In last week’s blog, I split Malinda Wiesner’s question concerning the use of green into two parts. In part 1, my advice was to acquire as many “mixed pigment” green pastels as possible for inclusion in your palette, avoiding the harsh raw green pigments like Viridian and Phthalo. This week, the discussion continues with a few more tips that I hope prove helpful when dealing with the issue of green in landscape painting.

Whenever color is concerned, it's best to begin with the color wheel. By studying the relationships of individual colors and how they interact with each other, we develop a better understanding of why certain colors work when placed together. This is a powerful tool in choosing what to place in a painting. Nature works. It shares an atmospheric relationship and a light source that creates the natural appearance we accept. Our paintings, on the other hand, are created "artificially" with pigments on a flat surface. We have to create the illusion of reality and harmony.

Science has shown us that light is made up of all color. Its primary colors, those that are the root of all the others, are the secondary colors of paint—that’s another topic to expand on at a later date. For now, just remember that light is an additive synthesis. It gets lighter and brighter as it's mixed. Pigment, on the other hand, is a subtractive synthesis. It gets darker and weaker when mixed. The three primaries of pigment color, from which all the other colors are derived, are yellow, red and blue. They share no relationship until mixed. When mixed, they create what is referred to as the secondary colors: orange, violet and green. These secondary colors share a common thread. Any combination of them completes the triad of color, creating natural harmony.

The theory of simultaneous contrast also plays a big part in why certain colors work better in relationship to one another (see my July 30, 2007 blog post for more). This visual phenomenon teaches us that everything is affected conversely according to what it is next to. For example, things look lighter when placed against dark, and warmer when placed against a cool. This is very useful when confronting green and helps to explain why one green pigment is never best for all situations.

Understanding these color theories is empowering but it still comes down to what is placed on your painting. Make a mark and then another. As the surface becomes covered, it will become apparent whether the green choices are working. If not, increase the presence of violet and orange (see blog post from June 9, 2008). When ask about green by students, I reference the color theories explained above and reply, “The secret of green is orange, and its friend is violet."

[pictured above] This image shows the three secondary colors placed next to each other, compared to the three primaries.

Each year I eagerly await the arrival of fall and the turning of the leaves. The visual stimulation is always inspiring and becomes an annual obsession. While the northeastern area of the United States may be the most famous for their spectacular color show, all the other regions of the country have something to offer, too, even if it is more subtle. In southern Oregon, where I live, we're fortunate to have a diversity of trees, some deciduous and others evergreen. This produces wonderful variety and contrasts. The valley oaks turn to shades of orange and rust and the aspens in the high altitudes become a blaze of yellow. These are offset against the evergreen firs and pines to create a wonderful counterbalance.
 
As the color show unfolds, I always find myself attempting to paint these images. With a few exceptions, the paintings usually come up short. This year, after spending a couple of days totally immersed in spectacular fall possibilities, I began to think that this may be one of those nearly unpaintable situations. Unless painted on a grand scale, like the romantic Hudson River School of painting employed, it may be that these images are better left to the photographer. I'm not saying they can’t be done (see, for example, a good tip for dealing with fall color in my November 17, 2008 blog post), but often, the scens are so spectacular that no matter what we do, they end up looking fake.

This is sometimes referred to as the “sunset effect.” As beautiful as it is and as drawn to it as we are, the sunset usually doesn’t make for a good artistic painting. The inherent beauty is too much, allowing no room for personal expression, and is nearly impossible to put down on surface. These spectacular subjects, unless finessed properly, become a postcard. To make them work, we need to step back from the high drama of the moment and allow the viewer a little more to anticipate, engaging their imagination in how beautiful the subject matter might become. There is no hard and fast rule as to what works and what doesn't. Many artists have painted highly successful renditions. However, museums and galleries are rarely full of spectacular sunsets and over-saturated fall scenes. When they work, they work well, but when they don’t, we walk right past them as overly sweet, decorative wall art.

I will continue to be drawn to the beauty of what the autumn season has to offer and the breathtaking drama of a sunset, and, inevitably, will continue to attempt to communicate that beauty with pastel, but I do realize that some things might be better left to the photographer. This is not meant to diminish what some artists have accomplished by painting these subjects. I just realize that because it is beautiful, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it will make for a worthwhile painting.

Are there any other subjects you might place in this subjective "unpaintable" category? If so, please post a comment.
 
[pictured here] Photographs of this year's fall spectacle in southern Oregon.

Working on a one-dimensional surface has its challenges. As magical as it can be to create the illusion of depth and form upon a flat surface, there are many lessons to be learned from the sculptor. The debate as to which is the nobler of the arts is one that can be traced as far back as the Renaissance. I won't venture into the debate here but will note that each has its important lessons.
 
I learned one such lesson many years ago and it has had a profound effect on my paintings every since. When starting out as a painter, I spent considerable time learning to draw and paint the portrait. After some years of effort, I had obtained a modicum of ability and, being young of years, felt I knew everything there was to know about art in general. As the years have ticked by, however, this has been greatly disproved. Because I was capable of painting a portrait, I decided to try my hand at sculpting the human head. Seated in front of my mound of clay that first day, I began the task. As I closely studied the model and the clay began to take form, I thought to myself: “Wait until the instructor sees my piece; I am going to receive such praise in front of the other students.” Finally, the instructor approached. As I eagerly awaited my impending praise, she leaned over my shoulder and turned the turntable the clay was resting on. As it rotated, I was shocked to discover that I had placed the ears an inch and a half from the eyes in depth. When looking straight on to the subject, that was the visible width but when the head was observed from the side, it was apparent the distance was closer to four or five inches in depth. This was a revelation! The sculptor deals in literal depth and the painter has to create the illusion. The painter must think like a sculptor, while the sculptor thinks like a sculptor.
 
Applying this to our paintings can be difficult. We become involved in the visual widths and heights of the objects we are painting, forgetting that they also have depth. Only an inch or two of a field may be visible, yet it represents one or two miles of distance. One means of reminding ourselves of the surfaces we are dealing with is to apply faint topographic lines on the initial drawing before attempting the painting. This simple visualization, though lost as the painting is started, is then internalized and we make wiser choices when dealing with the elements of edge, value, and color; ultimately producing a painting that has greater depth.
 
[pictured above] Before beginning the painting, apply simple topography lines to a drawing to assist in the visualization of form and depth.

Artists have been attracted to reflections throughout history. We all admire what Monet did with the reflections of the Houses of Parliament as well as the famous water lily series. This attraction to reflections was certainly an impetus for my painting, Winter Canal (left; pastel, 12x12).

Contemporary pastel artist, Fred Somers, from Minnesota, has also done some very interesting and intriguing paintings of reflections on water—such as his painting, Gold Leaf on Crimson Waters (pastel, 18x24) below. (To learn more about Somers, see the feature on the artist in the October issue of The Pastel Journal, and visit his website).

As beautiful as reflections are, there are a few observations about them that are often overlooked by the novice painter:

1. Reflections are not a mirror reflection of the scene. You are seeing the reflected images and the scene in front of you from two different viewing angles. The reflection is coming off the surface of the water, but you see the reflection from an angle as far below the water's surface as you are above it. Depending on your visual height compared to the reflective surface, this can vary considerably. If you are six feet tall and standing on the edge of the reflective body, the reflection would be coming from a distance of six feet below the surface of the water. In other words, the reflection is showing you the underside of what you can see and, due to its angle, may cut off things you are capable of seeing in the distance. This is evident when looking at a distant mountain across a lake but only a tip of it reflects below the tree line along the shore. From the water surface, the mountain would not be visible, but to you it is very clear. Think of the reflection as being you, submerged in the water, looking up. The angle of vision is greatly different than what you see eye-level from the shore. This is more pronounced when closer to the reflection and becomes less noticeable at great distances.
 
2. Generally, darks reflect slightly lighter and lights slightly darker. Depending on the clarity of the water, this can be more or less pronounced. Color will be affected by the surface tone and is rarely brighter in chroma than what is being reflected.
 
3. All reflections move towards you. A reflection takes three components: the objects reflecting, the surface they are reflecting on, and you. You are the component most often left out of the recipe. Reflections travel towards your eyes and will appear to follow you when you move. To best see this, go to a boat basin and look at the reflections of tall upright poles in the water. As they reflect, the tops (which are at the bottom of the reflection) appear to come towards your feet. This can be subtle but is a fact of reflections.
 
4. Edges should be softer than the reflecting objects. Due to the refractive nature of even the stillest water, edges should be slightly softened. Sparkles on the surface of the water should also be softened and radiate from near white to a slight orange yellow as the light is being bent. As light hits the surface of the water, it is shattered. Try not to paint those perfect little white dots that photography is capable of capturing. The human eye is not a camera lens and shutter.
 
By looking for these tendencies, you will become more sensitive to the true nature of reflections and your paintings will manifest a more natural appearance.

While demonstrating for a workshop in upstate New York a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded of one of the major benefits of working en plein air: permission to interpret. As I worked out a thumbnail sketch in advance of committing pastel to surface, the task of editing began. I established a center of interest within the framework of the composition and then manipulated other elements of visual composition—edge, shape, texture, value, and color—to strengthen its presence. I altered or even ignored major elements in the scene as the composition took form.

After feeling confident about the bones of the painting, the process of applying pastel to surface commenced. If I have a good idea of the big relationships and purpose behind the painting in advance of starting, it's easier to focus on the technique of painting, which allows for a more confident application. That assured feeling often comes through, producing a more spontaneous and positive end result. As the painting developed and these manipulations became more apparent to the students paying close attention, one of them made an observation: “It looks like you do what is best for the painting, instead of being subservient to the scene.” And indeed. that's what painting is. We do what is needed, manipulating and orchestrating the elements of the painting to best communicate our intensions about the scene.
 
This student’s observation got me thinking. A few days after the event, I compared the photo from the scene to the finished painting. The photo appeared cold and boring. If I hadn’t been there in person, I would never have given this photo a second glance. When in the presence of the unlimited possibilities of nature, we have two choices: to feel completely overwhelmed and cower before it, or to open the door of chance and allow all it has to offer to provide inspiration. Being surrounded by natural light that's always in motion and the influences of the entire setting, even the areas outside of our view, all have an effect. By practicing and applying the principles of composition, light and dark relationships, and color theory, we're able to harness the power of the paint and become more confident and free to make choices that lead to personal artistic statements. No one gets a prize for making it exactly the way it was.
 
[pictured top] The Fields of the Hudson (pastel, 10x14) and the reference photo of the scene.