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.