Knife, Lemon, Plate

"Knife, Lemon, Plate"
Oil on panel, 4 x 10 inches (10 x 25 cm)
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As I was cleaning up my studio from today's work, I got to thinking about the term "Still Life". It's kind of a funny, contradictory label that seems to imply both stasis and action, and has something of the flavor of a Koan (Koans are Zen teaching stories that contain a logical inconsistency meant to disorient the rational mind and lead the student to realize a deeper truth... so I'm told, anyway). The French term strikes me as even odder: "Nature Morte"; literally, "Dead Nature". Also a contradiction, since to me nature usually implies some sort of active, evolving force or process.

Any time we can't clearly and simply name something, chances are we don't fully grasp it. These odd labels we give to this particular type of painting makes me wonder if there isn't something inherently confusing about the genre... to the point that we struggle about what to call it.

In a way this makes sense to me. It's easy to "get" a portrait, because reacting to other human faces is a very basic part of our nature. Landscapes often resonate with emotional states we all clearly experience and identify with. It's a little harder to pinpoint how still life touches us: One could say that we're just painting piles of things; in what way is that possibly interesting? And yet... obviously it does work.

I'm not really sure where (if anywhere) I'm going with this thought; at the moment it's just one more idea rolling around in my head. It does suggest, though, one possible way of approaching still life: Although the objects we work with are in fact inanimate, they should be felt, sensed, and painted in such a way that we always imply their vital, living essence; movement in stillness... stillness in movement.

After all, any work of art is nothing more than a single frame pulled out of the entire movie.

Still Life with Antique Knife

"Still Life with Antique Knife"
Oil on panel, 8 x 8 inches (20 x 20 cm)
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Last month I posted a few in-progress images of this painting. Now that it's finished, I can post a final image of it.

A lot - maybe even most - of my compositions are happy accidents. Though I usually start with one idea in mind, most often the process of arranging the objects takes on a life of it's own; new forms spontaneously suggest themselves, and before long the original idea is completely forgotten. This process of discovery and exploration can be the most enjoyable part of making paintings.

It's certainly the way this painting came about. By now I don't have the slightest recollection what my original idea was; but the moment I placed the knife on top of the ceramic vase and saw the amazing shadow it cast, I knew I had my composition. There was still a lot of tweaking to do, but from that point it was all working out details.

Still Life with Green Marble Egg

"Still Life with Green Marble Egg"
Oil on panel, 4.25 x 6 inches (10.5 x 15 cm)
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It's been a long time since I've offered any paintings at auction. I read the same news as everybody else, and the general state of the economy made me a little skittish this year, especially since my paintings currently take much longer to produce than back when I was actively following the painting-a-day practice. As a result, I've basically been building an inventory of new paintings and... waiting. Anyway, the recession being officially over (so the news says), the time feels right to start making some of these new pieces available.

I thought I'd start with this, which is something of a recent personal favorite. I can almost never resist the urge to paint objects through glass, and this lemon seen through an old spice bottle was no exception. The green marble egg was more difficult to place in the composition - maybe because it's actually an unusual object - but I'm glad I was able to include it.

Revisions

detail from Kaleidoscope: Chinese Pipe and Glass
Before revision (left), and after (right)

Most of the last 2 weeks was spent paying attention to some family issues, and then getting over an ugly cold (I don't get sick all that often, but when I do...). Though it didn't leave much time for work, when I did sit down at my easel, I worked on revising an earlier painting. Revision is something I haven't done all that often, since I don't ordinarily keep works around for long after they're finished. This year, though, I made the decision to hold on to a number of pieces until the economy improves a little.

It was an interesting experience, so I thought I'd talk a little about it. This was a piece I'd finished about 3 months ago. I was completely satisfied with the composition, so I knew nothing about that would change. From the beginning, though, I was also a little dissatisfied with the quality of the color, and the general attention to detail. There wasn't any one thing that struck me as wrong; there was simply this overall feeling that "it could be better".

The entire process consisted of going over almost every piece of the painting, literally moving a square inch at a time, and simply restating brushstrokes. It's my impression that I spent a sizable fraction of the time reworking highlights; where originally I had painted a simple white, introducing a more subtle tint, paying greater attention to the "halo" effects around its edges, and giving more specific definition to it's shape. And so it went; the revision probably took at least half, maybe even more - of the time required to do the initial painting.

The results are anything but dramatic... anything. In fact, when I first made the side-by-side before and after detail shots (see above), I could barely pick out any specific differences, aside from it being overall a little lighter. My first thought was that I'd just wasted my time. The more I looked at it, though, the more I could see the results emerge. Here a highlight popped a little more, there a detail seemed fresher and crisper, and yet another color seemed deeper and richer. In short, the painting ultimately felt like it came to life.

It's just this sort of thing that makes the kind of painting I do worth it. Learning to concentrate more and more deeply this way is really the heart and soul of how I paint; and it's very much an ongoing process. The devil may be in the details, but so are the angels.

Almost there

In progress: untitled still life
oil on panel
8 x 8 inches (20 x 20 cm)

A few more hours' work and this will be finished. Since I probably won't photograph it again until it's dried and varnished, I thought I'd put this final in-progress shot up.

Working on this painting in particular, I found myself mindful of how colors become grays as the objects turn away from the light. This is a very well-known phenomenon, but still beautiful to observe, and gratifying to capture.

In Progress

In Progress: untitled still life
Oil on panel
8 x 8 inches (20 x 20 cm)

As I mentioned a few days ago, I've been painting some slightly larger pieces, so I thought I'd give a glimpse of what's in the works.

This is actually a piece that I very nearly threw out. I started it about 6 months ago, completed the underpainting, and then decided I didn't like it. It's rare for me to not finish paintings, but this one wound up on the shelf, and after a while I almost put it in the trash. I looked at it with fresh eyes this week, decided it had potential, and continued with it. Now that I'm into it, I think this could turn out to be a painting I'm quite proud of.

Although it looks like it's just begun, in reality much of the heavy lifting has already been finished. Obviously there was a lot of intricacy in the knife, but the real challenge has been the cloth backdrop. Accurately capturing both the floral design and in particular the downward flow of the light took a lot of concentration, and in fact some repainting. This was definitely a case where the background was as important as foreground.

The word background itself is problematic. It can easily lead to an attitude that it represents a less-important part of the painting: "Oh that's just background, I don't have to be as careful here as with the foreground". I have been guilty of this many times. However, the more I grow as a painter, the more I realize what an incorrect viewpoint that is, at least for me.

In fact, I've even tried to stop thinking of it as background, and instead try to think of it as context. Inasmuch as the labels we put on things matter, that at least gives it a more dignified standing than "merely the backdrop". As with anything, the context has to be right, or the objects within it will be misunderstood.

The reality is, in order to paint well, I have to challenge myself to be meticulous with everything.

The First Four Years

I was mentioning to a friend this afternoon that I hadn't posted to my blog for about a month. Realizing how sad that actually sounded, I thought I'd write an update.

I also realized that I've been blogging for exactly 4 years now; my first post was on September 29, 2005. I guess that makes me something of an old hand.

This blog started with several motivations, and I wasn't entirely sure what to expect from the project. For the most part, I'm very pleased with the way it's unfolded. It's been a place to talk about and show my new work, a gallery to sell paintings, and on rare occasions a forum to discuss myself, which I usually later thought twice about (being somewhat of a private person).

I've also had a sometimes awkward relationship with it. There have been many periods where I feel incredibly enthused, and can't seem to update it often enough. I've also gone for some stretches where it's just the farthest thing from my mind, and I can barely even remind myself to log on and respond to the comments (which I truly appreciate, by the way, even if I don't always react in good time). Obviously, I've been in one of those stretches lately.

This violates one of the rules we've all heard regarding blogs - "Just keep writing no matter what: Irregular posting means lost readership". In my own case I've felt deep down that it's probably better to say nothing if I really didn't have anything to say (or show). I've always sincerely hoped that people who are interested in my paintings will be willing to look at new work as I can finish it, whether I do or don't post a lot of writing in between. I certainly hope that my readers have not been turned off by the periodic silences.

At any rate, silence aside, things have been going well. I've been working on a set of slightly larger pieces - a few of them are already finished, and I'll photograph and post them soon. I've also been reading, thinking, and deeply enjoying the turning of Summer into Autumn, which is my favorite season. In general, it's been the kind of good, quiet space that contemplative art comes from.

Even though it goes without saying, I'll say it anyway; blogs are absolutely useless without readers. I know there are people out there who do read this blog regularly, and I have always gratefully appreciated that... Thank You!

More good stuff is coming... right here.

6 Fragments

As I mentioned in my previous post, I've been slack about posting, but certainly not about painting. Here are half a dozen new fragments.



"Fragment: Eggshell, Knife, Imari"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 3.5 inches (6 x 9 cm)
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"Fragment: Silver Teapot Handle"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 2.5 inches (6 x 6 cm)
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"Fragment: Lemon Marmalade"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 2.5 inches (6 x 6 cm)
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"Fragment: Glass and Copper"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 2.5 inches (6 x 6 cm)
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"Fragment: Cherries in Silver"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 2.5 inches (6 x 6 cm)
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"Fragment: Liqueur and Glass"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 2.5 inches (6 x 6 cm)
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Lemon Diptych

The summer air has put me in a more relaxed frame of mind lately. This is generally a good thing, but it's also meant that I haven't really been keeping up with my blog. After Labor Day, I'll be back on a more routine posting schedule here.

I have, however, been working pretty steadily, so I thought I'd share the most recent paintings in 2 posts.

Here is a pair of recently completed larger pieces, intended to be displayed as a pair.


"Double Lemon"
Oil on linen
12 x 6 inches (30 x 15 cm)
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"Lemon Marmalade"
Oil on linen
12 x 6 inches (30 x 15 cm)
Sold

Fragment: Bottleneck No. 6

"Fragment: Bottleneck No. 6"
Oil on panel, 2.5 x 3.5 inches (6 x 9 cm)
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It's been a while since I've painted a bottleneck piece; they're simple, uncomplicated, and enjoyable for me. Others seem to like them as well.