Paint What You Know

Many times beginning writers are told "Write about what you know." The premise of course, is that you can't really write believably about something not experienced--combat, for example--because your words would sound false without the experience of the terror involved. Life experiences inform one's art. 

Andrew Wyeth, "Evening at Kuerners," drybrush 1970

Visual art is similar to writing. You must see and experience the world to draw or paint it realistically. Imaginative art is common these days, but to depict a scene or individual realistically, however it is imagined you must have studied the real world. You can't paint a real ocean if you've never even seen one. Of course you can copy photos these days but getting a believable result is still elusive. On the other hand if  you're not a world traveler or an energetic plein aire painter, your immediate environment can still provide useful practice. Think of Andrew Wyeth, for example, who spent decades painting the area within walking distance of his studio. Again and again he returned to the same settings--the nearby Kuerner farm in Pennsylvania and the Olson's unpainted house in Maine--turning them into memorable art. For Wyeth the surrounding landscape became an entire world that he seemed to record faithfully but which was instead reinvented over and over. Wyeth edited relentlessly.

Andrew Wyeth, "Wolf Moon," watercolor, 1975

The blocky Kuerner house was an artistic touchstone for Wyeth. He painted that house in various versions from different angles over many years, varying his ,  the anatomy of the actual house to suit his artistic purpose. There is often a quietude and contemplation his work, especially on the first encounter. But there is a also a despairing, unhappy but stubborn streak beneath the methodical draftsmanship. The Wyeth world is turbulent under its calm surface. Although the works depict Wyeth's outer world they're the terrain of his own mind, murky with suppressed emotion. Whether he painted the Olson house ("Christina's World") or the hills of Pennsylvania, the works are particular and very personal.

In my own works a small patch of woods outside the studio has become a repetitive motif. Over several years I've drawn and painted the creek side landscape outside my studio window many times. Most days I can simply stand at my work table and look outside for subject matter. Constant variety make the creek and woods a continual motif. Seasonal change, weather, and even wildlife are endlessly fascinating. Despite being in the center of the city, less that five minutes from downtown, the creek and woods provide shelter and water for many kinds animals, once even a few beavers. Ours is an old stand of woods, probably old growth along the creek. The creek was here when the land was platted and hasn't ever been developed so far as I know.


So the environment outside my studio is part of what I know, and what I've been painting off and on for years. I've sketched the woods in oil, casein, and watercolor without thinking much beyond the making of the picture and how to work with whatever medium employed. Sometimes a sketch might be a bit of idle speculation and sometimes a true finished artwork results. Regardless, the subject is easily at hand an useful.

Not long ago while reviewing some previous works it occurred to me while these works were intended as ways to study nature, or light, or kind of paint or other medium they're also an unintended record of the woods and the seasons, edited through one person's sensibility. The great thing is that all of these have been done either from inside or just outside my home studio. I've been painting what I know as I learned more and more about it. Wyeth's work provided an excellent example.

There is a particular fallen tree--an old, old giant that snapped off near its base--that has occupied me number of times and shows up in various works, although there are quite a few other fallen trees out there.
Here are a few paintings of the Druid Hill woods in several media.

"Winter Sunrise," oil on panel, 6x8, 2018

The first (above) is a small oil sketch done in perhaps an hour or two one winter morning. The sun had just begun to light the tops of trees in the far distance, beyond my woods. In the foreground in my fallen ancient. The second painting is the same woods, painted in casein. In this image you can see the same tree, newly-fallen more than a year ago. Done in January, the picture is a snowy nocturne with a nod to Picasso's blue period. At 12x16 it's one of my larger casein works. Below is the same subject a few months later, again in casein. The season has advanced and all along the creek wild honeysuckle has begun to burst into leaf. The cold blue has gone and the woods are coming to life again.

In retrospect these pictures filled a number of roles fr me. For one thing they're a record of what I saw at that particular time of day and year. For another they were useful exercises in using each particular paint medium--how to prepare, mix, and employ each. Third, I used them to explore how certain palettes and colors can provide emotional emphasis or narrative.

"Mourning," casein on illustration board, 12x16, 2017

"Druid Hill Spring," casein on board, 12x16, 2017

Other painters have made very successful series of paintings of the same object(s) or scenes, so it has occurred to me more than once that instead of going farther away with all of the preparation, travel, outdoor work and so on, perhaps I could make a series of my own. A number of my recent works include the fallen tree in these three but the compositions were otherwise altered significantly (for example, there are houses up the slope, most commonly omitted).

In the coming warm months my plan is to spend some time doing water-based paintings outdoors. Close to home is a small lake surrounded by trails, bordered by the Raccoon River and overlooking the city skyline. And I won't exclude Druid Hill Creek.