So, I worked quite a bit more on this painting. I had a bunch of things that needed to be heightened, other things subdued. The risk I run, by going back in to a semi-finished painting, is that I may be exchanging spontaneity for precision.
I’ve actually learned a lot as a painter, in the past two months. I’ve been putting in some really long hours at the easel, working on various pieces, fighting for that particular glow of light, that particular saturation of color. And as I’ve sought these artistic solutions, I’ve had to reinvent some of my technique. As I’ve furthered my understanding of pairings of washes against piles of thick paint, I’ve realized something- my painting finish is inadvertently emulating that of David Leffel’s, even Sorolla’s. (Not saying I’m as good as.) And why has my painterly effect emulated theirs? Because they were trying to capture light, and a particular painterly attack is what it took to get that effect. Thick paint against thin, and the ends justify the means. Some people tell me that they want to paint more brushy, and they will ask me how to become more painterly (not that I am necessarily a brushy painter, but away from a computer screen, there is some thick paint, or boogers as my son identified). I never know how to respond to that “becoming brushy” question, as if brushiness were in of itself a pursuit. If you want to paint brushy, then see brushy.
My little guy, Evan, is a tough little bruiser of a three year old, and the fire in his belly keeps me laughing all day long. He seems slightly ashamed of his self perceived aggressive nature. But I know that, if properly directed, his aggression be a gift, a rapid river rushing, carving out hillsides and forming the landscape. It’s police commissioner Teddy Roosevelt, standing down Tammany Hall corruption in New York City. It’s Edward Elgar producing the Enigma Variations. It’s Jane Jacobs taking on Robert Moses, and saving Greenwich Village from demolishment.
Evan came to paint with me in my studio, the other day. He saw how far along this painting had come, and he stared in wide eyed wonder. He pointed up to the painting, and said “Dad, that’s my work boots, and your work boots. That’s us. You really love me.”
Being an artist is difficult, yet enjoyable. Being a father is incredibly difficult, yet overwhelmingly and inconceivably wonderful. Could an artist, could a father, wish for anything more?
“Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.”-Solomon, Psalm 127, verses 3,4, and 5