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

Back in the USSR

Outside the Winter Palace (aka Hermitage)

I knew when I set out on the 30 paintings in 30 days challenge that it would be a . . . well, a challenge. For me, the biggest challenge was a trip to the Baltic countries (Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia) and St. Petersburg, which my octogenarian mother invited me to accompany her on as part of her bucket list tour. Who could say no?

Optimistic as I am, I brought along art supplies, not accounting for the cold, rainy weather, which was not conducive to painting outside. Inside was not a good option either, as we were quite busy.
However, we saw fabulous art and architecture and contemplated deep history and culture. As much as I love watching football, nothing surpasses the thrill of standing in front of an incredible work of art and sensing firsthand what the artist saw as he or she stood in front of it, whether recently or 1,000 years ago. Masterpieces are undeniable in their execution, their composition, their color, their bravura – qualities that define them. For me, it is a sensation of awe, of desire, a visceral experience that defines a masterpiece.

Matisse's Dance, larger than life.

The pinnacle of the trip (from an art perspective) was the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia. There can never be enough time there, what with 3,000,000 works in the collection, but our small group had the good fortune to be admitted two hours before opening time. We were alone in those great galleries, having a tête-à-tête with Rembrandt’s soulful portraits and Matisse’s giant, joyful dancers. From Caravaggio to Rubens to Picasso we wandered through brilliance and it was exhilarating.



I always love Cezanne's
still life & landscapes.

I studied in what was then Leningrad for a summer in the USSR as a student in 1985. To quote Paul McCartney, “Been away so long I hardly knew the place,” and it was remarkable to see the changes in the post-Soviet era. As a reminder of how powerful art can be, Wikipedia reports that the Beatles were labeled in the 1960s as the "belch of Western culture," and the Soviets denied permission in the 1980s (!) for Paul McCartney to play there.


My favorite floral painter, Henri Fantin-Latour.

Of course there were far more serious ramifications for displeasing the Soviets, including torture, murder, and exile to Siberia. Unfortunately, it seems as if the current Russian administration has not fallen far enough from that tree, in spite of significant improvements in daily life for many (but definitely not all) the Russian people. Still, the art alone was worth the visit, not to mention being with my intrepid and ever-curious mother, from whom I have inherited a deep love of travel and art, among other things.

 

 

With Mom at Peterhof, the Summer Palace on the Baltic.

 

 

A Little Bit of Everything (almost)

I met an abstract painter last week who was encouraging me to make a foray into abstract painting, as opposed to my comfortable zone of realism/impressionism. I told him I felt like I could spend a lifetime trying to master what I already do, and that working abstract would pull me away from that. He suggested that abstract work might enhance what I do, and my intuition tells me he might be right.
That being said, I am still playing catch up with 30 paintings in 30 days, and today I touched on the three genres I paint with some regularity - still life, landscape, and figure. Almost caught up!

Canteloupe & Grapes, 5x7" oil on gessoboard, $125

Tarpits Rocks, 8x10" oil on linen on board, $200

Lori Sketching on the Beach, 5x7" oil on gessoboard

Catching up. . .

Grapes and glass, 5x5" oil on cradled
gessoboard, $125.

I am beginning to think that trying to complete 30 paintings in 30 days was a mistake, given that I've just started teaching again and have a solo exhibition opening in a gallery this weekend. But I am plugging away, even though I'm behind by a few.
I believe it is called "biting off more than you can chew," but I'm still hoping to catch up.
The added challenge will come in another week and a half, when I'm heading overseas on another adventure. What was I thinking?! Looking forward to working on some watercolour travel scenes after September 21; stay tuned.
In the meantime, here's a glass of tequila - the odor of which was more powerful than turpentine in the studio. It sits next to the easel but I think it's going to have to go back in the bottle until I have time to pick up all the lilikoi in the garden and make a fine margarita, and it doesn't look like that's happening anytime soon.

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.



Plum Process

Here are some plums, my third in the "30 Paintings in 30 Days" Back to School Challenge. I realize it's the 6th, and this is my third, but it does say 30 paintings, not a painting a day, so I will be catching up over the weekend and hopefully be back on track next week.
Recently I mentioned one method I use when building a painting using a cadmium red underpainting (http://rebeccastebbins.blogspot.com/2013/08/spiderboy-future-artist.html). So I thought I would  illustrate the process - especially because process is paramount for so many painters, particularly when the goal is to create 30 paintings in a month.
For this little gem, it began at the Thursday afternoon farmers market, where I perused the offerings and selected a few choice pieces. People - vendors, friends I run into, strangers - always seem to think it's a little odd that I'm picking fruit for its good looks, not necessarily for freshness or flavor. I was hoping for peaches, but there were very few left. I did buy a few, though, so they might get painted yet, as they're still hard as rocks. Very pretty, though.
The plums, with their dusty blue skin, were more appealing, and I do like the little farmer who brings them to market from his Carpinteria orchard. He assures me they are delicious as well.

The cad red underpainting.

Laying in color - first the darks - and giving form.



Three plums - 5x5" oil on
cradled gessoboard - $125.

In a Pinch

Monhegan Island Lighthouse, 5x7" watercolour on paper.

I am away from my studio and home for a few days in Connecticut to take my daughter to her new school. But to honor the "Back to School Challenge" of 30 paintings in 30 days, I brought along a little set of watercolors and stole a few moments yesterday to complete painting #2, from a photograph I took last summer of the Monhegan Island lighthouse.
I'm reluctant to post this, since I am clearly not a watercolorist, but to honor the commitment I'm putting it up here.
It's not all bad, though. Any painter will tell you that painting is a journey, and that it's mostly about the process as much as it is about the product. In this case, I wouldn't normally produce a watercolor, but since I'm away from home I'm forced to make do (for this short family trip, I couldn't bring my oil paints and easel). Working in an unfamiliar medium, which makes me feel like a rookie, is both humbling and energizing: I realize that in spite of the fact that I'm an oil painter, I can't tackle any medium (like watercolor, or acrylic) and expect the same results that have come from thousands of hours at my own easel in my own comfort zone.
At the same time, I have to say that this little work is not a complete failure - it's an exercise, and worthwhile in the way that cross-training can be for an athlete. It required patience, observation, and acceptance of my limited abilities, and an acknowledgement of this: at least I tried. And as I look forward to my first day back in the classroom in a few days, I'll have more compassion for my students who are always working in media they haven't mastered, with varied levels of success and frustration.
Now, in spite of the fact that I'm leaving my daughter behind, I am truly looking forward to being back in my studio, back at home, back in my comfort zone. This little lighthouse makes me grateful for that, even though I'll miss my girl an awful lot.