Remains of the Day (oil on canvas, 2022)

I have spent many thousands of hours drawing from direct observation. For me, it has been a way to both develop technique and, more importantly, to develop fluency in the language of visual form. When you stand before a subject with a blank surface and some type of mark-making instrument you are faced with an almost infinite number of ways to translate what you are seeing into some kind of visual form. What parts of the subject to include in the composition and how to compose the subject within some kind of a frame, whether to use a linear approach or to use shapes, how to render the value relationships, whether to use objective colors as you see them or to use a more creative, subjective approach to color, how much detail to include or to draw in a more abstract, suggestive way. Grappling with these myriad choices is an inherent part of the drawing process. A visual artist, when working representationally, can, if they have the skill, render a convincing likeness of their subject but they can also render other content that is not based on optical perception. An artist can suggest emotions, atmosphere and weather, convey a narrative, create a sense of drama, and force the viewer to see things that they might not otherwise notice. All of these elements, including optical representation, are communicated through the use of visual language using lines, shapes, values, textures, colors, and the means by which these elements are organized.

For the past ten years or so, I have focused more on drawing in my studio, from memory and imagination, as a method of finding ways to convey “non-visual” elements through visual language. When working in this way, the emphasis is on visually representing the intangible, similar to how a musical composer might convey emotions or narrative through the arrangement of sounds. Although it may seem like a purely self-indulgent act of playing with the materials and seeing what happens, it is actually a much more focused attempt to create a visual representation of something. The struggle, through the process of drawing, is still about representing the subject visually, but the reference is not something that I am looking at; rather, it is something from inside, but the rules of effective visual communication still apply. It is actually more challenging than drawing a subject from direct observation because there is no reference for me to compare my work to. In the end, I am really the only one who can assess whether or not the work is a success.

When the Spell is Broken (oil on canvas, 2022)

Everyone will view a work of art in their own personal, subjective way. We bring to the experience of looking at art our own personality traits, history, tastes, prejudices, cultural associations, etc. so it is impossible for two people to have exactly the same experience when viewing a work of art. The same is true when it comes to reading books, listening to music, and watching films. We even have different experiences when we see the same work of art at different times in our lives because we have changed. I saw the exhibition of Andrew Wyeth’s Helga paintings and drawings in 1987 when had just left graduate school and I was underwhelmed by the work. This experience had nothing to do with the work and everything to do with me and what my priorities and interests were at the time, along with my inexperience and lack of fluency in visual language. This past Spring, a student brought a copy of the catalogue to that same exhibition to class and, upon looking through it, I was literally awestruck at the brilliance of the work, made all the more striking because of my previous experience. I immediately got on my phone and ordered a copy of the catalogue from eBay! Studying the work over the Summer, I became all too aware of how much our experience of viewing art has to do with us and not the artist.

Still, an artist who has knowledge of how to communicate effectively through the language of visual form and an understanding of their target audience can construct a work so that the majority of people that see it will have a somewhat similar experience. Oftentimes, this simply involves choosing subjects that are laden with symbolism and rendering them in an objectively realist style or a well-trodden style (e.g. Impressionism) that has obvious and proven connotations.

Other artists, however, choose to create work that encourages the viewer to have a very subjective experience. Their work is intentionally ambiguous. Rather than spoon feeding the meaning to the viewer, they challenge the viewer to find their own meaning in the work. Rather than presenting the viewer with a window that allows them to look out or in on something, they present a mirror, hopefully giving the viewer an opportunity to look inside themselves. Neither of these approaches is better than the other. It really comes down to what the artist’s intentions are. In my own work, I have transitioned away from creating images with fairly obvious meaning to works that are more ambiguous because I want people to have their own unique experience when they view my work. One of the greatest compliments I get is when I paint something from my imagination, and someone tells me that they recognize the place.

The Days Before You Came (oil on canvas, 2022)

(Private Collection)
When I was studying art as an undergraduate, back in the "20th century" (as my son likes to say when he wants to remind me how old I am!), many of today's common hazardous materials regulations didn't exist. We could use spray fixative in the studios and everyone who painted used turpentine as a solvent and for cleaning brushes. Students and teachers even used to smoke in the studios, although not during classes. By current OSHA regulations, tobacco products, turpentine, and spray fixatives cannot even be brought on campus. I don't miss the cigarette smoke and I have found spray fixatives that don't have the nasty, toxic odor of the ones I used in college (although they cost about three times as much!). Except for when I'm laying down a burnt sienna underpainting, using large house painting brushes, I almost always paint with knives, so I don't have the need for cleaning brushes anymore. When I do, I use odorless mineral spirits. When I have students, I insist that they also use odorless mineral spirits so I can be in compliance with OSHA standards and to avoid anyone having a negative reaction to turpentine fumes. Once, a student brought some kind of citrus based solvent that was supposed to be environmentally safe (according to the label, anyway). The fumes were horrendous and gave all of us headaches and nausea, and the student who brought the stuff ended up losing consciousness. I brought him outside for some fresh air, which quickly revived him and he was fine in the end, but I have since banned citrus-based solvents from the studio.

But I do get nostalgic for the aroma of gum turpentine. I use it in small amounts in my main painting medium (It's a secret recipe, so don't even ask!). Whenever I smell it, I am instantly transported back to my youth as a struggling undergraduate art major with grandiose aspirations of becoming the next Rembrandt or Dürer, whilst struggling to figure out how to paint convincing shadows or to properly compose a drawing. I have bittersweet memories of those days. The many long, arduous hours of labor to produce mostly mediocre works of art were often demoralizing and I had practically no social life or time for other interests. Yet, somehow, I managed to remain optimistic despite my numerous "failures". I tell my students now that they will have to make a lot of bad pictures before they start making good ones so don't look at the bad pictures as failures; they are successes because each one means that you have one fewer bad pictures to make. I know that might sound like a platitude, but I wish someone had said that to me when I was in my early 20s. Not that it would have made much difference, I suppose. I kept working anyway....

From a Safe Distance (oil on canvas, 2022)

(Private Collection)
As a Visual Arts Studio major in college, I was required to take a two-semester Survey of Art course, which was an art history course that provided a cursory overview of the history of Western (mostly European) art, beginning with the cave paintings in Lascaux through some of the art movements of the early 20th century, including Cubism and Surrealism. What I remember most from that course was that we spent an inordinate amount of time studying the architecture of churches and cathedrals. I also had the opportunity to take two additional Art History elective courses. One was a small, seminar-style course on Northern Renaissance Art, and the other was a Modern Art course, which covered the major art movements of the first half of the 20th century. I wanted to take a course on Baroque and Roccoco Art during my last semester, but as a Studio Art major, I was not permitted to take more than four art history courses. My advisor suggested that I talk to the instructor about the possibility of auditing the course. He told me that there was not enough space in the classroom for an additional desk, but he needed a work/study student to operate the slide projector. So I was able to sit in on all of the lectures whilst getting paid for it! Win. Win.

Looking back, those five undergraduate courses probably account for less than 1% of all of the art history that I have studied. I started collecting books about art when I was still a student and it continues to be an obsession. I have hundreds of art books in my house and studio and, with the exception of the pile of recent acquisitions in my living room, I have read and studied all of them. I often refer back to many of my books for inspiration, to revisit topics, or to give students actual of examples of concepts that I am teaching them, or to see how one of the masters may have solved a specific visual problem that I am struggling with.

I believe that artists have a responsibilty to know as much as possible about the history of their craft. This is a lifelong study. We can learn a great deal from the artists of the past who have struggled to find creative solutions to many of the same visual problems that all of us face regularly. Oftentimes, such solutions became new ways of working and seeing, and they can inspire us to persevere in the face of seemingly insurmountable visual obstacles.