Working on Red Cone: Tires

I've been working on the black forms behind the red cone, which are a couple of old tires, if you hadn't guessed. Farms keep these on hand, sometimes huge piles of them, to use as weights on top of the plastic covering silage in bunkers.

The first layer of grays on the large curve turned out to carry too much light, popping it forward visually, so I darkened it somewhat. I think the form is now sitting back where it should be while also curving forward in space. I photographed a detail of the painting so that you can see the brushwork more clearly. When I saw this image on the computer, I was actually surprised at how energetic the strokes looked, perhaps too much so in a couple of spots. I'll have to go back and finesse some of those marks, wearing my reading glasses.

Bright Pink

I direct seed some flowers in the vegetable garden each year and they add bright notes at the end of the season, until frost kills them. Cosmos (at the top) and Lavatera are freely blooming plants whose pinks add their color statement to the yellow of sunflowers and red of tomatoes ripening on the vine.

A New Rug Hooking Project: Loop de Loop

Although I'm still working on Tilted Ovals I like to start thinking of a new project before the previous one is finished. This work, which will be (I think) 12 x 24 inches is inspired by a couple of blogs I've been looking at which explore abstract comics, and a conversation in comments to "A Work in Progress Now Done", a previous post. The use of varied frames to carry an abstract narrative is very appealing to me, so I did a couple of thumbnail sketches. I have hundreds of thumbnails that I go through when looking for image ideas, and I'm always doodling more of them.

When I'm figuring out color, I generally do watercolor sketches with the dye swatch book open so that I can match colors. Sometimes, though, I look through my huge pile of dyed wool scraps, finding the hues that will work together. At times, seeing surprising combinations will suggest a design. There were a lot of strong blues in the pile, which made me think that a red/yellow/blue theme would be perfect for a cartoony image. So I laid them out in the approximate composition, and tried three different reds. I'm still not sure which red I'll choose; it depends on how intense and punchy I want it to to look. I'm leaning towards very bright red, as it'll enhance the loopy gesture.

Autumn Fog

My bedroom windows face east, towards a hill named Blue Mountain and farther off, towards the White Mountains of New Hampshire. At this time of year days often begin with drifts of fog rising from valleys. I look out at the layered landscape, looking like scrims, and reminding me of Chinese landscape painting where majestic layered mountains rise above mists.

A Movement in Brushstrokes

In the egg tempera panel paintings of the 15th century, such as the detail above from a painting by the Osservanza Master, the paint was thinly layered using strokes of paint from a dry brush built up with cross hatching. You can see the lines following the land, the spirited form of trees and stepped hills, the glorious sky.


For many years, I used this traditional cross hatching technique for my egg tempera paintings. I limned the form by layering stroke upon stroke following its curve to enhance the illusion of volume. Though sounding laborious, the mark making goes very quickly since the paint dries right away. It's almost like using a fast moving pencil.


In 2007, in another conscious decision such as described in the post "At a Point in Time, Change", I abandoned the cross hatching technique in order to let my brush move more freely across the surface of the painting. I had begun to feel that the precision of cross hatching was perhaps preventing a more vivid painting. Clarity of form was still a goal for me, but I wanted to get there in a more fluid and open manner.

In many ways this kind of brushwork is more difficult than hatching: the regularity of the hatching technique makes it easy to get from here to there, while more freedom means uncertainty. I now frequently have to repaint, over and over, a section of the painting that's not working. The brushstrokes have to not only carry the correct color and describe form and light, but also must have energy and conviction; they can't look sloppy or arbitrary.

As I stood at my easel today, letting my brush flick and dance across the painting, applying dabs and lines of color, I felt happy.

Yellow Watermelon

A month ago, almost to the day, I photographed a 3 inch melon growing in the garden. I didn't know if any watermelons would ripen, considering the cold summer. But today I picked this melon, 8 inches round, weighing about 8 pounds, and delicious. What a treat!

It's a bit of a mystery to figure out if watermelons are ripe. You check the tendril growing near the melon and if it's dead, it should indicate ripeness, as does a deep plunk sound when you ping the melon with a finger, and a yellow spot where it rests on the ground. Okay, I did all that with the melon above and it tested ripe; I also thought a second smaller melon was ripe: it had all the right characteristics, but, nope it wasn't ready. oh dear.

Green Tomatoes

This morning I picked a few pounds of green tomatoes, cut them up and layered them with sugar in preparation for making green tomato jam. They'll sit in the refrigerator for a day, then I'll cook them till thick with some sliced lemon. It's a jam that is similar in flavor to marmalade: a nice balance of sweet and tangy.

Cooking with green tomatoes is a September ritual; I wouldn't want to pick any fruits that might ripen before frost and this time of year it's a good bet that green will not become red. I love fried green tomatoes: they have a spicy flavor with a pleasant bite. I slice the tomatoes about 1/4 inch thick, dredge them in flour, then beaten egg, then corn meal that's been flavored with salt and pepper and perhaps some dried oregano. Then I shallow fry them slowly (so they'll soften inside) till browned. They're a delicious late summer treat.

At a Point in Time, Change

Some artists have a very consistent body of work throughout their careers, such as Giorgio Morandi, who conjured up a rich and varied world using the same few objects in his studio. Some changed their work gradually: Constable went from painting a realistic landscape to an expressive one. There are a few whose work underwent quite dramatic change over a short period of time, such as Philip Guston who turned away from abstraction towards a narrative representation, combining a cartoon style with the luscious brushwork of his abstract paintings. I remember the shock of seeing this new body of work, and how long it took for viewers to accept it. I can imagine him just being tired of making those beautiful paintings, and wanting to shake things up.

During the late winter of 2002 I bought my first digital camera, and that purchase changed my vision. My little point and shoot camera, which I had used to take slides of outdoor motifs for a color reference, dropped dead. I decided to go digital, and in order to learn to use the camera before the weather warmed I started shooting some still life around the house. The image above is one that I made at that time. I had always used a camera to record details needed for studio painting, but now I was photographing things up close, creating compositions using strong simple shapes, and I loved it. Though a realist, I had a long term love affair with abstraction, expecially minimalism, and this brought me closer to it. So when I went out to farms that spring, I now photographed the implements I found this way:


Instead of seeing like this, which was painted in 2002, but before that summer:


For years I'd been involved with the idea of the disjunction in landscape: its beauty contrasted with the messy work of using it. The ambivalences brought to mind by farming––the need for food, the degradation of land and water, the nobility of the farmer––were the content of this body of work. But now I was tired of having it front and center . When I looked at my new photos on the wall alongside the landscape paintings, I was stunned by their energy and power. This was the direction I would take my work. It was a very conscious decision for me, one that I haven't second guessed.


This painting, Red Plate, 11 x 15 inches, was done in 2002 from a study done that first summer of change. I liked the repetition of the curves and the way the light played on the forms, especially that of the striped hose. Agriculture, in its positive and negative aspects, is still the subtext of my paintings; all my subject matter is agricultural machinery. I would find it uninteresting to paint, say, carnival rides, even with their marvelous colors and shapes. The meaning of agricultural implements still underlies all that I do in the studio.

Asters

In early fall (dare I move on from calling this late summer?), the tall asters are flowering brightly here and there, where they've seeded themselves among perennials more likely to stay put.

Cimicifuga

This splendid, dramatic plant has just begun to bloom, with purple buds opening into frothy white wands. This Cimicifuga (common name Snakeroot) variety is simplex ramosa Atropurpurea, a very tall plant with purple stems and purplish leaves. The 8 foot flower spikes sway gently in the wind, attracting lots of insects. I love this plant and it does very well in my wet border. I think I'll divide it next spring so I can have two at the back of the border.

Working on Red Cone

I've been working on my painting when not doing garden chores or just lazing about enjoying the beautiful late summer weather. After a couple of days, I've tightened up the drawing, getting all the elements relating properly. There are lots of layers of paint, pushing color closer to where it should be. As I've written before, one of the things I like most about tempera is its quick drying to the touch, enabling me to glaze some yellow and ochre where I think the red isn't warm enough. I decided to paint the light blacks above (they are old tires, which farms keep around to hold down plastic sheeting covering silage) a warmer tone than in the study; so far I like it.

As the painting nears completion, the brushmarks will be more restrained. I try to balance the energy of mark-making with a sense of volume and reality, for the important thing is the image. There something very appealing about the lively premier coup brushwork, but I have always wanted to put the object portrayed ahead of myself the artist; reticence in paint handling serves that purpose.

Cauliflower

A creamy head of cauliflower nestled among green leaves is like a small treasure. As it matures, I fold the large leaves over the head to protect it from sun, which keeps it white.

I have a disappointing crop this year: a woodchuck managed to get into the garden earlier in the season (I didn't have the electric fence low enough) and chomped on various brassicas, which I'm sure he found scrumptious. Small cauliflower heads resulted, as well as set-back broccoli, fewer brussels sprout plants and one less cabbage. My dear dog Ginger died last summer; she used to be vigilant in keeping the woodchucks away. So now I have to be more vigilant with my fencing.

Cauliflower is one of my favorite early fall foods and I have three favorite ways of preparing it, two of which come from Marcella Hazan's Classic Italian cookbooks (the ones I have are out of print) and one from my mother. All require first cooking the cauliflower till tender, which I do by cutting off the large stem and breaking into two inch florets, then steaming for about 12 minutes.

• For a salad, season liberally with olive oil, red wine vinegar and salt and serve warm or at room temperature.
  
• For a pasta sauce––only for anchovy lovers––saute chopped garlic and anchovies in a good amount of olive oil, breaking up the anchovies into a paste. Then add the cauliflower, breaking it into small pieces with the back of a wooden spoon. Add salt and crushed red pepper. Put over pasta (it's good with penne) and add some chopped parsley.
• Lastly, from my mother, is fried cauliflower. Dip the florets into beaten egg, then into flour seasoned with salt and pepper. Shaking off excess flour, fry till golden on all sides in vegetable oil (1/4 inch of oil in wide skillet). Sprinkle with more salt if desired.

Enjoy!

Tilted Ovals in Progress

I thought I'd show my current rug hooking project at its halfway point. Pieces of dyed wool shown in the Dyeing Day post are now hooked into patterns, their colors seeming to change with new forms and new relationships.

Dill

The dill plants are grand this year, tall and sparkling. The flower heads remind me of fireworks, with burst after burst of color springing forth.

Shapes

The materials of rug hooking lend themselves well to shapes other than square or rectangular. Although some artists have made paintings that explode the rectangular format––Elizabeth Murray comes to mind with her shaped works––most of us stick with it. Because of its ubiquity it doesn't call attention to itself, but allows whatever is on that picture plane to take precedence over its boundaries. With rugs, though, we're used to seeing round rugs and oval rugs, rugs going up stairs and running down hallways.

It's been fun to play with the possibilities of odd shapes in art making. This work, a triptych, was inspired by candy: the jellied fruit slices of our childhood. It's called Fruit Slices and each part is 6 1/5 by 10 inches.

Here's another ruglet made up of 4 parts that change slightly from one to the next till we get to the perfect circle.

Shifting Shapes, 11 x 11 inches to 5 inches

In this piece, which looked to Richard Tuttle for it's shape, I sewed two arched forms together. They are placed at a jaunty angle on the wall, giving them a humorous, almost quizzical air.

Two Arches (for Tuttle), 7 x 23 inches

And finally, last fall while walking in the woods I found myself noticing the graceful outlines of the leaves on the ground, each tree having a different expression. So I did this triptych:

Three Points, approximately 8 x 10 inches each

Color: Perceptual and Photographic

I thought I'd expand on the previous post about the underdrawing for Red Cone. When working on my paintings in the studio, I rely for color on the studies done outdoors directly from the motif. Each of us sees color in a very personal way; I remember discussing this years ago with a friend as we painted the same object: she saw the table as close to orange in color, while I saw ochre. All of us who use digital cameras are aware of white balance, where the choice of daylight or cloudy or the pre-set function can change color dramatically.

You can see from the painted study above that it is warmer in color than the photograph shot at the same time. I saw a yellowish hue in the curve of the lower part of the cone, and the darker orangey-reds at the sides are colored more dramatically than those in the photo. The blacks in the study have color variations not seen in the photo, with ochres enlivening the tonal form. Although I like the photograph as photograph, as source material for my painting it would be sorely lacking.

I should emphasize my painting, because for many painters using photographs is the point; they are interested in the way the media influence the way we see and how we comprehend the world. Coming from years of perceptual painting, my emphasis is still on how my own eyes and mind interpret the thing seen.

Golden

The landscape has warmed in these last days of summer: the fields ripe with grassy heads and hazy yellow with goldenrod; in the gardens sunflowers and black-eyed susans embody the raking light.

Asparagus Ferns

The asparagus harvest lasts from mid May until late June; after that the spears are allowed to grow and spread into a dense six foot tall hedge of ferny foliage that feeds and strengthens the roots. An asparagus bed in late summer is a frothy mass of delicate foliage glistening with light.

Some Rejected Studies

Untitled

Two Circles

White Towers

To continue the theme of failure, here are three studies that I felt didn't work well enough to become paintings, though each in a different way. While working on the untitled sketch, I realized half-way through that it was bad: too many elements, with too many colors, an incoherent composition, and dull contrasts. I finished it, but didn't even save the photographic studies––hence the untitled––because I knew right away that it was a reject.

I had a long narrow panel in the studio, 20 x 44 inches, that I ordered for another study that I found I didn't like several months after doing it. Two Circles was done for that panel. I was very excited when I first saw the motif: a new machine on a large dairy farm nearby. The strong red and black looked terrific. But later I felt that it was a more complicated design than I wanted. As in the case of Cord and White Circles in a previous post, though the image was quite interesting, it wasn't where I was heading with my work. The study I came up with for that panel is called Archimedes, and is shown in the post "The Long Rectangle: Painting Studies". It seems clear enough in its repeated rhythms to get at the real.

White Towers has yet another story. I felt from the beginning that this image was a bit too metaphoric or misleading, too much leaning towards an architectural interpretation, as though we were looking at houses on a Grecian island instead of plastic. This bothered me, but I went ahead and started the painting, and here I'm going to admit to crass commercial motivations: paintings of mine that are white, yellow or blue tend to sell. Extremely annoying but true. But then my connection with my NY gallery was severed; I didn't need to please them, and I felt free. My first act of liberation was to wipe off the White Towers panels, going back to the blank white of the gesso ground.

Antique Apples

I just came in from picking some apples in my small apple orchard, which have ripened earlier than normal. The fifteen trees are all antique varieties that were planted many years ago. I was lucky enough to find a wonderful arborist, Padma Meier, who brought the trees back to life and health by careful pruning each year. Now I've taken over that job, which is very satisfying.

There are two varieties that are most numerous in the orchard, and most productive, though they bear only every other year: Duchess of Oldenburg, in the pictures above, and Peach apples, which ripen later in the season. Duchess are a great apple pie and sauce apple, with a nice tartness and crisp texture. I'll be making some apple butter tomorrow with those apples in the old basket. Peach apples are softer, juicier and sweeter, so I imagine they were planted for cider production. I've got three winter apple trees, but they don't bear well. Other varieties in the orchard are Sops of Wine and Sheep's Nose.

These are not beauty queen apples: they're misshapen and blemished, but for cooking and eating at home are a real treat. I don't spray at all, so perfection cannot be had, especially in this wet year. I love having the orchard not only for its fruit, but also for its beauty; it is a connection to the past, and a continuation of tradition.

Underdrawing for Red Cone

It is very traditional in egg tempera painting to do an underdrawing in ink. We can see this technique in uncompleted or worn quattrocento panel paintings. I've always done a tonal drawing before beginning the work in color. (I started this blog too late to show the underdrawing for Yellow Curve.) Because tempera is translucent, I find that having the values laid out is helpful, especially in the dark areas.

For this painting and the previous one, I traced the outlines of the form in the color study and transferred the tracing to the panel. Before this, I had always done a careful pencil drawing to work out the exact composition and details. Now I find that I like starting more loosely, while closing the form as I go along.

Paintings that are No More

Cord, each panel 8 x 8 inches

White Circles, Black Belt, 18 x 18 inches

In the conversation I've had with rappel, on this blog ("Now Done", below) and by email, about the finished painting Yellow Curve, many new thoughts have come to mind. This post is inspired by her telling me of a scientific journal that was created in order to write about experiments that didn't work; it was thought that exploring the failures would help scientists in their work. It turned out that no one wanted to write about these unfulfilled experiments for a variety of reasons, and the journal didn't continue.

In writing about Yellow Curve I wanted to describe my ambivalent feelings about the painting. I don't yet know its future, but the commenting regarding the cartoon and the comic has added a layer of meaning for me that wasn't there before....so thank you, blogging. But I have done paintings that I know are not successful, and after a suitable period of time, I erase them so as to re-use the panel. So I thought I'd expand a bit on my failures in the hope that it will elucidate my aesthetic and perhaps ring a bell with other artists.

These two paintings (I consider the triptych Cord a single work) have a similar failing for me in that they both seem too bound up in the realistic as opposed to the real. OK, what do I mean by that? When a painting seems real, it has a weight and heft and tangibility; it exists in the world as a strong presence on its own, not just as an image of something. These two pieces are images of things, especially Cord, which we can see is a depiction of a bungee cord. All its detail, accurate and lively as it is, just calls attention to the source material. Painting as tour de force description no longer interests me. And in White Circles, the composition is too complicated: there's too much going on and the elements don't have an easy relationship one with the other.

In my search for the simple and the concrete, these works were failures. I like to think of Kant's phrase "the thing-in-itself", which in my limited or mis-understanding, points to a reality beyond the visual world and beyond our understanding. I like to think of painting as pushing us past primary visual responses towards a deeper and more elemental awareness.

The Sad Story of Tomato Year 2009

Cosmonaut Volkov

Sungold

The very chilly and wet weather that we had until early August did terrible damage to my tomato plants. The transplants looked wonderful, with nice thick stems because I'd made sure to put them into larger pots as they grew so their roots would happily spread out. But then the weather just didn't warm up; there were days in the 50s and 60s, which should have been 70s and 80s. This is great for greens and cabbages, but warm weather crops struggled. Tomatoes are especially susceptible to early blight (see the dead leaves on the Cosmonauts above), but usually the plants grow vigorously enough to outrun it. Sungold, that intensely flavorful cherry tomato, always seems to manage this. But all my paste tomato plants, which are determinates––Romas––are dead. Yes, there are some red tomatoes, and I'll be able to make a few pints of sauce for the freezer, but I won't have enough for canning. Last year's rainy summer, though warm, also stunted the tomato crop. Sometimes I worry that climate change is bringing this very wet weather to the northeast and that it's here to stay.

Pruning the Raspberries

Yesterday and today have been beautiful crisp autumn-like days. Perfect for doing yardwork. Since the raspberries have finished bearing, I've been working on pruning the canes, which has to be done each year at the end of the season. I cut out the old canes and thin the new ones, weed the beds and rototill around them. Then I put hay mulch around the plants; this keeps down weeds, conserves moisture, and provides some nutrients to the soil as it breaks down.

Yes, this is a lot of work, especially since I have two broad rows of plants, 2 1/5 feet wide by 24 feet long. When I first moved here 19 years ago, there was a huge round mass of raspberry canes and weeds. Over a few years I wrestled the plants into order, making these long rows. Every bit of work has been worth it as I harvest gallons of gorgeous delicious berries each year.

Study for new Painting: Red Cone

The next painting on my easel will be based on this study, painted on a farm up the road in June. I loved the big sweep of red, crossed by shadow and by tubular forms, and backed by black. I did another small red and black study this summer, and my mind kept reciting "the red and the black", the title of a 19th century novel by Stendahl. In that case it was referring to the church and the military. There's no color symbolism here.

This painting will be similar in feeling to Yellow Curve in its use of a big simple form playing off some smaller elements. They are similar in format, with this painting a bit bigger at 26 by 18 inches. I don't think I'll be doing a detailed step by step with this (unless by popular demand), but will describe the process from time to time.