More Sicilian Explorations, and a Watercolor Disaster

An Olive Orchard, central Sicily. Transparent watercolor on Arches cold press, 13" x 9".

Thank you to everyone who commented on the last post. I appreciated what you wrote very much, and it made me feel better to hear your solidarity and shared sorrow.  One commenter, Robbie, said that he felt it was important to be informed and not turn away from the unpleasant facts -- and I agree with that very much. He also wrote: "I worry too about the exaltation I find as I delve into singing; might I be using music as a temporary insulation against a distinctly non-musical world?" My own answer is that we all need places of exaltation, because this is where we find the solace, strength, and --yes-- reasons for going on and continuing the fight for what matters. It's not insulation to spend time doing the things that make us feel the most human and join us with some of the best aspects of the human spirit throughout time, it's only insulation when that's ALL that we do. If I didn't make that clear before, I want to emphatically do so now.

One thing I try to remember is that there have always been stubborn people who have continued to do art, read and write books, make music, love and protect nature, cherish and guard all aspects of human culture, and take care of one another even when life felt the most hopeless. Often they have also been the same people who quietly sheltered refugees or the persecuted, visited prisoners, wrote underground tracts, participated in protests, smuggled food for people in need...the list goes on. These are not the people who get written about in history books, but let's try for a moment to imagine what would have happened if they had not existed. Where would we be? That's what is meant by action and contemplation as two sides of one coin. People who have found their own sources of strength and renewal -- what I like to call "wells" that we are able to go back to drink from again and again -- have more ability to see what needs to be done, and help others. So no, I don't think we need to feel guilty for spending time doing these things, not at all. We just need to try to see the whole picture, and move back and forth between the active and contemplative parts of our lives, keenly aware of what each is, and how they complement each other. As for me: our choir season starts this coming week, and I can't wait to be singing again -- for the joy and challenge it presents to me, for the community of other musicians, and for what it gives to the listeners who hear us each week. That music during the Sunday services seems more important than ever.

 

The painting of the olive orchard was done over two working sessions on two separate days. I'm trying for a more expressive use of color and brushwork, and it's not easy for me. Here, my original idea was to make the field (actually a very dull, uninteresting brown) a beautiful pinkish color, complementing the intense chartreuse of the grass in the orchard beyond. The shadows would be dark blue, violet, and dark green, with the painting unified by burnt orange and burnt sienna, as well as the silvery grey of the olive leaves. For a first attempt, I'm not unhappy with it, though I'd like it to be looser still. But I'm learning and progressing by pushing myself in this direction and thinking a lot about it. It would be easier in a different medium, too. A different approach might be to make the bare field violet or lavender, still complementary but toward the cool side of the spectrum rather than the warm. The feeling would be quite different -- less exuberant, but more harmonious with the silvery greens. Van Gogh and Gauguin are both great sources of inspiration for color ideas.

--

The painting at the top is the most recent. Earlier in the week I went back to the charcoal sketch from the previous post...

and made a color version of the same scene.

Artemisia bush at Segesta. Transparent watercolor on Arches cold press, 9.5 x 6.5".

I subsequently ruined this painting by running the top of it under the tap to tone down the contrast a bit, and then overworking it -- so this is my only record of it. But that's OK. If you're lucky, each watercolor painting has passages that are especially successful, or where something unexpectedly interesting (or disastrous!) happens. We can learn from these for the next one. I quite like the artemisia bush in the foreground - it retains some of the freedom of the original charcoal sketch. In hindsight, more problematic here were the brown hill and dark green vegetation at center right -- too much detail that competes with the foreground. You can see what I mean if you cover up that area with your hand. Before the rest got ruined, I washed over the brown with green, and it was much better. The strong color of the fields and the purple hill at the top, though, are important, and when I rinsed the paper, I lost that brilliance.

It was simply an error in judgement, and sometimes that can be the result of a mood, or an impulsive idea that isn't well-considered. In watercolor, unfortunately, those errors are usually fatal. I think it's important to share some of these problems here so you know they happen all the time!

 

Here's my studio working method for stretching watercolor paper. This is the traditional way that my mother taught me when I was young, using gummed, water-activated kraft tape that you must moisten and then attach to the sides of high-quality paper (in this case, Arches or Fabriano 140# cold press paper) that's been soaked for at least 15 minutes, and then laid on a block of plywood. It's fussy but really works to keep that paper from buckling no matter how wet it gets, and is so much cheaper than buying pre-made watercolor blocks, or extra-heavy watercolor sheets. To remove the tape when the painting is finished, you need to carefully moisten the kraft paper backing, without getting any water on the painting itself (I use a small sea sponge soaked in water and then partially wrung out) and then the tape will release. Sometimes it's necessary to use a single-edged razor blade to remove bits of tape residue from the margins. For working outdoors or when traveling, watercolor blocks are indispensable, and I always have several of different sizes on hand, as well as sketchbooks. For the moment, it's helping me a lot to work in a larger format, mostly 22" x 30" sheets cut in quarters and then stretched with 3/4" margins.

Comments

[Roderick Robinson]

Thank you for resurrecting what I said and for elaborating on it. Of course you are right; and even if that were my sole reason for pursuing music (It isn't, by a long chalk) I'd keep singing anyway. Perhaps what I said could be simplified: is exaltation itself out of place in these bad times? Here I have the advantage over you. As a non-chorister I sing only for myself (plus V, my teacher) thus there are no real opportunities for extra-mural communication. Music being music and more or less un-amenable to words (Else why would it have occurred in the first place?) I find it fairly easy to keep my exaltation to myself.

Physically that is. There remains my blog which has demonstrably spewed forth musical exaltation ever since January 2016. Alas I could no more have contained myself than Etna under severe tectonic perturbation. Should we ever seek to generalise? Must we always be entirely precise or simply keep silent? Cue for a 10,000-word academic treatise which would ultimately fail to answer these questions.

I think "ruined" is too harsh a word in this post and that you have acknowledged this yourself. I don't ruin my warm-up when I fail to sustain the last la of the la-las; when V replays my defective sequence on the piano it's just one reminder out of many as to why I'm there in the first place: to adopt better habits. I love your references to "freedom" and "looseness" when you write about water-colours. They're so reminiscent of aspects of music. Except that in both cases they demand stern qualification. One might just about posit the paradox "free to be disciplined" and get away with it. As usual I've gone on too long.

[marly]

I always think of my failures in the realm of the arts as bridges on the way to other destinations, and clearly you are on your way to developing a new mode... So failures are not failures exactly but steps on the path to transformation... And while you are disappointed here, others will find much to admire, of course--just as a passage of writing marred for the writer by struggle and dissatisfaction while making may be encountered by the reader as little different from one that slid easily into the world. I like RR's "free to be disciplined."

Your last several posts are strong. I have a very simple way of dealing with the world, and I'm sure it is insufficient, as everything in hard, tumultuous times is insufficient. As one little mote (autocorrect changed that to "moose," which may be more appropriate!) in a big world, I aspire to be a Dorothea in my ordinary life--that tribute to anonymous, modest lives that made a difference at the end of "Middlemarch" has always struck me as beautiful and true--and to volunteer locally in ways that seem helpful. And the strange thing about doing such things is that it turns out to be helpful to oneself, probably more so than to those who are served.

As for the arts, writing remains a large part of how I navigate my life. I admire those who navigate well without it because it is so very necessary for me.