

Joni Mitchell sings that France is “too old, and cold, and settled in its ways,” as she longed for her home in California. I long for France from my home in California, so coming home I have to ask: “Will you take me as I am, strung out on another man? California, I'm coming home.” 


Here I am, home again, but with France in my heart, hoping for better news, looking forward to the next time. Vive la France. 

Tangerines

Photograph by Laura Hindle.

A friend in my hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan, just posted this beautiful photo of the pond in her backyard on Facebook. I am feeling nostalgic for a real winter, for the snows and snowmen of my childhood, cross-country skiing through the woods, and playing ice hockey.

Then she posted that it was -15 degrees Fahrenheit, without the wind chill. This is not something I recall from childhood. I remember outdoor hockey games in high school, when the temperature dipped low enough that it hurt to breathe, and our sweaty hair would freeze instantly when we took our helmets off. I am pretty sure I’ve never experienced -15˚F, but unusual weather is not so abnormal these days.

Now I live in California, some sort of paradise. Yesterday I took a long walk on the beach, wading in the ocean as the tide came up. Today I picked tangerines and painted them, and then ate them.

Tangerines, 6x8" oil on birch, by Rebecca Stebbins.

Lest you think the grass is always greener, though, you should understand this: in a “normal” year, we have something like 17 inches of rain. In the past 16 months or so, we’ve had less than 4. My grass is not green. Almost everything in my garden is scraping by with minimal water. In Los Angeles, not far from here, this is the driest year on record, on the heels of several years of drought. The Colorado River, which supplies water to a number of competing interests – cities, farmers, golf courses, and of course the wild species which depend upon it for survival – is more besieged each year. There is no "normal" anymore, as far as I can tell.

We live in an arid climate out here in the West, but we don’t respect it and we don’t value our most precious resource. My neighbor next door regularly hoses down his bright  concrete driveway and his automatic sprinklers come on even when it does rain, helping to wash all the chemical pesticides he uses on his perfect lawn right down into the ocean. Even Oprah, who lives a few miles from me, is reported to pay $124,000 per year to keep her spacious lawns green. I guess if you can afford it, it’s ok, right? Well, no. Not in my opinion.

Clearly “global warming” is a misnomer; but I honestly don’t understand how anyone can still believe that our climate isn’t changing at a dramatic pace, on a global scale. And the only input that could be generating such a rapid change is the output of our unthinking human endeavors. As much as I love to paint tangerines in my studio, I feel I should be outside painting the landscape as well, because it’s possible that within a generation it won’t look anything like it does now.  

Inside Outside Redux

"But you know all pictures painted inside, in the studio, will never be as good as those done outside. When out-of-door scenes are represented, the contrast between the figures and the ground is astounding and the landscape is magnificent. I see some superb things and I shall have to make up my mind only to do things out-of-doors."
                                                  - Paul Cezanne in a letter to Emile Zola, 19 October 1866

My studio is nice, but not this nice.

I love to paint in the studio, where the light doesn’t change and the wind can’t blow over your easel, dogs won’t lift a leg on your stuff, rattlesnakes and bulls won’t taunt you*, and people don’t come by and comment on what you’re working on or worse, blather on about whatever strange concept they’re working on; yes, I’ve witnessed all of these. 

Renny's, 18 x 24" oil on canvas.

So perhaps I complained about the challenge of the changing shadows as they fell longer through the afternoon, and my friend and painting compadre Kit whipped out this quotation as we were wrapping up a marathon day at the fabulous Hollister Ranch on the California coast.


Plenty of room: Lori & Kit at Renny's.

I have to agree with Cezanne: often you can tell if a painting was executed en plein air or from photographs in the studio. Painters who have logged thousands of hours outside can master the challenge, but others, well, not so much. You can tell, sometimes by the colorless shadows, exaggerated light, or strange details, that a painter hasn’t planted an easel in the dirt very often. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, except, as Cezanne says, those indoor pictures will never be as good.

Even the best of cameras can’t capture the subtleties of light and millions of hues that radiate into the human eye and are interpreted by the wondrous visual cortex, the largest system in the human brain. But that’s not the only reason that landscapes painted in the studio fall flat.

I don’t typically paint landscapes indoors; I paint from life, real flowers, fruits, or whatever piques my interest in the garden and studio on a given day.  In spite of the changing light and other challenges, I still prefer to stand in the beautiful landscape to capture not just a picture, but the air, the breeze, the softness of dirt or the sounds of water or wind.

El Capitan, 16 x 20" oil on canvas

Yesterday in Carpinteria an osprey perched in a eucalyptus tree directly above us and seals barked at the bottom of the bluffs behind us. Somehow all of these sensations are woven into the essence of a painting done outdoors, but they won’t be found in the sterile air of the studio.

Temporary studio at El Cap.

 *stay tuned for the snake story in a future post

Terroir

Vincent Van Gogh, Sunset at Montmajour, 1888.

Terroir is a French term that refers to the specific characteristics of a place that help shape the things that are produced there, such as wine, cheese, or vegetables. It can be thought of as a sense of place, and the concept even spills over into laws which determine what products can claim to be produced in a specific region. I think that terroir is something that landscape painters are quite familiar with; certain painters are strongly associated with certain places, and it is perhaps no accident that the concept is a French one. Think of Monet in Normandy, or Van Gogh in Provence.
Today it was announced that a painting that had been 'lost' had been newly attributed to Van Gogh. Sadly for the man who owned it, years ago the authorities had denied that it was painted by Van Gogh because it had no signature. But over time, methods of authenticating paintings have evolved, and when the heirs and owners of the painting brought it forward from the attic where it had been stuffed away, it was looked at anew.
Combining chemical analyses of the pigments, which matched those that Van Gogh was known to have on his palette at the time, and documentation from a letter he had sent to his brother, Theo, describing the scene and the painting, experts at the Van Gogh Museum in the Netherlands have proclaimed that it was definitively painted by him. They expect to sell for tens of millions of dollars when it goes to auction.

Old oak above Santa Barbara.

One reason I love southern France is that it shares some characteristics with the section of California where I live, but it has a different essence that feels deeper to me. But this afternoon I went out to paint in the foothills above Santa Barbara, in a rocky place with twisted oaks that resonates with the description that Van Gogh provided to Theo for Montmajour. This one still needs some work, but I thought I'd post it anyway, to honor the great painter on a day that one of his works has been 'officially' recognized.



Spiderboy & the Future Artist

The scene.

In France this summer I was invited to paint by two musicians who are renovating an old stone house and barn set in the rolling hills of the Midi-Pyrénées. After enjoying fresh limeade and the rich tones of a cello emanating from a back room, I set up my easel in a shady spot where the road bends between house and barn.

I started laying in a sketch over a cadmium red underpainting. I often tone the whole canvas a thin red, which creates some rich color vibrations when that red underground peeks through the final painting. It also reduces the anxiety of staring at a blank white canvas not knowing where to begin.

Some artists lay in a sketch with charcoal or pencil. I prefer to start right away with paint, using a monotone raw umber diluted with turpentine to indicate lighter or darker areas of the scene. Often I draw and wipe it off a few times before I commit to the painting. Knowing I can wipe off allows me to forgive myself for the mistakes I am about to make. Yes, painting can be fraught with anxiety and fear - of self-doubt or anticipated judgment by others, of not “getting it right.”

The characters.

 As I paint often in public places, I am accustomed to people watching as I work and not at all bothered when the viewers are very young – they are always more direct and honest critics. As I was drawing, I had that prickly feeling that someone was watching. I looked over my shoulder and there she was: 7-year old Mia, a resident of the house. She looked a bit concerned about my drawing, but she stayed silent as a mouse, riveted by what was unfolding on the canvas.

Drawing finished, I began laying in color, starting with the sky and distant air, then dancing my brush around to the pavement, grass, eaves and roof. As the painting progressed, Mia looked relieved and began to point out happily that “this part is that building there, and there’s la maison de Francis next door.” I asked if she had a sketch book, and she came back with a colorful book and a set of markers. We worked together in silence again for a long while.

I was nearly finished when Spiderboy flew up on a bicycle and came to a screeching halt behind the easel, accidentally tipping turpentine into the grass. The 4-year old superhero was frozen by this act of art, transforming his view from the swingset into a recognizable image on canvas. Mia pointed out that I had missed the potted plant at the far end of the barn, and I added it in as a finale. A day later I heard the report: Mia has announced she that she would like to be an artist when she grows up.

The finished work (note the cute plant in the red pot at the end of the barn, courtesy of Mia).

Leaving Bordeneuve (Some thoughts on an artist residency)

Fields at Bordeneuve by Rebecca Stebbins

Bordeneuve is a place that is hard to come to and harder to leave. It’s hard to come because of what you have to leave behind: basically, everything that isn’t in that small space where creativity resides. Spouses, children, friends, and all the accoutrements: laundry, for example, or cooking, cleaning, yard work. Animals to be fed and walked and loved. Bills to be paid and paperwork that piles up and supplies that need to be restocked and messes to be cleaned up and is there gas in the car? And do I have everything? You travel.

You arrive at Boussens on the crowded little train and step out into the Midi and voilà. There you are, with just your bag, your baggage, and yourself. And there is Noelle, who grabs your very heavy bag and heaves it into the back of her trusty Peugeot and you are off through the winding roads of the Ariège.

You pass farm fields and tiny villages, some with stately little homes and others with crumbly old barns, up hills and around pastures with sheep or goats, or little herds of cows in all of the colors that cows come. She turns in to a rocky track, and if you look back you’ll see the snow on the Pyrénées in the distance. You bounce down a luminous green tunnel of trees and vines and finally you pull in to a clearing with a house to the left and a barn to the right. That place on the right hardly qualifies as a barn: it is lovely, spacious, and filled with just what you need. Food, silence, books, a deep bath and a wide balcony, places to sit, to draw, to paint, to play, to dance – yes, even enough room to dance. Indoor space and outdoor space. And no clutter. You make a mental note: less clutter.



Blanchette & Edith, by Rebecca Stebbins

The first evening is jovial and calm – a lovely meal, a nice bottle of rosé, conversation that isn’t dull but isn’t deep – not yet. Later in the week the topics will grow weightier, perhaps. Tonight you are still shedding the old skin. Tomorrow you will wake up in a new skin, bright and shiny like the green garden snakes I’ve never seen there. 

The first day you will still be decelerating. You will wander and sketch, flip through books of poetry, unpack. But then something funny happens: just as you begin to accept the slowness, and the quiet, you start to hear all the noise there. For Bordeneuve can be a very noisy place, especially between the birds and the insects and the very loud cow a few fields away who bellows from time to time, and the distance village bells you catch once in a while. And that small space where creativity resides? Like the heart of the Grinch, it grows. And grows, until it takes up all the space of all the other stuff you left behind.

View from the end of the track by Rebecca Stebbins

And as you slow down, matching your speed to the rhythms of real life, you realize you have hit your stride, and you work. With a passion, until you are tired and have to stop, and then it’s time for a nap, or a meal, or a walk, or a bath. The choices are few, and so they are easy to make. Easy choices reserve brain space for your creative pursuits, you think. You’re not wasting precious time on TV, or idle chitchat, or wondering what to tackle next. Your time feels more pure.

You wake up, and it happens again: simplicity. Except now there’s a complication: oh! There are chickens outside the door, and perhaps they would like a little treat. You go to look at all the different flowers in the garden and you see dinner there too, ready for picking. You come back inside and there’s a cat – and somehow, not by the markings but more by the attitude, you know which cat of the four has come to visit. You are settling in.

And one day it happens: you have to leave. And it is hard, and you are already starting to think about arriving on the train in Boussens and the long drive down that rocky track to come back.

http://bordeneuveretreat.com/

 

Inside or Outside?

Calla lilies in Delft vase 2013

Thursday was a painter’s day, to be sure. It started in the studio, finishing these calla lilies that are in full bloom here following the Christmas rains. Calla lilies have always seemed exotic to me; I’m not sure I ever saw one growing before I came to California, but I feel like they are associated with funerals. They grow like weeds in our garden, in thick, tall clumps, and then disappear completely in the dry season.

And then it was Ray Day, a painting tribute to Ray Strong, who passed away in 2006 at the age of 101. I was fortunate to meet him and to paint with him - he was an exceptional, exuberant person, a fantastic painter, and a larger-than-life character He lived an amazing life. There are some wonderful video clips of him here http://raystrong.posterous.com/. 


Anacapa Island from Camino Cielo 2013

The greatest thing in the world, he said, is to be a landscape painter. On a day like this, it’s hard to disagree. From the top of East Camino Cielo, more than 3,000 feet above Santa Barbara, we could see all the way to Catalina Island more than 100 miles away. It was a stunning day, and a fitting tribute to remember an artist who felt so strongly about sharing his gift with others. 

Photo by Ellen Easton

Ray was a founding member of the Oak Group, local plein air landscape painters whom I admire tremendously. In addition to being extraordinarily talented artists, they have dedicated themselves to the preservation of our environment here and have done phenomenal work painting to raise awareness and to raise funds to protect endangered areas of the central coast and valleys of California.

The legacy of landscape painting in California is daunting, and Ray was certainly a pillar of it for many decades.  Even though I love painting in the protected privacy of my studio, there is nothing better than being a landscape painter.



The little pond in the potager.

A New Year: Please Take a Look

People have been making resolutions, prayers, or promises for the new year since ancient times, when Babylonians vowed to repay debts and Romans swore to Janus (of January), whose two faces looked both backward and forward in time. Their dreams and desires were no doubt both similar to and different from ours; historians have noted that over the past century, American resolutions have evolved from resolving to do good works into supplications to be thinner and better attired.

Expressions of gratitude have become trendy of late. For me, gratitude is best when it’s internalized, not promoted as a lifestyle or publicized as a token of self-fulfillment. We live in a world filled with beauty, and yet we spend many of our days not noticing. As a painter, my job is to look. As a teacher, my job is to teach others to look, and to see, with uncluttered eyes. It is the easiest and quickest way to find that gratitude.

 

Most mornings I walk out in my garden, which is, in its own way, a work of wild art. If I look, I can always find beauty there. Overlooking weeds, slugs and snails, and my gopher-ravished vegetable bed, there is always the beauty of nature, and of nature altered by humans in our own attempt to create beauty. We have a little pond, with a little statue, just outside the dining room window, and it is often the first thing I really see in the morning. When the morning light shines through, it is something I find beautiful, along with whatever is growing in the potager - herbs, vegetables, and a few flowers.

I am hoping 2013 will be a year filled with beauty for all of us, and that we will take the time to look and make the effort to see. Bonne année et bonne santé – happy new year to you, and good health.