Now, like my Aunt’s set up those many years ago, I have an easel in a corner of my smaller (much smaller) apartment in Washington, along with flat files, vertical folders, and book shelves to store the artwork.  Why not a studio apart from the residence?  Aside from cost and travel time to and from, I look often at whatever is on my easel to intuit the next step:  are the proportions right?  Is the composition complete?  Where goes the next line or application of paint?  Which color would work best?  I might do so day or night, in passing perhaps, or while concentrating on the piece.  At any point I may touch up something or make a change as I go about my daily routine.  Consequently, I value having my work close by should inspiration strike and time permit.

Along with his other counsel, Bill Christenberry had pointed out the centrality in my art of the gestural line.  Since then, as I start a new work I am cognizant of the lines that structure the composition. 

In my paintings, large and small, I use palette knives, brushes, rags, oil bars, my fingers, whatever to build up a rich play of color and texture.   My drawings and oils are mostly on paper and mostly of modest size (the largest works are 30” high by 24” wide).  I figure that smaller works are more affordable  –  earlier artists have concluded much the same – and fit the wall space and rooms in today’s apartments.  They also store more easily when space is at a premium.

I periodically prime a supply of paper to work on with acrylic gesso – both sides, one side with color added to the gesso to provide a hue that reveals itself in places through the painting.  (The back is white gesso, necessary to apply, I learned in class, to prevent the sheet form curling). 

I often draw on my sketchbook for inspiration for the next painting, sometimes replicating the scene, sometimes cutting or combining elements.  For figurative work, I begin typically in charcoal by drawing the main figures to get down basic forms, their placement, the relationship among them.  If I’m not satisfied, I rub out and try again.  I add flesh tones.  At this point, they are more often than not the equivalent of nudes.  Then the background goes in, followed by reworking the figures, adding clothing and other items, reworking the background, the figures, back and forth, until I sense the work is done.  When is that?  Not always easy to say.  I often put a work aside for a time and come back to it with a fresh or rested eye and that helps. Yes, it’s done, or no, it needs something more.  (I’m reminded that Picasso was quoted as saying when you finish something, you kill it; in other words, leave something undone or ambiguous, not unlike Bill Christenberry’s counsel.)

It’s almost axiomatic in figure drawing that faces and hands are among the most difficult to portray.  Portrait painters have to do a good job but with other artists, as you look closely, you can see in their work claw-like hands, weird or distorted facial expressions, or other abnormalities that buttress the assertion.  I alternate between trying to capture a particular expression on someone’s face and keeping the face ambiguous, the merest hint of eyes, brows, nose and mouth to suggest a certain universality to the figure or figures.

Natural landscapes typically start with a key gestural line defining the scene.  The cityscapes, too, begin with an outline, though sometimes with broad swaths of paint.  From the forms that emerge, I add strong lines to define a skyline or a grouping of buildings, work the colors, build depth, add details.

The elements of my composition read “flat.”  I typically do not model or shade the rounded figures, for example.  This style, as I’ve read, is one of the hallmarks of “modernity” in painting, something introduced in the mid-19^th century as the painters in Paris broke the traditional rules about what constituted a good painting. Critics at the time were wont to base their assessment on those old rules, noting references they saw to the great historical works; the more they saw of this, the better they judged the painting. 

Edges are an interesting challenge.  We see no hard lines in nature, yet they can work in art, and I use them in some paintings.  In others, the edges bleed into whatever they intersect with or are juxtaposed against.

At every step, I’m asking myself, which color works best here.  What contrasts or complements?  Some observers looking at my work have called me a “colorist.”  I take that to mean I use bold, full-bodied color to enhance the drama of the composition.  If so, I would not be the first.  I think of Matisse’s and Gaugin’s use of extraordinary colors to enliven their paintings though I tend to take my cue from the subject’s actual appearance – no neon or artificial colors for me – rather a palette characterized by the traditional colors of the rainbow.

A title typically comes to me when the work is done; once I settle on the title, I sign the work, which I do in a place that fits the composition.  The title suggests the storyline; or it may explain the artwork’s derivation; or if I don’t find the right language, it may simply reiterate what the viewer sees.  A clever title, in my book, reinforces a good work, and just may intrigue someone to consider a purchase more seriously – at least I hope that’s true.  I had anecdotal feedback when a fellow artist purchased a small ink drawing of a musical performance titled from the piece being played; she commented how much she liked the drawing – and its title.

I read a thoughtful essay and exchange of views on dating a work of art.  The author, owner of a gallery, argued on balance it was better not to date the work as this approach offered greater flexibility in presenting an artist’s output; he wrote that over the years he’s learned that buyers often want to see an artist’s new work and the date, well, dates an artist’s work as “earlier.”  Furthermore, undated work can fit in a show no matter when it was produced.  In short, he made a strong case.

I’ve always dated my paintings and drawings and while the discussion gave me pause, I concluded I would continue to date.  Since I do not have to earn my keep, so to speak, from selling art, I tend to focus on building a body of work that will be respected over time.  Part of this, in my view, means providing future collectors, curators, art historians, gallery owners, and others a chronology of my work, when it was produced, whether it derived from something in my sketchbook, how it fit with other current work, how my work has evolved, and what was occurring at that time in my life – travel, for instance.  I consider dating a work a helpful means of informing those who will come later to appreciate my work.