the cassandra pages

A Still Life with Pears

Even though the outdoors is becoming colorful up here at last, I'm still drawing and painting inside -- maybe because the time I tend to sit down to draw is after dinner, after the dishes have been done, when the sun has set. Last night I looked around for something to set up as a still life, and ended up with two pears (I moved one around to play two roles!), the leftovers of a bouquet, and some colorful Mexican Talavera ceramics.

It looked pretty mundane at this point. The question I have to ask, when deciding to add color, is what sort of colors will create a harmonious palette that also conveys a definite feeling, and also, what will be the relationship between the warm and cool colors if both are to be used? Here I decided to focus on the gold and yellows of the pears and the warm red of the flowers, using a golden tone for the table too as a background shape that unifies the picture. These warm colors were set off with blue in the shadows and the rectangular shape (it was actually a green placemat) behind the flowers. The greens also unify the picture, since they appear all over the page. I made the flowers much more orange than they actually were. This reddish-orange needed an echo in the bottom of the vase, and the bright colors of the salt shaker, or else it would have been orphaned at the top of the picture and created an imbalance, drawing the eye upward, when it needs to move around the shapes. And in terms of shapes, it is a picture about roundness and different kinds of curves. Obviously I had drawn the pear on the right incorrectly, and needed to fix that curve - but I knew that once the color went down, it wouldn't matter.

This detail is a little larger than life-size.

Here's a drawing from earlier in the week, when the bouquet of alstroemerias was at its most exuberant. Sometimes, as in this case, a drawing like this ends up leading to something else a few days later because the act of drawing makes me think about the different elements, which almost become "characters" in a play. Some end up getting written out, and others get a featured part. I don't pretend to understand it -- a lot of what happens is subliminal -- but that's part of the weird drama of still life painting and drawing.

And it doesn't need to stop there. A fast, loose, sketchy painting like this could become the basis for an oil or acrylic painting with flatter shapes, and a similar but more closely refined palette.

Drawing a Mexico City Interior

Because we liked the apartment where we were staying so much, I drew the interior more than I had expected to. The furniture, in heavy wood, glass, and leather, was so different from our northern interiors, as were the bright Mexican colors and bold shapes of the plants, vases, lamps and other objects. My eye is always energized by seeing something different, and my spirit too.

And when I'm seeing inspiring art every day, it makes me want to draw. Mexican art often encourages simplicity and the search for form, I find. Even the two-dimensional art feels quite "plastic", and I sense that sculpture, painting, and nature all inform each other, leading to bold, monumental shapes and a minimum of fussiness or elaboration for its own sake. For example, this detail from a fabulous, huge mosaic titled Rio Juchitan (1953-56) by Diego Rivera and assistants in his workshop, now at the Soumaya Museum:

Back at home, here's some fruit in a pedestal bowl:

The food we were buying at the market was inspiring in itself - we always had a bowl of mangoes, bananas, tomatoes and avocados on the counter. And our residency was also changing the space a little too, as we bought flowers and some embroidered textiles and ceramics, and settled into the places where we liked working. J. often worked at the dining table, while I sat on the couch with my knitting, computer, and drawing.

As I filled the pages of my own sketchbook, I was touched by this book in the anthropology museum - written and illustrated by some kindred spirit at the time of the Spanish conquest of Mexico.

Most of all, I think drawing at the apartment provided a quiet time after the noise, busyness, overcrowded intensity of the metropolis: a way to re-center and come back to myself.

A studio still life, and some talk about buying paints and pastels

I was in the local art store the other day, buying pastel paper, and ended up also buying three oil pastel sticks - a dark blue-green, gold, and purple. It isn't a medium I've used much since I wore out my childhood set of Cray-Pas a very long time ago, but I've been seeing oil pastel work I liked and thought it would be a good experiment. This is the first attempt -- a fast, ten-minute drawing -- and I quite like the refusal of the thick stick to become pointed and fussy; the intense, rich color; the possibilities for thick dark application and for blending.

The same basic set of objects, drawn in pen-and-ink sometimes last year.

In art supplies as in most things we buy, there's a big difference in price and in quality between different brands. Usually the more expensive brands are worth the price, and that seems to be true in this case. The main stick I've used for the drawing here is Sennelier ($4-$5.50/stick, depending on vendor), while the gold is Van Gogh ($1.75-$2.50). The Sennelier is creamy, non granular, and luscious to draw with. The Van Gogh, much drier and more granular, is about the same as the Cray-Pas of my youth: I'd call them student grade. Other types -- and other colors -- may be stickier, or crumblier. A full set of Sennelier oil pastels lists at $539; I've seen discounted prices of $243 - but I'm not interested in a full set at this point, but in acquiring particular colors. I'll be buying more, slowly. They also come in very large sticks, at a commensurately larger price, but those are too big in diameter for what I want to do.

Beginning artists sometimes ask me whether to buy a set of colors of paint or pastels or other media - or to buy open stock. I usually suggest that they buy a set, but of the best quality they can afford. I think we all love sets of colors - there's something about opening a metal lid, or a lovely box, and seeing a whole range of colors nestled inside - maybe it reminds us of those big boxes of Crayola crayons. As a kid, I used to spend hours rearranging my crayons in different ways, which probably foretold more about my future than any Tarot deck. Six colors often isn't enough for someone without experience in color mixing, but a set of twelve colors is usually plenty for someone to get the feel of a medium and decide if they like it, without spending a fortune - because good art supplies are really quite expensive.

Inferior colors, while they may look brilliant and beautiful in the tube or box, are harder to handle and give unpredictable or low-quality results that can easily discourage even the most enthusiastic artist, who may blame herself but shouldn't. The choice isn't all black and white, though. In nearly all media, there's a middle range that is affordable, but not prohibitive. Art stores that cater to university classes are a good place to look, and there are many reviews of art supplies online. In this field, you really do tend to get what you pay for: the top-of-the-line brands are the best, using the finest-ground, best-quality, long-lasting pigments and the best binders and mediums, and sold by companies with long histories of research in the field. The beginner doesn't need to go right to this rarefied top level, but he does need to stay away from the bottom. (Drop me a line if you have a question, I'm always glad to try to help.)

This is my 90-color "landscape" set of Rembrandt dry pastels: I have two drawers full of different pastels, some inherited some bought in sets, some bought individually.

There are several problems with sets for the more advanced or professional artist. One is the need for a  greater range of colors, or a different range, from what is provided by the manufacturer in their sets, which may be general assortments, or color ranges specifically selected for landscape, portraits, or still life. Or we may find that we use up certain colors much more quickly than others, and need larger tubes or more sticks. Sometimes I start with a set that matches most closely what I think I'll use, and then augment it. In the case of pastels, that means buying new boxes for storing the ones I buy individually.

And storage of art supplies, in general, is a whole other issue, which I'll talk about sometime soon in another post.

I'm curious to hear from non-professional artists who've bought art supplies -- has it been a good experience? Confusing? Frustrating? Do you feel like you got your money's worth?

Patience

Rough surf at Block Island. Fountain pen, grey ink, 8.5" x 5.5" on beige toned paper. First stage.

I was curious whether it would be possible to render such a complicated scene in pen and ink, without washes or color. It's difficult! This was the first state of the drawing. Later I added some white and brown colored pencil to increase the tonal range, and take advantage of the toned paper used for the drawing; I think I like it better as a drawing without, but the white makes it easier to "read" the scene. I'm not sure if the Block Island scene will end up as a painting or print or series of drawings, but I'm glad I did this study.

Rough surf at Block Island. Fountain pen, grey ink, colored pencil. 8.5" x 5.5" on beige toned paper. Second stage.

The real challenge -- and absorbing pleasure -- is to start with a blank page and, an hour or two later, see a depiction of the scene. That's the magic of drawing; it's what attracted me as a child and why I've kept drawing all my life. You're creating something from nothing, only through the work of your eye and your hand. Drawing can be so many things, done in so many styles. Sometimes I like to make a careful detailed study in order to help myself see what's actually there, where the structure and form lie, and so I can later make decisions about what to emphasize or leave out. But there is also genuine pleasure in the act of drawing itself - watching the tool move across the paper, seeing the marks emerge under your hand, feeling the tooth of the paper or its smoothness, watching shapes and forms develop, the unconscious process of making decisions as you work. It makes me angry when I think how many teachers and critics have disparaged students' abilities and their innate love of drawing, often discouraging them forever, and both forced students into particular styles or taken talented students apart for drawing in their own way. (My friend, the illustrator Priya Sebastien has recently written about this in her own life.) Drawing should be about joy and discovery, concentration and pleasure. It should be personal. It's so elemental, too, so fundamentally human - as the earliest cave paintings show us. How can anyone be so arrogant as to say, "this is the right way to draw, this is wrong?" And what harm they do!

Jose Maria Velasco, View of Chiquihuite Hill, watercolor on paper.

I've been inspired recently by looking closely at the work of Jose Maria Velasco (1840-1912) the legendary 19th. C. Mexican landscape painter. His drawings, watercolors and paintings are all marked by careful observation, immaculate draftsmanship, and patience -- while never losing sight of the whole, and as I stood in the gallery, moving closer and further away, what struck me the most was the extraordinary patience it must have taken for him to get it right: not just the details in the drawing, but the tonality, the exact precision of the colors he mixed. Each time I go to Mexico City I visit the National Gallery in order to see these paintings again: they remain fresh, alive, vibrant, and beautiful - even though they are very much in the academic tradition.

Jose Maria Velasco, Mexican landscape and detail, oil.

So many of us have lost that ability to be patient, either with our eyes or with our tools, perhaps because of the premium that has been placed on spontaneity and originality in modern art, and on speed and output in modern life in general. What we forget is that even the great innovators, like Picasso, were also great draftsmen, and they didn't acquire the skill to innovate, play, invent, and adapt without learning to see, and to draw extremely well. Patient, careful observation is the foundation of the most memorable art, from the great masters to Lucien Freud. You have to see first, and drawing is a way to see fully. To do that, you have to settle down for a while, a good long while, and put in the time. Then you can let it go into abstraction, allow your emotional response to dominate -- whatever is right for you at that time, with that subject. But if you don't know what an eye, or a fish, or a particular rock looks like to begin with, how are you ever going to capture its essence, let alone distort it at will?

Jose Maria Velasco, Rocks, oil study.

I say this because patience has always been a problem for me, in art, in practicing the piano, in slowing down enough to read carefully. I absolutely refused to play scales or etudes on the piano or flute, and my technique has always been weak as a result. In other areas, calligraphy for instance, I was willing to write pages and pages of examples. Some of the problem is just my impatient nature, my tendency to get bored, and an innate ability to "get by" on less-than-full attention. Some of it is the preference for expressive brushwork or an energetic line -- or sight-reading a new piece of music. Some of it is restlessness: the internal desire to move on to the next thing when the first one isn't finished. At the same time, I'm capable of being very attentive and patient when I remember to be, or when I insist on it for myself. I'm always glad when I give myself an exercise in slowing down, because I always learn something valuable and notice things I'd otherwise miss. Drawing is the back-to-basics practice that is the foundation for everything else. My friends who are professional orchestra players still practice every day; I need to draw every day too.

Vincent Van Gogh, A Fishing Boat at Sea, pen and ink, 1888.

The sketchbooks of great draftsmen are always inspiring - I think of Turner, Whistler, Van Gogh, Sargent, Winslow Homer. Because they were working more quickly than in the studio, their drawings often contain an energy, embodied in the line or the brushstroke, that is as palpable as the wind. Yet, they had the skill, honed by years of practice, to use every minute well, through patient concentration, and I don't think they saw their studies as "lesser" works. Sargent, who made his living from society portraits, once said that his true legacy would be his watercolors, and that is proving to be the case. Van Gogh's drawings of landscapes, trees, and gardens are every bit as moving to me as his paintings. And when I stand in a museum in front of one of these drawings or watercolor studies, I also feel myself, and my connection with all the other artists who have also faced a scene and the next blank page.

J.M. Turner, Storm at Sea, watercolor without pencil underdrawing.