Knowing when to Quit

...It is one of the hardest things to learn.

Children often get tired or bored, and quit at just the right time to leave a fresh "take" on what they see, or are trying to express.  Having raised two kids I can state that children are simply lucky in knowing when to quit. More often then not a drawing would turn into mush from overworking and revision.  Once or twice a year (after dozens of recycling bins filled with "keep-em-busy" sheets) a beautiful scribble turns up.

The inexperienced artist usually feels a need to work to some sort of perfection.  This is just as well since the novice needs the experience of working more then the she needs the perfect masterpiece.  The skills will come with experience; and mastery will lead to masterpieces.  Just as the novelist needs to learn spelling, grammar, and sentence structure before telling a story, the artist needs to feel natural and comfortable with his tools before expecting perfection.

Unfortunately, the modern world seems to encourage an impatience in people.  If I can photograph my house, or model and render a design in no time, why can't I create perfect beauty instantaneously.  Life is short: meaning that we expect to experience everything in the world right now!  I guess I'm more a stick-in-the-mud then I thought.  In reality life is longer and better then at any time 'til now.

The mature artist, having mastered the tools and techniques, can return to the visceral reaction of a child. Although composition and proportion can be taught, beauty tends to happen when you least expect it.  Letting your skills race along, while your mind's eye stays awake to the possibilities that are developing, seems the best way to get to the right place.

Reading Art Books

I just finished "reading" J. C. Leyendecker, by Laurence S. Cutler & Judy Goffman Cutler (Abrams, New York, 2008), and it reminded me of something I have taken for granted my entire life: different books are read in different ways.  Reading fiction, history or biography is a "start at the beginning" business.  It is linear, and if well written, can be profitably read from beginning to end.

An art book like J. C. Leyendecker is a different thing; at least to a visual artist.  The pictures come first - no reading of words, just paging through to absorb the images and save the good ones in the brain's image bank.  A day or two later a viewing of the images again, but stopping to read the captions to get the materials, size, technique, etc.  Finally, a week or two later if the previous "readings" have piqued my interest, read cover to cover.  By the way, this book is excellent on all levels and is well worth picking up.

Aside1...  I'd love to know what percentage of the population reads art books in this "image first" way.  Also, what percentage reads art books cover to cover, and how many (like my wife) who avoid them altogether.

Aside2...  Military history and economics (among other subjects) tend to be written and read linearly, but necessarily have many maps, graphs and tables that make reading them more jagged and "skip-a roundish".  Complex subjects in general make one stop, reread and absorb (and are perhaps a different category again).

Anyway, the number of art books that I have actually read entirely is quite small - a fraction of the books I own or have checked out of the library.  And, I treat the internet in the same way: images first, text later.

Oh, and Leyendecker?  An amazing artist with the ability to be highly stylized (see book cover) or rough and ready (above); but always a first class recorder of reality.  I was put off at first by his relentless fashionable look, but was won over by his obvious talents (note the range in the following pieces).  It was also impressive that at a time when photography was easily used to complete paintings, he was said to work exclusively from models.

Reading and Writing

This curious relationship between artists and art books has comforted me in writing my own book.  I am writing it in the same way that I would read it; pictures first.  (actually this was the way I wrote my masters thesis - diagrams and graphs first, then text)

So, I began each section (in this case a two page spread) with a group of images that are examples of the principle that I am going to talk about.  I weed them out and decide on a sequence that will bring the idea out, clarify it, and finally exemplify it in a finished architectural rendering.

Next, I sketch out the layout of the images and text, following the sequence arguement.

Finally I write the text, and assemble the page in Word, so that I will have a complete, detailed layout to present to a publisher or critic/editor.  Although it is not the final product, it is complete enough that there is no confusion about the subject, image quality and vision for the final product.

Enough!!!  Back to the book.

Drawing Process 1

I was just in NYC to meet an old friend/mentor, and get his advice on the book I'm writing.  He pointed out that finished renderings, drawings and paintings were nice for inspiration, but a bit more process would be nice.

He was right, and so without any more delay, a bit of process.  Unfortunately, I'm not in a verbose state of mind (am I ever?), so just a few notes will be attached.

The general lines have already been finalized on toned pastel paper, working from a photo.  No tracing allowed, I'm trying to force myself to "see".  The bright and shadowed areas are then roughed in using white and black Prismacolor pencils.

Most of life is filled with polishing.  Not the most entertaining work, but excellent for training the eye to see in detail. The same color pencils are used to develop the form.  I was especially interested in capturing the reflected lighting on the right, and the pattern of muscles under the skin on the lower back.  It is interesting that I prefer black and white nudes to color nudes.  My sense of color seems to be oriented toward buildings and landscape rather then skin tone.  I imagine a psychiatrist would have something to say about that.

Next, a sketch (again from a photo) of the nave of Ely Cathedral.  This was more of a exercise in laying out a complex bit of architecture, and less a study of shape and form.  Above is the layout; some of it is fairly straightforward, but the lantern is a bear being an octagon with supporting piers.

Here I've moved into some of the light and dark.  Still trying to clarify the lantern and supporting walls.

And finally, I've pretty much given up on detailing the lantern, and turned instead to the foreground finials. 

I am not happy with the result, but it does show the process, and how you don't always end up with the result you were hoping for.

Kismet and Computers

Here is a shot of my watercolor palette.  It looked interesting; an accidental abstract painting, if you will.

Here is a photo from a few years ago, which I took without realizing the curious shadow shape.  An accidental confluence of tree, fence, light and me.

My kid brother (at our age that will give him a chuckle) lives out by a river, with plenty of undeveloped land.  I was tramping around his woods last winter and shot this old truss bridge.  I painted this on a computer tablet, using that photo, which, with its contrast of green, rust and winter grays, was irresistible.  A bit of luck that I hardly noticed when I was photographing it.

Finally, here is a pastel sketch that just fell together: a bit of kismet...
Kismet comes from the Urdu word for fate, destiny or luck.  It is the sea we swim in whether we like it or not.  No matter how much we try to control our future, and guarantee our happiness, things happen.  In its most benevolent form it is the good catastrophe, "eucatastrophe" being Tolkien's word, that finds us alive after the deadly storm or fire.

The images above are mini forms of kismet.  Chance encounters with beauty.  I wasn't looking for or working toward a specific idea of beauty, but it surprised me as I was just living.  In ink stains, photographs, or sketches, kismet can easily find you, but computers seem to be another thing.

Computers seem to be the epitome of cold logic, and the last place you might look for a chance encounter with kismet.  In computer rendering the shape, form, color and material are unambiguous and as close to simple reality as you can get, as in rendered chair below.

However, if you give the computer a chance, interesting things can happen.  The building design below was in an unfinished state when the rendering was run as a test.  The effect was such a curious mix of reality and plastic model, that I have kept it as a favorite ever since.

Another model (below) started as a very simple part of an otherwise excruciatingly complex design.  It was actually rather boring, until a lighting test caught the material and window wedges just right, producing enchantment.

Sometimes the model is just waiting for the right angle and light to seduce you.  A simple spiral stairs can be interesting architecturally while leaving a visual "blah".  Sometimes the staircase can come together as a complex design.  And, then there are times when the design  and the three dimensional reality can be overwhelmed by the abstract dance that makes it art.

And that is why I have optimism for a future with computers; it won't be what we want or expect, but it will include things to delight and beautify.

As Sherlock Holmes said in The Adventure of the Naval Treaty...
"Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."

War and Architecture

I ran across an Eisenhower quote: "Plans are nothing: planning is everything."  Being into military history it reminded me of the very old maxim, "no plan survives contact with the enemy," which goes back at least to Clausewitz, and was restated recently by Colin Powell.

It states the reality of almost every complex, real world problem: that every move you make to "solve" a problem reconfigures the situation so that you have to rethink your solution.  The enemy always has a say in the direction things are going to proceed.  Indeed, the whole world tends to reconfigure with every step we take.  No wonder the future is such a strange place, even though humans haven't changed much in the whole of recorded history.

Helmuth von Moltke, the military counterpart to Bismarck's political genius, was a master at planning, and re-planning, as a military campaign developed.  His successes against Austria (1866) and France (1870) paved the way for German unity, and led tangentially to the world wars.  His genius was the ability to plan in detail the movements of large armies (feeding, clothing, arming, transporting, organizing, etc.), without letting the massive plans control his sense of purpose.  When the plan didn't produce the exact result he expected, he re-planned using the new set of facts.

Anyone who has worked as an architect can see the similarities.  A large building is a complex thing involving materials from around the world, and a wide range of skills.  There are multiple "clients", and often a host of "enemies" who want to change or stop the project.

A good architect serves as a field marshal who coordinates the various specialists and generals, keeping the movement going toward an ultimate goal.  It might take time, effort, negotiation and detours, but the ultimate goal must be kept in mind.  Any one design cannot become the goal.  The best architects tend to be good at negotiating and coordinating: they could easily have made a name in diplomacy.

I don't think I could have made a good architect.  I have always been impatient of changes and talk.  If I have a vision in my head I want to get it down on paper immediately.  My aunt would understand: "talk is cheap", and "get it done right, do it yourself."  It is the ethic of the frontier, not the diplomat, but humans need both skills.

My aunt has made it into her 80's with a certain impatience, so it can't be such a bad approach.

Edge Lighting

It's the 4th of July weekend, and unfortunately I'm living in a pest house.  My wife and I both have bad summer colds, and since she coughs at night I spent last night in the spare bedroom.  A recent (2008) copy of Anne of Green Gables was on the bed (my daughter, who is on vacation must be rereading it), and the cover illustration caught my eye. 

It was a wonderful painting by Ben Stahl, and is a wonderful example of "edge lighting", or lighting a subject from over the shoulder of the subject.  As you can see it creates a highlighted edge (from above left) that accents the softer reflected light.  The reflected light comes from the opposite direction (below right).

I'm going to avoid commenting on the beautiful sense of color, so as to follow the edge (and get back to bed).  Edge lighting in portraits is not new, but it is relatively rare.  The most obvious example that came to mind was Vermeer: his painting called The Lacemaker is below.  It is not exactly in the category since the subject is looking down, but the drama is the same.

One of my all time favorite paintings, Woman with a Parasol by Monet also takes on the problem/opportunity of looking toward the light (yes, I know he painted several versions; he's Monet after all). He captures a moment of light better than anyone, and probably didn't give a damn about the theory of light and optics.  As Cezanne said:  "Monet is only an eye, but my God, what an eye."

More recently, during the hay day of illustration, Norman Rockwell used the edge lighting approach more often than anyone I know of.  He used it in one of his most famous paintings Saying Grace, with the subjects  set in front of a window looking out on a bright and busy city street.  Below is one of several illustrations for The Adventures of huckleberry Finn (1968), that use edge lighting.  (Wonderful composition, no?)

End of art history/opinion...

Illustrating the proposed design of a building is much like painting a portrait.  In most cases choosing lighting that comes from the front, 45 degree from front, or from the near side is preferred because it emphasizes the forms clearly.  Every once in a while more drama and less clarity are called for.  Painters, having more leeway in this regard, have used edge lighting for hundreds of years.  Below is Claude Gellee's Disembarkation of Cleopatra at Tarsus, painted in 1642.  Obviously, looking into the sunset was the driving idea here, and the edge lighting was merely a result, but there it is for whatever reason.

But I'm supposed to be talking about architectural illustration...  Damn that ADD!

Eliel Saarinen, being both an architect and a talented artist, regularly rendered his own designs with edge lighting.  He used it on his most famous project in his native Finland, the Helsinki Railway Station (1910), and architectural fantasy designed in 1915.  Below is another famous project, the Parliament House (1908), which shows how he allowed the edge light to strike elements in the foreground, helping to give depth to what could become a flat and dull shadowed facade.

There are other illustrators that used the technique, including Hugh Ferriss and John Wenrich, but I'm at the end of my Sudafed, so I'll just leave with one of my own examples of edge lighting; a detail of my rendering of the Ellington Building.

Stone Eagle

The last post on the addictive and coercive qualities of using "machines" in producing "art" was rather depressing for some reason.  So I want to cleanse the mental palette with a simple process watercolor example.  It was based on a photograph taken years ago in a cemetery, and was inspired by the idea that focus can be created with color temperature, and back lighting is an exciting option.

This is not a watercolor "how to" blog, so the basics are...  trace image in pencil on 140lb Arches cold pressed paper.  Wet and stretch onto a plywood board using gunned tape.  Let dry.   Using Winsor & Newton Designer Gouache and a good red sable brush (#3,7, & 10)... begin...

The first wash was aimed at setting the background, and starting the general shading of the back-lit sculpture.

 The Second wash brings the sculpture into a cool tone to contrast with the warm background.  Detailing is started when the wash is dry.

Final washes on the body to define the shapes, accent the contrast, and vary the cool base with some warmth from the background.  Then, final detailing.

Not a big deal, but a nice example of subtle color and value at work.  Maybe something I can apply to an architectural rendering one of these days.

Art without discipline is onanism; discipline without art is boring.