Painting: Keith in Front of a White Chair
I finished this painting three days ago. Keith in Front of a White Chair, is fairly large (for me) oil painting measuring 36″ x 48.” It’s kissing cousin to this painting, which is also 36″ x 48.” One thing i always do is I try to get the drawing right. That isn’t as straightforward as it
Ice and snow be gone!
The last of the ice and snow melted away last night. Here is a shot of Lake Erie taken from my studio this morning. The horizon is lost in the distance; it’s impossible to tell where water ends and sky starts.
In the studio 3/30/14
Here is a photo of some recent work. The top painting is my son John aboard The Betty Jane. I applied paint to the large, middle painting or the first time yesterday. I spent the two previous days working on the drawing exclusively. It’s called Dinner in Trenton. The bottom painting is a small-format version
It snowed yesterday.
Bad easel
I listened to songs by PJ Harvey during this morning’s painting session (actually drawing session). Her songs are filled with the kind of poetry that tears you up–just what I like. Many of her songs are inspired by history, like WWI. That’s pretty unique. Anyway, I found a temporary solution to my slipping easel problem.
Spring? You bet!
Those aren’t whitecaps on Lake Erie but ice flows loosened from the thawing ice–but I’ll take it! We knew spring was finally arriving when we were able to keep the bedroom door open to last night’s warm breezes. It’s still too soon to hear the soothing sound of rolling waves, but–man o’ man!–it is sweet
About yesterday’s rant
Yesterday’s rant started as the preamble to a much longer post about painting techniques and the craft of painting. The soon-to-be-published post is already too long so I removed the preamble. By itself, the preamble is rather mysterious and lacks context. I try to talk straight here and pull no punches, but ranting is not
Rant
I was taught nothing of practical use about painting when I was a student. Worse than the daily dose of esoteric BS was the relentless, sneering attack on the subjects of technique and history, which were held in utter contempt. Pollack, so I was lectured, allowed his brushes to dry in cans of house paint,