Oil Painting

The Pandemic changed everything.

I’m sure this is true for many artists; the prolonged social isolation became a period of self-reflection and soul searching. There was a sense of uncertainty that permeated every aspect of our lives. Yet we still had to produce artwork, even though there seemed to be much more important things to worry about.

Not surprisingly, my creative juices stopped flowing and I hit a wall. Slumps are no strangers to an artist, but this one seemed different, maybe because the whole world was in crisis mode.  Try as I may, I just could not work through it as I normally do. 

I began to question the work I was doing. Soon, I was no longer sure about my choice of subject matter, tools, materials, or process. I’ve always worked hard to gain control of these things, with the firm belief that one must have a command of the language in order to communicate effectively. And painting is a visual language. 

But during this mother of all slumps, I found myself equating control with predictability, and not in a good way. I began to think, maybe I’m playing it too safe; maybe I’m not taking risks with my painting; maybe I’ve become complacent!

Before long, these doubts became truths, and at that point, I felt like I was having an identity crisis. Drastic action was in order. So, to shock myself into a new way of thinking and doing and to tear down my comfort zone, I destroyed about three hundred paintings and thousands of drawings that had accumulated in my studio. It was absolutely terrifying, but ultimately, cathartic. 

What followed was a series of experiments and studies where I deliberately used unfamiliar materials and approaches, essentially denying myself the old way of working.

I started painting with acrylics and mixed media on hard surfaces primed with gesso, other times I used black house paint. I painted on different kinds of paper, plastic, and metal. (Previously, I had always been an oil painter, and my go-to substrate was linen.)  I put away my nice brushes and picked up cheap house painting brushes and putty knives.

I painted tiny pictures, a couple of inches wide, and also much larger works several feet across, both with the intention of doing something unfamiliar and uncomfortable. 

Because I wanted fewer things to think about and to work more intuitively, (as opposed to working methodically and controlling everything) I eliminated color, and only used black and white paint.

I decided that thumbnails and other preparatory studies allowed me too much room for analysis, so I abandoned them. Carefully drawing on my support prior to painting was giving me too much of a safety net, so that had to go as well. 

I did away with all reference photos. I wanted to work spontaneously and freely. I did not want to be hindered by what I saw in photos, so I chose to paint only from memory and imagination.  I wanted to see where it would lead. I really had no idea what to expect, and I guess that was the whole point. This uncertainty and the lack of predictability was such an adventure. 

As expected, it was a huge struggle. Dozens of studies went straight into the trash, but wouldn’t you know it, I found the struggle really exciting! I felt like I was back in school making fresh discoveries.

Eventually this exploration led to a series of larger, monochromatic, urban paintings. I learned to embrace the state of not being in control, of not having an expectation of outcome. It was all about the doing, and the pleasure of the discoveries.

I would gesso (or not) a big sheet of birch plywood and start slapping gobs of black and white paint on it, without any reference or preconceived notion of the result — no preliminary drawing, no thumbnails, no clue. The start of a painting often looked like a bad imitation of a Franz Kline painting.

One of the central blobs would remind me of a figure or a car, and I would start to shape it to make it more recognizable.  From there, a context would emerge, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. I would find other shapes and fit them into this visual space. 

During the process of creating a believable environment on my panel, I would make drastic changes on a whim. A building would be demolished, figures moved around, cars would come and go. I made a point to just follow these impulses, especially if it meant destroying perfectly good passages. Why? Because it meant that I’m doing it for the sake of expression, not the end product. Not without trepidation and second thoughts, but I almost always found it very liberating and satisfying.

Many paintings from this series have a very noir feel to them, owing to the fact they’re black and white, and also, probably, because I like hardboiled crime novels and 1950’s jazz. The moody, atmospheric qualities of the works of James Cain and Miles Davis are clear influences. The improvisational nature of jazz is something that resonates with me especially. In fact, these paintings to me, feel very much like jazz improvisation, only using paint, rather than sound. 

One aspect of this process that I find fascinating is the role of narrative. When a painting includes figures, often a narrative develops, whether intended or accidental. In my case, it plays a large role in this series because of the noir influence. I start thinking about the figures in my painting and their story which naturally, plays a role in how they develop. 

Because I don’t have a plan when I begin a new piece, the narrative is hidden from me. I watch it materialize and change as I paint the picture. It’s like reading a book and I am finding out what happens as I turn the page. Even though I am the creator, I’m also a spectator, a reader. I come back to the realization that NOT knowing what happens next is the crux of this series. The mystery and uncertainty keep me engaged, and pushes me to make drastic changes on a whim. If I want to find out what happens next, I have to write it.

To get over my pandemic slump, I had to find ways to disconnect myself from thinking too much, planning too much, and following the rules too much. It allowed me to pursue immediacy, urgency, and intuitive expression.  And because the process is more visceral, I feel I’m closer to touching upon my authentic voice. 

The pandemic is a terrible thing, but if there’s a personal silver lining, it is that I’ve gotten to know myself better, and I’ve always felt that that’s the ultimate purpose of making art. 

Over the past several years I have written posts for OPA about different painting fundamentals. I would like to continue with a few thoughts on light. 

As a representational painter, much of my technical work boils down to understanding how light behaves in the natural environment.  Theoretical knowledge of how light works, plus observation of how these principles play out in real life, combine to provide the basis used to communicate a story, emotion, or idea (along with other design principles of course, such as composition, etc.).  This concept is often put more simply as “we paint both what we see and what we know”.  

Since most of us deal with the concept of light in our paintings, I’m sure these ideas are neither new to you nor novel. And it’s perfectly okay if you think about light in a completely different way (that can be fascinating).  But sometimes hearing a familiar idea stated in a new way can expand our understanding.

With all of this in mind, I would like to share a few perceptions of how I think about light as a painter:

PRIMARY LIGHT SOURCE AND SECONDARY LIGHT SOURCE 

The interplay (push-and-pull, tug-of-war, etc.) between these two forces is nearly always at play in nature.  Understanding how the two interact within a scene is the key to understanding the color theme or ‘thrust’ of a piece. Typically, the sun is the primary light source and the sky is the secondary source, but that can be different depending on other factors (for example indirect light, moonlight, car lights, etc.). Multiple secondary sources can definitely exist simultaneously (such as street lights, house lights, moon, etc.), but I find that these usually need to be simplified to a dominant secondary light source (i.e. choose one).  One of the only places where there is no secondary light source influence is in outer space (though sci-fi artists usually cheat and add one anyway). Thus, even in small and subtle ways, most things in nature have a gradient of value and color as they get either further away from, or closer to, the primary light source and consequently more or less influenced by the secondary source. That’s a heady way to say that, on a sunny day, the surface of an object is either being hit by sunlight, or it’s being influenced by whatever else is in the sky. 

WHEN THERE IS A PLANE CHANGE THERE IS ALSO A CHANGE IN VALUE AND TEMPERATURE

This seems obvious, but it can be both tricky to observe and easy to overstate. Sometimes the value change in a plane is so subtle that forms can be turned simply by changing color temperature.  The idea is that if a plane can be observed, then it’s because it’s being affected by light and thus has a value and temperature based on either a primary or secondary light source.  If that plane is less influenced by the primary light source, then it is by necessity being more influenced by the secondary light source (and vice versa).  A good visual to understand this relationship was created by Joseph Buenning:

TYPICALLY, OBJECTS LOOK BETTER WHEN THERE IS UNEQUAL PROPORTION OF LIGHTING

Even if beautifully rendered, having equal amounts of light and dark in a painting is typically less dynamic and engaging then having one side of the value spectrum, or the other, dominate. (Granted, this may be more about composition, but it is important so I am including it in our discussion.)  For example, when I’m walking around a tree deciding what angle to paint, I usually avoid painting the tree with the shadow right down the middle. It’s about making a choice as to what is most engaging and committing to it. My students often hear me say this boiled-down version: “Mostly light with a little bit of dark, or mostly dark with a little bit of light”.  

LIGHT AND TEXTURE ARE INTRINSICALLY LINKED

How light affects the appearance of an object generally depends on the material and texture of that object.  Generally, the smaller and more varied the planes of the object, the more light becomes fragmented as it bounces off, creating a matte appearance.  For example, a patch of dry grass is composed of many little parts which fragment the light, giving the grass a matte appearance. The opposite is true for a flat pane of glass, which has very little surface variation, and thus appears shiny.

SATURATING UP THE EDGES OF A LIGHT AREA 

Doing this allows one to pull back the saturation within a light area while still maintaining a feeling of vividness.  This is especially helpful in areas that get really light, and due to the limitations of our paints, a choice between value and saturation must be made.

ALTERNATING OF TEMPERATURE 

This can give a painting rhythm and pleasing color.

ORANGE IS THE WARMEST COLOR, AND BLUE IS THE COOLEST  

The idea is that on the color wheel, either way that you shift away from Orange it cools down, and either way you go from Blue, it warms up.  The same is not true for any other color. (Special thanks to William Maughan for explaining this to me once). 

COLOR AND TEMPERATURE ARE RELATIVE AND BASED ON CONTEXT 

Thus, “warm light, cool shadows” doesn’t mean orange and blue, it means “warmer than” and “cooler than” what they are next to.  Understanding this key principle, was for me, the beginning of painting believable local color, the ability to differentiate of time-of-day, and subtle color harmony. It is the difference between having a rock that looks like it’s painted orange, and a rock that is being hit with warm light. 

THE MORE INTENSE THE LIGHT SOURCE, THE MORE INFLUENCE IT HAS OVER WHAT IT TOUCHES 

This is true until it eventually overwhelms a scene entirely. For example, an intense sunset is going to put a stronger wash of warmth and unifying temperature over everything than a mid-afternoon sun.

Well, there you have it. As I mentioned before, there are as many ways to think about light as there are people, and I love it when I see paintings which have approached light very differently than I have explained above (more emotionally, for example). As with most things, there is Truth, but also infinite variety and so many ways to create beauty. I wish you the best in this coming season of work, may the joy of Light fill your life!

-David Dibble OPA

Throughout the ages, since the very first scrawls were made in caves and tribal hunting events were recorded on walls, people have been using colors made of ochres, umbers, madders, bugs, mummies, minerals, shells, iron oxides, and plants. These pigments decorated sheets of papyrus, vellum, paper, faces, bodies, fabrics, clothing, tools, leather, weapons, walls, ceilings, and stones far and near.

People perhaps just hacked a chunk off the cave wall and started noodling, or charred a bone from last night’s dinner, or took a stick from the fire and began to make marks. The earth itself for thousands of centuries has created a harmonious palette of archival and readily available colors to create some of the most beautiful and enduring art in the world.

Today, artists around the world are still using many of those same pigments as used in the past. Thanks to specialty companies, we know more about the composition, archival quality, rarity, cost, permanence, transparency, opacity, toxicity, saturation, drying times, and source of these pigments — issues which are enormously important to artists.

This topic has become a passion for me over the recent years, and I have experimented with most of the available historical pigments in one way or another, creating several in-depth projects that involve both artistic and cultural research. The most profound characteristics discovered are that these pigments are splendid to work with and endlessly beautiful.

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Mother Nature herself has done the palette preparation work for me, as the natural, subtle, muted quality is all ready to go. Time has aged the ochres into dazzling arrays of warm and cool yellows that, when placed side by side, are instantly pleasing to the senses. The umbers work in the same way and come in stunning varieties of light, medium, and very dark, depending on the source. Lapis lazuli, azurite, malachite, and ivory black comprise my list of favorites. Technically not an earth color, but manufactured by the ancient Egyptians, Egyptian blue frit is a clear crisp color used to decorate the dizzying riches of the Pharaohs.

Natural cinnabar, my favorite red mineral pigment, formed eons ago by a perfect marriage of mercury and sulfur is mined in Spain, Russia and the west coast of the US, including Oregon where I live. You can see the beauty in the muted hue, which is not garish at all.

To my eye, the modern cadmiums are so highly saturated they overpower my canvas and are difficult to handle on the palette. I find this true also of other modern colors such as phthalo greens and blues. Occasionally, when my mad-scientist self gets restless, I break out of this mold and experiment with some of the modern azo, turquoise, and quinacridones, but I usually will spend time muting or graying them down in some way.

Contrary to common knowledge, making hand-made paints is relatively easy once safety precautions are in place. All you need is a mask, a little oil, pigment, a grinding slab, and a muller. The dry pigment powder is mostly ready to go and just involves mixing in the oil to make sure all of the pigment disperses with the oil.

Another common misconception is the natural pigments are too toxic to handle carefully. Actually, there are only a few that have warnings and with caution, those can be handled too. I always use a respirator and gloves while wearing a smock, and most importantly, I grind the paint in an area with no breeze such as a fan or blowing furnace vent.

Rather than using orpiment, which is problematic and toxic, I use chrome yellow at the suggestion of Eric Hebborn, the infamous art forger. (He implemented this ploy when repainting over old canvases that he intended to sell as fakes). You can see chrome yellow mixed with cinnabar here on the tangerines in The Golden Age. The range of colors is amazing when using just a few earth colors. Rembrandt had about 20 in his repertoire.

It really is a process of elimination. I use just the colors that are safe after they are encased in oil and toss out the fugitive (many of the plant-based colors) or toxic colors. I use caution and strict hygiene habits while painting. Most importantly, the mere fact of having a few select colors on my palette to deal with allows easy and quick decision color mixtures.

More and more interest in hand-ground paints made from natural pigments is surfacing lately. I invite you to choose a few colors, (even if you do not grind the paint yourself,  purchase the ready-made), and experiment. Do some studies and see the difference in the surface quality of your canvas. Make that connection between you the painter, the aesthetic of your art, and your materials. The results just might be profoundly gratifying.
 

If you’re like me, seldom do you emerge from an art-supply shop without having bought a new brush.  New brushes are too tempting.  Their bristles are clean and tight, unsplayed and springy—they promise sparkling new paintings to come.  So, I cannot resist a new brush or two, or three.  Years ago, a small-town art shop was going out of business, and I found they had the old Langnickels 50% off — I came out with two full fists and a minor sense of shame.

But we should feel no shame or guilt for giving way to temptation.  None at all.  I have it on good authority that a painter needs at least 72 brushes! That authority?  Daniel Burleigh Parkhurst, a student of Bougereau, who wrote The Painter in Oil in 1898.  It’s a classic treatise on the subject of oil painting.

Parkhurst is emphatic on the subject of painting materials, and the need for quality tools:

In painting there is nothing that will cause you more trouble than bad materials. You can get along with few materials, but you cannot get along with bad ones. That is not the place to economize. To do good work is difficult at best. Economize where it will not be a hindrance to you. Your tools can make your work harder or easier according to your selection of them. The relative cost of good and bad materials is of slight importance compared with the relative effect on your work.  The way to economize is not to get anything which you do not need. Save on the non-essentials, and get as good a quality as you can of the essentials.

Parkhust explains why we need at least 72 brushes:

Don’t look upon your brushes as something to get as few of as possible, and which you would not get at all if you could help it. There is nothing which comes nearer to yourself than the brush which carries out your idea in paint. You should be always on the lookout for a good brush; and whenever you run across one, buy it, no matter how many you have already. Don’t look twice at a bad brush, and don’t begrudge an extra ten cents in the buying of a good one. If you are sorry to have to pay so much for your brushes, then take the more care of them. Use them well and they will last a long while; then don’t always use the same handful. Break in new ones now and again. Keep a dozen or two in use, and lay some aside before they are worn out, and use newer ones. So when at last you cannot use one any more, you have others of the same kind which will fill its place.

Have all kinds and sizes of brushes. Have a couple of dozen in use, and a couple of dozen which you are not using, and a couple of dozen more that have never been used.

What! six dozen?

Well, why not? Every time you paint you look over your brushes and pick out those which look friendly to what you are going to do. You want all sorts of brushes. You can’t paint all sorts of pictures with the same kind of brush. Your brush represents your hand. You must give every kind of touch with it. You want to change sometimes, and you want a clean brush from time to time. You don’t want to feel that you are limited; that whether you want to or not these four brushes you must use because they are all you have! You can’t paint that way. That six dozen you will not buy all at once. When you get your first outfit, get at least a dozen brushes. As you look over the stock and pick out two or three of this kind, and two or three of that, you will be astonished to see how many you have—yet you don’t know which to discard. Don’t discard any. Buy them all. Then, if you don’t paint, it will not be the fault of your brushes. And from time to time get a half a dozen which have just struck you as especially good ones, and quite unconsciously you acquire your six dozen—and even more, I hope!

Thank you, Mr. Parkhurst.  I think I need to do a little shopping now.

(Note:  This post is not sponsored by Rosemary brushes, but, Symi, you know where to find me.)