Submitting to the Unknown

Submissions are a part of every artist’s life. Whether it’s submitting a portfolio to an art school, a portfolio for a job, or a submission to an art show or gallery. They are something that every artist has to do if they want to put their work in the public arena.

What value does submitting our work have? Why does it seem that art making which it on the face of it, lacks opponents, all about competition? Obviously for school or a job, it's the difference between a career in art or a job in the art field. Submitting to shows and galleries can be the difference between recognition and obscurity. Art is competitive whether we like it or not.

That said, it should be remembered that if an artist is never recognized, it doesn’t mean they aren’t talented—just obscure. There are plenty of artists who have submitted work and gotten recognition who only have nominal talent. And there are great artists who have died trying. Vermeer was not recognized in his lifetime. Neither was Van Gogh.

So much recognition is about time and place—what is fashionable, what is new, who does the judging. Art has not been judged in an academy system since the late 1800s. Self-promotion and networking are how many branded artists have gotten recognition. Gallery directors can exude enormous power. But so can prestigious art schools.

Recently a friend and I have begun to submit a children’s book that we have collaborated on. He wrote the story. I designed the book and painted the illustrations. It is a daunting enterprise. Not that I haven’t submitted work before. I have and I’ve gotten some results. Some years I’m in as many as twelve shows.

But sometimes, the same painting that is awarded in one show, is not accepted in another. But submitting a children’s book is different. We are unknown. The competition is fierce. The chance of even a small nod is remote. So why bother? Why take this chance in a new arena against so many odds?

I think it has to do with taking chances. Taking a chance means that maybe something will happen. Dr. Seuss (Theodore Geiser) submitted The Cat in the Hat twenty-seven times before it was accepted for publication. Chicken Soup for the Soul was submitted one hundred and forty times. If we don’t take that chance, maybe twenty-seven maybe one hundred and forty, nothing will happen.

I try to encourage my students to submit their work—submit their work to graduate school, a job interview, or a juried art show. See what happens. Maybe nothing, maybe everything will. Count only the acceptances and discard the rest. You never know.

Seeing Beyond Oneself

A recent piece in the New Yorker magazine written by Adam Goplik, Titled “Life Studies” was ostensibly about how the author learned to draw from one of the leading “classical realists” of today, Jacob Collins. The fact that he stumbled through the learning process was not particularly of interest to me. What was of interest is how thick headed the classical realists are and what a shame that is. Classical realism is a name given to those artists who hearken back to the academy days, when students were taught a very strict and very specific way to make art. It is more or less the Pre-Raphaelite movement of today. They don’t consider any art valid after 1860 unless it is created in a very specific academy realist style. It is truly a shame because there are many things about these painters that are admirable. Their work, generally, is of a very high technical quality. They work from life and the object of their art is to create beauty. That isn’t what I have an issue with. I consider myself to be a contemporary realist. What I have issues with are the limitations they place on art, dismissing all artists who are talking about things other than what they are talking about. They (Collin’s in this article) dismiss out-of-hand not only Monet but also Sargent, Homer, and O’Keefe because they added their thoughts to what they saw. They deny the artist’s intent. And they deny an artist’s response to their time and place. Conceptually the work is much like Andrew Wyeth’s—illustrative.

Drawing from memory, drawing from the subconscious, drawing from the symbol side of your mind, and drawing from imagination are just as valid as drawing from life. To deny that, is to deny the way we think and the way we communicate visually. The idols of the classical realism school, or most or them, painted not was before them technically, but created the worlds of heaven and hell. (Unless of course, they did something no near mortal could.) They may have drawn from life, but it was staged. Jesus is not Jesus in the paintings, he was a model dressed up as Jesus. Is that more or less real than working from an image of an actual person, or a memory or a dream?

To pretend our time and place does not exist, (i.e. Andrew Wyeth and yes, Jacob Collins himself) creates a falsehood in itself, a world entirely bordering on the illustrative. Wyeth painted the rural countryside of Pennsylvania while traveling around in a five-million dollar private jet. The world he painted was not his world or really anyone’s world. It was a story. Jacob Collins paints his children beautifully but why deny their time and place? Where is his world? Beauty does not deny who we are. Beauty is not one way of thinking.

The problem with the entire “Classical Realism” movement is not that they are bad painters creating bad product, quite the contrary—much of the work is technically outstanding—it’s that they are too much like the “creationists” of art; determined to ignore the entire twentieth and twenty-first centuries. They block out additional ways of seeing. They don’t allow consideration of another way of thinking.

Do I insist my students learn to draw from life? Absolutely, yes. Without that skill, it would be the same as a writer who does not know how to read. But in addition to it being a fundamental skill that improves their ability to observe, to connect their eye/hand coordination, and aid their visual memories, it gives them access to a world that is not apparent. It gives them access to a state of being.

"The object of painting a picture is not to make a picture. The picture, if a picture results, is a by-product and may be useful, valuable, interesting as a sign of what has past. The object, which is back of every true work of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a state of high functioning, a more than ordinary moment of existence.” Robert Henri, “The Art Spirit” 1923

But then, Jacob Collins would dismiss Robert Henri. He was born after 1860.

Going Into Your Soul

This winter I went to the Norman Rockwell show not once, not twice, but three times. Not because he is a favorite of mine, he’s not. But because various friends and family wanted to go and I didn’t mind going with them. Although, the third time there, I bowed out and headed upstairs to take a look at the permanent collection.

Don’t get me wrong; I think Norman Rockwell is a wonderful illustrator. And I think it is wrong of the reviewers to compare him to the fine artists of his day: Andrew Wyeth, Georgia O’Keefe, John Marin, Edward Hopper, Neil Welliver and other realists. Instead of J.C. Leyendecker, James Montgomery Flagg and Robert Fawcett, who were his contemporaries in the field of illustration. Because illustration and fine art are not the same thing. One is not better or worse than the other, but they are quite different. They are different in intent, they are different in concept and they have different criteria.

First, let me state that I am a painter but also an illustrator. I love illustration. I am a professor of illustration and I practice illustration. But it is, as we now define things, a different genre. There are three substantial differences and Rockwell’s work has them all. Illustration is not self-expression. It has a very specific purpose, to communicate visually to a target audience. Illustration is mass-produced. It is designed and painted with the idea that the original is not what the majority of people will look at. Illustration is used usually with text. It is used to elucidate text, to visualize text or in place of text.

Norman Rockwell rarely, if ever painted anything for himself. His sole reason for painting was to satisfy the needs of a client. All of his work was designed and painted to be reproduced at a specific size, for a specific format. He was chosen by his clients because of his style both in form and in content. His work reflected the mood and feeling that they wanted to communicate with their publications.  His work was not self-expression. Rockwell’s work was, and is, a narrative story—complete with actors and props. Nothing that you see was real. When reviewers criticize his work for being sappy and sweet they completely miss the point. It was just that accessibility and “chocolate box” feeling that his clients were after and he did a fantastic job communicating that. That is what illustration does. His illustration defined the look of his client’s magazines.

There are many “fine artists” who illustrated.  A few doors and one floor up from the Rockwell exhibit are some absolute gems. There is a small room filled with the Civil War illustrations of Winslow Homer. But even Winslow Homer’s illustration differed fundamentally from Rockwell’s. Homer painted actual solders. He went to the front lines of the war and painted from life what he saw. He didn’t stage action, or costumes. He reported the war in a visual manner. Rockwell, on the other hand, painted models dressed up as solders, creating a still movie. The only thing that really makes Homer’s Civil War work illustration is the fact that it was mass-produced.

I think that it’s important to point out that illustration existed before the idea of fine art ever did—that the earliest cave paintings were indeed illustrations. They were painted to communicate a specific idea, not for self-expression or personal commentary. Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Da Vinci all illustrated the Bible. They all had clients who paid for their specific style and talent. They all used models and props for their work. Their work was very much done like the way Rockwell put his illustrations together. Rembrandt actually used his Jewish neighbors for his paintings of the Apostles just like Rockwell used his neighbors in Vermont.

But I wouldn’t but Rockwell in their company—and not just because their work wasn’t mass-produced. I wouldn’t put Rockwell in their company because their paintings are both illustrations of the Bible and great art. They go beyond the time and place of which they were created. There is an immeasurable quality to the painting. They go into your soul. Rockwell’s work, while quaint, and well executed, are of his time, nothing else. They are great pictures, technically exceptional, but have absolutely no depth. They are great illustrations.

Fun Dog

One night a student of mine was given a painting of a dog that she was expected to use as a style basis for a painting of another dog. The original painting was at best a colorful, lively, child-like rendition and at worse an immature, uneducated gesture. Several people liked it. Several people made no comment. I thought it colorful, but definitely not worth emulating. It said dog. It said fun. It said fun dog, but it did nothing else.

A neighbor of mine said that her five-year old was taking an art fundamentals class and now calling himself an artist and so is she. Does that mean if her son took a first aid class—never mind whether five year olds can take first aid classes—and started calling himself a doctor that she too would say, yes, he is a doctor?

Is any picture painted by anyone art? Is the painting of the dog art simply because someone took a stick with color on the end and put it on cloth? Is anyone an artist because they say they are? Is any insight, training or education even needed? Virtually everyone on the planet now calls themselves artists: street performers, pop singers, beauticians. There are entire museums devoted to visionary artists, people who spend days making entire cities out of toothpicks, along with pictures made by the criminally insane.

So where does that leave those who spend their entire lives dedicated to learning, educating, and practicing the art of painting? Who, like the classical realists of today followed a different path from the Dadaists and instead think, like the Greeks, that an artist should represent the purest forms of an ideal of truth and beauty, upon which the mind can reflect and thus be elevated. Not something anyone easily comes by, something that takes an enormous amount of doing.

I think it depends on how you want to look at the act of creating. I think those of us to like to think of themselves as an Artist with a big "A" sometimes look down on those who we think are only artists with a little "a". Instead, I think we need to recognize that all adults and children who call themselves artists (big and little "a"s) have discovered, on some level, that the act of creating is something very basic and fundamental to who we are as people. That the mere fact that virtually everyone calls themselves an artist is really akin to them discovering their humanity—that this act is very human and can be found in young children and in people with disabilities. As an artist I spend my life looking at the world and seeking inspiration beyond myself. For me, by my simple act of painting nature I am not only imitating creation in a literal sense, but also imitating the Creator in a more profound sense. So when a little child discovers this joy of creating or someone sees their love of their dog in a colorful rendition, both have gotten beyond themselves and closer to enlightenment. And who are we to judge.

The Element of Time

One of the first things one discovers while painting outdoors is how fleeting light is. The solid forms don't change very much, but the light certainly does. I spoke to one artist who said that he only allows 45 minutes per day to paint and returns as often as is needed until the work is complete. Monet would rise before dawn, paint the first canvas for half an hour, then switch to the second canvas and so on. He would come back the next day, providing the weather was the same. I heard my students say they desperately wanted to take a picture, not for composition but to work from, in order to catch the light. But I'm not convinced that capturing one moment of time is the point of plein aire painting in this millennium or that is was the objective at the beginning of the art movement. In fact, I would argue that the reason to paint out-of-doors is actually the opposite. Art need not be about a specific instant but a moment in time. Unlike the Impressionists, it should separate itself from the camera by being over time, a contemplation, insight and thought. Plein aire is a way of thinking and of abstracting. It is about a state of mind.

This need to capture one instant in time, for the representational painter, is directly related to the invention of photography and photography's ability to capture single moments. When the plein aire movement started, this was not the case. What actually fueled the plein aire movement was the rise of landscape art and its acceptance and salability. John Ruskin said that landscape painting was the "chief artistic creation of the nineteenth century" and "the dominant art". In direct reaction to the Industrial Revolution among other things, nature had gained a value "akin" to religion that it previously didn't have. And artists were observing nature directly while they painted as opposed to working from their field sketches. While the landscape had appeared in earlier schools, it was still several notches below historical landscapes, portraits and religious works—until now.

The biggest factor was not, as many people think, the invention of tube paints in 1841. John Constable began his plein aire campaign in 1814, determined "to finish a small painting on the spot". Samuel Palmer and the Pre-Raphaelites were painting outdoors using watercolors, gouache and oil in the 1820s, and, of course, Thomas Cole of the Hudson River School was painting as early as 1825. All without the use or need of tube paints. No, the biggest rational was what nature or the concept of nature had become to the society and culture that these artists were living in.

Primary among the shared principles of Hudson River School artists was belief in natural religion or, in short, the idea that celebrating and closely observing nature were spiritual acts akin to prayer, through which an individual could both acknowledge and commune with the power of a creator. (Judith Hansen O'Toole)

There is yet another motive for referring you to the study of Nature early—its influence on the mind and heart. The external appearance of this our dwelling place, apart from its wondrous structure and functions that minister to our well-being, is fraught with lessons of high and holy meaning only surpassed by the light of Revelation. It is impossible to contemplate with right-minded, reverent feeling, its inexpressible beauty and grandeur, for ever assuming now forms of impressiveness under the varying phases of cloud and sunshine, time and season, without arriving at the conviction "That all which we behold is full of blessings-that the Great Designer of these glorious pictures has placed them before us as types of the Divine attributes, and we insensibly, as it were, in our daily contemplations, "To the beautiful order of His works learn to conform the order of our lives." (Asher B Durand, Letter II)

The majority of artists working en plein aire were not concerned, at this point in time, with one 30-minute moment in time. Their concerns were capturing a state of mind, of studying nature in order to learn from her, seeking meaning and communing with the power of the work of the Creator. They believed the diligent perusal of, and lens like fidelity to nature "in the raw" was a path to spiritual insight. This was not a movement interested in optical effects but in seeking truth through observation and contemplation.

The Impressionists, however, did become interested in a moment in time. They became interested in color at the expense of form. Of how we see color and how color changes with light and how fleeting color is. It was precisely because photography could capture a single moment that forced Impressionists to rethink what and how they were painting. If a photograph could capture form, what were they doing? They were focusing on what photography did not do at this point, make color. They left form to the machine. They competed with photography on capturing the light effects of color in that very specific moment of time. The artists before them did not. They focused on abstracting from nature, the artist before them did not. They created work that no photograph could imitate. Because of this, many completed final paintings on site as opposed to painted sketches later painted from in the studio.

Interestingly, today's representational artists pick up painting with this thread. They try to capture a moment in time. Ironically, many of today's artists (and I include myself) will use photos as source material for their studio work. Today's cameras capture not a moment in time but a millisecond. Not a human biotical view, but a mechanical single optical view. Why use this as a standard of truth? In fact, a photograph in which so many people now assume as truth is not how we see, any more than Picasso saying we see all sides of an object at the same time—we contemplate our surroundings over time. We do not see in milliseconds.

The value of painting from life is not to imitate a camera. The value of painting out of doors today should go back before the Impressionist (pre-impressionism) and pick up the idea of being in nature as a value to itself. The needs and lessons of the environment are in some measure greater today than two hundred years ago. As artists, we should reflect what nature is telling use—not what the camera describes—and see what comes of it.

The object of painting a picture is not to make a picture. The picture, if a picture results, is a by-product and may be useful, valuable, interesting as a sign of what has past. The object, which is back of every true work of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a state of high functioning, a more than ordinary moment of existence. (Robert Henri)

Plein Aire Tips

I have been able to paint en plein aire more this summer than in previous summers. It could be the weather or simply the fact that once I started this season, I found myself wanting to go whenever possible. As the Shrine Mont Art and Soul Conference approaches here are a few tips that I find useful.

Be Comfortable

Make sure your chair, if you sit while painting, is comfortable for a two-to-three hour sitting. Bring a hat, sunscreen and bug spray, but also consider an umbrella. Many times I have started out in the shade only to find that the sun has moved, and not only changed my shadows, but taken away my shade. Having your work in direct sunlight is less than ideal.

Be Prepared

Take along drinking water and a snack. Bring your camera. You can use it as your viewfinder but also to record your scene for later in the studio. This is especially useful for those who are new to plein aire. While purists would frown on this, it is great tool for both the beginner and the seasoned artist. It will show you how successful you can be.

Relax

It sounds simple, but many people are uncomfortable painting in public and they let it affect their approach. Most people who stop by to look are interested in painting themselves and tend to be positive. Be savvy, have a few business cards handy.

Make Every Minute Count

Keep in mind this is not a studio painting. Instead of taking weeks to complete, most artists think of field studies as taking two-to-three hours. Some do return the next day but usually paint a different viewpoint or scene. I like to spend 15 minutes on my thumbnail sketch; 15-20 minutes on my under drawing/painting; 10-15 minutes on color and the rest of the time painting for a two-to-three hour outing. I must be in the right frame of mind when I put paint to paper so jumping ahead without thinking won’t work for me. A plein aire outing is successful when I have seen nature unfolding before me.

 

Remember the Thumbnail Sketch

The best way to save time is to make time for your thumbnails. They are your blueprints for success. The more you do them, the easier they become. They are where you decide composition, intent, and approach. The worst thing you can do is to paint like a camera. You are not a camera; there is a reason why you chose the scene in front of you.

Find a Composition

Part of the enjoyment of painting en plein aire is exploring the area for things that interest you. It can be a small detail of a landscape or something that takes in more of the surrounding environment. After a while you get a feeling for what you enjoy looking at. Once you’ve settled on something, use your viewfinder or your camera and consider your possibilities. Translate these, using simplified large forms to your thumbnails. As in any good painting, balance your work.

Decide on the Intent

Within your composition identify the center of interest. The center of interest does not have to be an object although it can; it can be the way the light falls or reflects or the way two things interact; or the contrast between two forms—but it needs to be defined. The center of interest does not have to be in the center of the page. The center of interest is what you, as an artist want to talk about.

Think About Your Approach

Generally speaking, oil works from back to front, dark to light and the general to the specific; watercolor from front to back; light to dark and general to the specific but you also want to think about how you are going to tackle each area and what kind of paint application will best support your intent—which will trump the back to front, front to back approach. For example, you may decide that a wet-in-wet approach is best for the background but you want to use drybrush or line work for the foreground. You may decide with oil, that broken color might work best for the distant mountains but a tighter more detailed application is needed for the center of interest. What ever your direction, the thumbnail is the time to think about these things, not after you’ve already put paint on the canvas or paper.

Give Yourself Direction

Once you have thought through your thumbnail sketch, mark off the center and transfer the composition to your support. If you are using oil, use ultramarine; if you are using watercolor, an HB pencil will do. Limit yourself to fifteen minutes and spend the most time on your center of interest. Keep it simple, but give yourself a framework to work in.

Mix It Up

Always mix up more color than you think you will need. And always mix up at least five to six values. On the green side, mix yellow, blue and gray greens to cover the wide color range of green in the summer. Mix your “black” not from the tube but from a cool and warm color so that you can adjust the temperature to the shadow color.

Have Fun

Now let the scene in front of you unfold. By concentrating on your intent, on what you find worthy to paint, you will not be overwhelmed by what you see. Let things become clearer, let the light change and enjoy.

Practice and More Practice

“If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn’t seem so wonderful at all.”–Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, 1475-1564

I love the fact that the terminology used in music is some of the same terminology used in art: harmony, unity, discord, repetition, scale, and composition. This is not by accident. There are correlations, not just in the terminology but the principles that some terms refer to. Repetition, for instance, in art as in music, is thought of as a principle. A principle, used to create unity by the repetition of individual elements (notes) in a painting. Unity being the objective of composition, i.e. the idea of creating gestalt, of making out of many one. But repetition is also how we learn a great deal of things—watching things twice, reading things over, practicing a piece of music. When you sit down for the first time with a piece of music, you work your way through it. No matter how good a musician you are, how well you read music, very few of us play the piece perfectly the first time through. It takes the second and third look, the practice, the memorization, before we perform the piece. There are practitioners of music who insist that you memorize the music in order to really know the work.

The same thing can hold true for those who paint the world around them. You really don’t see what’s in front of you until you draw it. You see the object obviously, but you really don’t see the individual object. Drawing brings out not just details, but actual things that you don’t notice until you look at it differently. So it isn’t the first time through, which is truly a gesture, an armature, a “rough” or an outline. It isn’t always the second, although things do get clearer, but it can be the third time through. People always, including myself, are impatient with drawing. They want to get to the performance, the painting, quickly—not the research or the study. We want to know right away. We want to start the painting, without really knowing what we are looking at.

Good realism takes more than one look. The tree is this tree, the leaf this leaf, the person, this person. Unless we are simply interested in our first impression of the scene, not the individual—and there are times we are—we have to take the time to learn it. Realism is not about improvisation.

You don’t see many studies anymore. Even Cezanne, who looked and looked and saw and saw didn’t do studies. Studies, or études, were thought, at one time, to be essential to getting at the truth, so to speak. Michelangelo drew study after study until he knew the form, until he memorized the form. He practiced and practiced. His work was never an improvisation or an impression. Without question his innate talent was gigantic, but he didn’t wing it. He worked at what he did.

Mistakenly, there are those who think that drawing realistically is simply copying. Copying the world, copying a photo of the world. Drawing realistically is not copying. To say that implies that there is no learning, no editing. If it’s so easy then why is it that so few can do it well? When you draw a leaf, a tree, a bird, a forest, you never forget it. The object you draw is not something you know. It is something you learn while doing. It’s equal to learning what something is called. Drawing is the visual equivalent of naming.