Favorite Artists 12 - Vincent

In past entries about favorite artists my appreciation for their work was simple to explain, but when it comes to the work of Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), it's tougher. Still, Vincent van Gogh

Vincent, "Self Portrait, 1887

is a favorite artist of mine despite his shortcomings. Anyone who has seen public or social media knows who Vincent was and also knows that he was spectacularly unsuccessful at anything much during his lifetime. The story goes that he sold no paintings (some do say he sold a single work, but even that is inaccurate) and that he was not only commercially unsuccessful but also socially outcast, an odd kid who grew up to be a strange man.

The real Vincent seems to have been considerably more complicated though, as can be easily seen when reading his letters to his brother Theo and others. For one thing, Vincent had considerable intellect. Although not university-educated, he spoke Dutch, French, and English and could read German. He was an informed and discriminating collector of Japanese woodblock prints, which had been introduced to Europe a bit earlier. He was an avid reader in all four languages. Although he was a strong and odd personality and didn't fit into his native Dutch protestant culture he wasn't a social outcast, particularly after he arrived in Paris in 1886 to live with Theo.

Before arriving in Paris to live, he had lived there briefly ten years earlier before being fired from an art dealer. After that initial failure he had knocked about, working in England and Rotterdam, living in Amsterdam to study for seminary (he failed), then as a lay preacher in Belgium where he nearly died. At length he had decided to become a painter and had studied sporadically alone and with others.

Vincent, "The Potato Eaters," 1885

Henri Toulouse Lautrec, "Van Gogh in Sun," pastel, 1887

Now he settled into the bohemian artist milieu of Montmarte, living with his brother. In the great metropolis there was activity and ferment and experimentation in art. New ideas in painting had gained a foothold and the Impressionist movement was afoot. Until then, Vincent had painted in dark colors--a very muted and bleak palette--and though he had had lessons and practiced fanatically his draftsmanship can only be called uncertain ("The Potato Eaters," above). These early amateur and student level works are poor at best and show how hard he had struggled to learn. Paris was different. Paris was color and life and movement in contrast to the dull life of the Dutch countryside. Here Vincent assimilated many influences in a brief two years, including Impressionism, Japonisme, pointillism, and the poster work of Toulouse Lautrec.

In Paris Vincent studied, painted, and drew. And he met other artists like Lautrec, Paul Gauguin, Emil Benard, and Georges Seurat. In the exciting city he visited museums, studios of other artists, and spent time with many at various watering holes discussing art and the world. He absorbed the ideas and brighter palette of the Impressionist and Post-impressionists sometimes imitating works he saw. Eventually, after what amounted to a two-year saturation in the new art he left for the south of France.

Vincent had become agitated in Paris and felt unable to work because of the bustle, excitement, and fervor he found in the city. Also known as a "difficult" man, opinionated and passionate, his letters also suggest a near-manic excitement. He longed for the countryside and peace. And so he moved to Arles, a small town on the Rhone River in Provence. To him this was an exotic place--warm, flooded with yellow light, populated by a different kind of French who spoke a different dialect, cooked differently and lived differently too. He reveled in the beauty of the countryside, the colors, and again, the light. He began to paint furiously, quickly, more loosely and with even brighter color.

Vincent, "Sunflowers, First Version," 1888

Besides his need for peace, Vincent wrote to his brother that he wanted to establish a "Studio of the South" that would attract many of his colleagues from Paris and elsewhere. He begged Gauguin to come, among others, hoping to establish a real colony. Eventually, Gauguin came and stayed about two months. It was just at the time Gauguin came that Vincent painted his famous Sunflowers. Although not strictly true, it is almost as if, with this series of paintings yellow became Vincent's signature color. He and Gauguin painted together and lived in the same small house. Gauguin was as opinionated as Vincent and inevitably it seems the two argued, sometimes bitterly. Gauguin decided to leave in late December, and Vincent went to pieces. He and Gauguin had a confrontation and afterward Vincent cut off a portion of his right ear with a razor. He carefully wrapped it in paper and took it to a nearby brothel and gave it to a favorite prostitute. Gauguin fled and never saw him again. Recuperating physically but suffering cruelly from hallucinations and delusions he was hospitalized in Arles and then committed himself voluntarily to an asylum in San Remy, a town about twenty miles away.

During his time in the asylum he painted copies and interpretations of other painters. But he also produced what is considered by many as his signature masterpiece, "The Starry Night," with its mysterious swirling clouds and rippling stars. Perhaps even more than the sunflowers, this is Vincent van Gogh. While in the asylum he produced well over 100 paintings and many drawings working almost tirelessly when not confused, delirious or delusional. His actual illness has never been conclusively proven, but he could have had tertiary syphilis, complex epilepsy, poisoning with absinthe and/or other agents, or perhaps severe bipolar disorder. Whatever his pathology Vincent was without question suffering from serious mental illness.

Vincent, "The Starry Night," 1889

Probably the biggest tragedy of Vincent's life was that recognition came too late. While he was still a patient at the San Remy asylum, his work was reviewed favorably in the press, and not long afterward he was one of the exhibitors in a show in Brussels, where he was praised by no less than Claude Monet, a co-exhibitor. Also, one of the exhibited works sold at the show. Furthermore, ten of his paintings were accepted to the annual Salon of Independents in March 1890. Vincent knew of these successes in letters from his brother. Theo had married and in January 1890 his wife delivered a son, whom they named after him. Vincent was so excited he painted an almond branch in flower as gift for his new nephew.

Vincent, "Almond Blossom," 1890

The painting, "Almond Blossom," (right) is a favorite of mine. In it Vincent has faithfully yet emotionally delineated a branch of an almond tree in full flower. The branches are painted against a light blue sky, the blossoms symbolizing new life to Vincent. There are echoes of Japanese prints as well as photographic cropping and simplification. And there is an abstract pattern to the branches, intentional or otherwise that leads the eye inexorably heavenward. It is a delight to the eye and the mind. (The new nephew, incidentally, grew up and founded the Van Gogh Museum.)

In May 1890 Vincent moved from San Remy to Auvers-sur-Oise, a far northern suburb of Paris. He was to be treated by a Dr. Gachet (a homeopathic doctor) who had treated other artists he knew. Vincent thought Gachet was more sick than he but regardless, met him for consultations. After two and a half months Vincent shot himself and died the next day. He was said to have been despondent over his lack of artistic success, a claim that has always seemed odd to me given that his work was actually gaining acceptance. Of course, Vincent continued to drink alcohol and probably absinthe, and to work feverishly for long periods. Whatever his reasons it appears virtually certain that he committed suicide in July, 1890.

It wasn't Vincent's suicide that propelled him to fame. It was his sister-in-law, Jo, Theo's wife. Theo was devastated by Vincent's death, though he had a chance to talk with him and perhaps comfort him in his last hours. Less than a year later, Theo died too, he of syphilis, and is buried next to Vincent. His widow Jo grasped that Vincent's story was a compelling one and his work--his late work at least--compelling and even sometimes exciting. In the 1890s, his reputation began to rise with a few small shows, then larger international shows including The Armory Show in New York in 1913. Jo edited hundreds of Vincent's Letters to Theo and published them in an initial edition at about the same time to acclaim. (These letters are a real treasure and show the reader an unvarnished and real Vincent van Gogh. I recommend them highly.) By the First World War, then, Vincent was famous as few artists have ever been or will be. He is first-name famous, which would probably have bemused him no end.

A final personal word about Vincent. He was a genius painter and a terrible draftsman. A great deal of his work looks (and was) hurried and poorly realized. He painted nudes (a couple of truly dreadful examples are in The Barnes Foundation) that should have been burned on completion. His early work is clearly unschooled and undisciplined. Even in his apex years some of his paintings are work that he might have destroyed if he were in his right senses. And yet. And yet much of his late work simply sings, speaks to people far and wide, resonates in their memory. It is still often uncertain in certain ways yet overflowing with humanity and emotion. And that makes him one of my favorites.

A few more favorites from Vincent's most exciting and productive years, 1888-1889:

Wheatfields and Cypresses, 1889

Le Arlesienne, 188

Terrace of the Night Cafe, 1888

Vincent's Bedroom, 1888

Self Portrait, 1889

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In This Series:
Favorite Artists
Favorite Artists 2--Chardin
Favorite Artists 3--Grant Wood
Favorite Artists 4--Diego Velazquez
Favorite Artists 5--Andrew Wyeth
Favorite Artists 6--Wayne Thiebaud 
Favorite Artists 7 - Edward Hopper
Favorite Artists 8- Nicolai Fechin
Favorite Artists 9- Rembrandt 
Favorite Artists 10-Hokusai
Favorite Artists 11-Franz Hals

Working in Watercolor

Painting outdoors has a rather tony French name, plein air. Most people connect that term with oil painting, but actually painting outdoors involves using virtually any kind of paint. Probably the most commonly-used outdoors has been watercolor. Certainly that's true for me. Watercolor is easy to transport, simple to set up and put away, gives the artist a record and information for later, and is quick and satisfying (mostly).

For the last several years watercolor has been my go-to paint outdoors, but I've also used gouache and casein outdoors. Each of the latter two dries so fast that it's a bit more difficult to use them, but they're also water-based, a real advantage. Oil painting outdoors means the painter not only is using a kind of paint that dries slowly, he also has to use a solvent like turpentine. I do own a French easel--a kind of paintbox with legs and an easel top--but it's heavy and bulky and therefore hard to carry around. In the end, it was watercolor for me for a long long while.

Back in 1999 we took an exploring trip to Rome, spending time in the ancient ruins and museums and revelling in the city and culture and food. Most trips we make I keep a journal, and in '99 was the first time I also did ink sketches and watercolors in the margins. A few full pages of that trip journal were devoted to a single ink and watercolor, like "Umbrella Pine" (left). We had gone to the Forum and spent time surveying the various sites of Roman history first, then hiked up the Palatine Hill where the heat of the Mediterranean day was eased by a cool breeze. It was easy to see why the elites of Rome built their houses and palaces there. At the time we went there was little to visit on the Palatine, so we sat and cooled off and I made the ink and watercolor painting in my journal.

"Schefflera Sunset," watercolor postcard ca. 2002

Another thing I enjoy on trips is painting and mailing postcards, like the one to the right. You can buy pads of watercolor paper in standard postcard sizes, which fit neatly in a pocket. I often carry a block of these and make watercolor sketches to mail home to family and friends. It's a great way to keep working and thinking even while vacationing or traveling for business. This particular postcard dates to twenty years or so ago, the original long since mailed and gone. It's one of the large-leaf umbrella plants I saw on a visit somewhere. The sun behind the leaves gave them a kind of corona that I wanted to capture.

"Taco Loco," ink and watercolor on paper, 5x9

My outdoor work in watercolor has been everything from gardens to vehicles to people. Not far from the Better Homes Test Garden I mentioned in another post is the Des Moines Sculpture Garden, where food trucks sometimes park. One of my particular favorites has been Taco Loco, whose dishes are yummy. One day at lunch I sat on a bench not far and sketched the truck. When the owner saw me he sent his wife over with a cold drink. Lovely folks.

"Color on Waterbury," 18x5

I am part of a sketch club that goes out together to draw and paint every Saturday afternoon (or did, until the pandemic arrived). The work to the right is a double page spread in one of my sketchbooks, the subject chosen for the bright fall colors. It was an early November day when we set out, and this step-wise view of brilliant foliage in bright slanting light drew my eye. Some of these watercolor sketches stand on their own and others are useful mostly as preliminary studies for eventual oil paintings.

The simplicity and ease of use of watercolor make it a real favorite. Anyone who wants to start working outdoors ought to give it a try.

Garden Paintings

One of the abiding subjects for painters has been gardens. From Roman times up until our own era painters have made images of gardens--public gardens, private ones, and imaginary ones. In our own time, the painter who has a garden nearby for subject matter is truly in luck.

Detail, Garden Fresco, Villa of Livia

The only Roman paintings available today are frescoes since wood and cloth (today's painting supports) will have decayed and disappeared. Nonetheless, fresco was very popular during the Roman period and numerous excellent examples exist, many of which were intended to imitate gardens. Some of the best examples have been found in the Villa of Livia, north of Rome, one of the domiciles of the wife of Augustus Caesar. The Garden Room is completely encircled by a fresco (detail, right) representing a garden in full bloom.

Gardens as subject matter were probably useful partly in religious artwork owing to the story of Eden, among other sources. The great Hieronymus Bosch (1450-1516) painted one of the most enduring scenes in his Garden of Earthly Delights, which even today seems to elude explanation. It is actually a tryptich, chock-full of obscure symbols. It hangs in the Prado in Madrid.

Diego Velazquez, "Facade, Grotto at the Villa Medici," oil, ~1630

During the two centuries or so after Bosch, there were plenty of artists making landscape paintings--Claude Lorrain for example in France--but gardens weren't generally subjects for easel painting. An occasional exception is sometimes interesting. Although Velazquez, the great Spanish painter, is known primarily as a portrait and figurative artist, his "Grotto at the Villa Medici, Rome," painted in 1630 (and presumably on the spot) is a great example of the kind of work that would follow centuries later. It is nearly monochromatic and to my eye even has a resemblance to the palette of Andrew Wyeth. Velazquez subject was the facade of the garden loggia (still there) in the Villa Medici in Rome. It foresees works more than two hundred years later. 
In the 18th and 19th centuries, as art horizons expanded to include personal and private works after centuries of religious and organizational patronage, subject matter expanded too. Landscapes, gardens, the sea, common people, and more began to occupy the creative minds of Europe and elsewhere. Gardens appear in the art of the 18th century and early 19th but are generally the stages for human endeavors. But by the late 19th century (maybe as pigments became brighter and more portable), formal and informal gardens moved to the foreground. These two paintings by the same artist, Claude Monet, show what happened. The first, "Women in the Garden," was painted in 1866 when he was quite young, and the second, "The Artist's Garden at Giverney" was finished more than thirty years later. In the second work you can see hints of what was coming from Matisse, Picasso, and others in only a few short years.

Women in the Garden, oil, 1866

The Artist's Garden at Giverney, oil, 1900

Claude Monet is probably the paradigm of the artist-gardener. His oeuvre is full of gardens as subjects from his youth to the celebrated water lilies.

Gardens are part of my own work, mostly outdoors. A few years ago one of my habits was to sketch outdoors in watercolor, and occasionally I did so in a wonderful spot downtown, the Better Homes and Gardens Test Garden. My own garden at home has continued to be a source of inspiration though, as you can see in the second watercolor below. The first is a sunny corner of the test garden where bright annuals and perennials are clustered along the winding pathway. The bench in the background is a pleasant spot to take in the shady corner where I sat to do this 7x9 sketch.

The sketch at the bottom is about 5x9 in one of my sketchbooks. After a rain I went out and sketched the lilies and black-eyed susans along the edge of one of the beds in the front garden. The lilies grow nearly six feet tall and make blazes of orange against the dark green foliage of the woods beyond.

Waterworks Park Again

Although the country is said to be opening, return toward normal activity seems very slow. The covid-19 infection rate is still rising in a significant number of places in this country and worldwide as the virus continues to spread. It is still my personal policy to continue distancing, and seems to be the plan for a majority of the population. So when I paint outdoors it is still close to home.

On the Raccoon River

Yesterday was one of the warmest, sunniest and most enjoyable mornings I've spent painting outdoors. The size of Waterworks Park, less than a mile away, allows nearly infinite painting opportunities. The Raccoon River is running at normal levels as it winds through the bottoms. This time I set up at the very edge of the stream, next to a public boat ramp. Very few people ever use the ramp, especially during the week, so it was peaceful and cool next to the running water.

The panel on my easel was small enough to cover and bring near finishing in the two hours or so before the sunlight changed.

It was good to be outdoors and working with my colleague Chuck Thompson, another plein air enthusiast. We will probably do it again in a few days.

Still Distancing

Today marks ten weeks since the pandemic officially struck here in flyover land. Since then most of the work I've done has been in the very near area around our creek and the near neighborhood, including Waterworks Park and Gray's Lake. And although governments from the federal to local are working to "open" society again, we're still staying home.

"Across the Creek," oil on panel, 8x10

This particular oil on panel was done in April and is the view from the window over my work table at home. This was the work of about two hours the third week of the month. The undergrowth is greening up, but the trees' canopy has yet to leaf out. The sky that day was a spring blue and the air was warm.

Waterworks Park

The Raccoon River is less than a mile away from my studio, its course snaking through a low-lying area that has become a 1500 acre park, being too low for businesses or dwellings. The city draw its water supply from the river so the park is Waterworks Park. Much of the park is covered with old, giant trees, so given how close it is to my home studio I've spent considerable time on the river bank during the pandemic lock down.

Unfortunately, for the past several days we've either had rain or clouds--not the most conducive weather for painting outdoors. So much of my time has been devoted to non-artistic work in the studio like cleaning, sorting, and the like. But I've also had time to work on a studio landscape based on one of my previous outdoor sketches.

"Raccoon Bend, Early May," oil on panel, 9x12

Outdoor painting isn't always about making a saleable painting. It is also about recording information, adding to the painter's visual library, or as one of my teachers used to say, "confronting nature." So even if a painter doesn't make a painting for display when working outdoors, he can widen his appreciation of the subject. An example is "Raccoon Bend, Early May," which had multiple purposes. The most basic was simply to take time to actually paint outdoors. Another purpose was to see the subject clearly and record what it actually looks like.

"Bend in the River," oil on panel, 20x16

When the weather didn't cooperate these last days I started on the landscape below, using the outdoor sketch posted here plus a reference photo. Unlike the outdoor painting, I widened the view. I also punched the colors, added cloud cover (from a different oil sketch) and shadows. While the plein air sketch is an accurate rendering of the colors and far bank, it's obvious that this painting is partly imaginary too.

A Look Back

Keeping a photo record of past works provides a way to review ideas and thoughts and also to assess changes in the work as it progresses. Depending on content, old paintings and sketches are a great way to revisit past events and seasons. Written journals are fine, but pictures are better, in my opinion. Sometimes a subject comes to mind that produced interesting work. 

Pieter Claesz, "Vanitas," oil, 1630

For years an interest of mine has been the vanitas paintings of the Dutch Golden Age, for example this incredibly detailed and finished work by Pieter Claesz. This and other vanitas works most commonly feature a human skull prominently as a symbol of mortality plus other similar symbols--clocks, bubbles, snuffed candles and the like. These works were intended to remind the viewer that life is fleeting as is written in a biblical verse: "Vanitas vanitatum. Omnia vanitas," or "Vanity of vanities. All is vanity."

Hoff, "Skull," graphite on paper 8x10, 2001

Although the idea of mortality might be considered morbid, it's certainly a reality. My own thoughts on the vanitas genre have led me to sketch and paint the subject in several different ways and mediums. For example, this graphite drawing of a skull was done long ago as a preliminary study for a vanitas project that didn't reach completion. In this particular drawing my main interest was in rendering the anatomic structures accurately.

Eventually I made study in oil of a skull, and for fun I put a baseball cap on top. The grinning skull and backward cap seem to complement each other somehow, so after pondering the idea of vanitas images as warnings of mortality it seemed natural to make a vanitas that alluded to the risk factors for the number one killer in the United States: heart attack.

The risk factors for the underlying arterial disease responsible for heart attack include smoking, diabetes, excess cholesterol in the blood and high blood pressure, among others. So the final vanitas (above) had to include symbols or mentions of those conditions. In the end that meant salt (high blood pressure) a donut (diabetes), a cigarette package, and a stick of butter (high cholesterol). The reversed cap can be read as a foolish or cavalier attitude toward risk.

More Pandemic Faces

A month ago I posted several digital drawings of people who were in the news about the Covid-19 pandemic. The spread of the virus continues and is actually increasing in many countries. There has been controversy and anger over required social distancing and closure of all kinds of businesses in this country, from restaurants to barber shops. There has been a lot of difficulty for the majority of us.

"Dr. Maldonado"

One of the groups that has suffered most is health care professionals. Dr. Andres Maldonado was one of those front-line physicians in an Emergency Department in New York. He contracted corona-virus pneumonia but survived. The drawing above was done from his smartphone selfie, and shows him in the hospital, recovering. Many nurses and others have had similar (and often more severe, or fatal) experiences.

"Angry Michigan Protester"

Others who haven't caught the virus have suffered in other ways. Many businesses have been shuttered and employees laid off. For those living from one paycheck to another the result has been devastating. Unemployment now is hovering around twenty percent, and many are understandably upset, anxious, depressed, and angry. Demonstrators have protested angrily, as did the man in the drawing above.

"RIP John Prine"

It is important to remember the many who have died of the virus. In our country at the time of this writing nearly 90,000 have died. One of those was John Prine (above), a consummate songwriter and troubadour whose music made millions of people happy during the past fifty years. Although he survived cancer he died of the coronavirus last month.

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Previous
Pandemic Faces

Still in the Neighborhood

Although at the time this is published almost all of the United States have begun to "reopen", meaning drop imposed limits on public gatherings and establishments, my plan remains to stay very close to Druid Hill Creek and the very near environs. That can sometimes mean painting or drawing the same subject or view, as I've done with views upstream, downstream, and across the creek from the studio.

The weather--cold and rainy--hasn't cooperated all that much these past few days, but I did manage a watercolor of the view from the studio window. It's hardly the first time I've painted this view (or drawn it for that matter), but the view is familiar and convenient. I laid this one out in graphite and ink before adding color, but didn't let the ink lines distract from using different methods of rendering foliage. Although many of the very fine lines in the painting are ink, the very fine tip on my brush allowed me to paint much fine detail, especially tree bark and undergrowth. This is 9x7 in one of my sketchbooks.

I'm certain to use this view again.
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Related
Painting in the Neighborhood

Non-Digital Drawings

Not all of my drawing practice is digital, even though every day brings a digital drawing or two. No, I draw with graphite and with metalpoint, and sometimes with charcoal. Over the past few days my thoughts have turned to traditional media, and here are a couple of the results.

"Silver Spring," silverpoint, 2020

"Silver Spring" is silverpoint on a gesso panel. These little panels are part of a lot of several dozen that I bought when a producer quit business. This one is 5x7. The gesso takes metalpoint very nicely, so that you can draw with even the lightest pressure. In this case, the lightest marks were made by simply allowing the stylus to rest on the support without any pressure. The resultant image seems more mysterious and evanescent, to my eye.

Although many of my digitalia these last few months have been done in a format very much like the chiaroscuro method, there haven't been that many comparable drawings in traditional media--graphite and charcoal. Those I've used mostly for layout or rough sketching. But the discipline required for traditional drawing in three values is important to reinforce so this portrait drawing of the famous artist Louise Bourgeois was great practice. 

"Louise," graphite and chalk on paper, 2020

Ms. Bourgeois lived into her 90s and died in 2010. She was a major force in art during the 20th century, and today is probably best known for her series of enormous spiders. (One is in the Sculpture Garden here in Des Moines.) She was born in Paris, studied at the Sorbonne and Ecole des Beaux Artes and eventually moved to the United States in the late 1930s. This drawing is from a reference photo made when she was in her 90s.

The Latest on Druid Hill Creek

"Downstream, Early May," oil on panel, 2020

The spring weather has been wonderful in Iowa, for the most part. We've had plentiful rain that has sped the greening of the garden and grass as well as undergrowth and now the canopy overhead. The creek is starting to disappear under the cascading honeysuckle while the shadows grow in the woods. This is another view downstream in early May, a 9x12 oil on panel. The creek looks as dark as coffee when you have the sun at your back, but the trees still reflect faintly and rocks show up here and there, just under the surface. The sun filters into the treetops and shadows thicken in the undergrowth. This took two sessions of about two hours each, the sun at my back and the breeze pleasant.

This painting uses a standard approach--a sketchy underdrawing in raw umber, followed by masses of darks, then lights, then details, using a basic palette.

The View Downstream

In the post about painting in the neighborhood I showed several paintings of the view upstream on Druid Hill Creek. But it is the view downstream that has occupied me more. That's because the view is actually the view from a north window of the studio. Since I've started doing more oil painting outdoors I've done a number of paintings of that view to go along with a myriad of watercolors I did in the past, using the same theme.

This is the basic view of Druid Hill Creek, bare of leaves in the winter. There are actually more trees on the west bank and the trees on the right are enormous but I omitted them to emphasize the creek. It runs due north for about a half mile, then bends into the trees. This 2018 watercolor was done in a 5x9 sketchbook I keep in the studio. February is entirely too cold for outdoor painting, in my books.

"Downstream," oil on panel, 2019

When the undergrowth and trees go into leaf the view downstream gradually disappears--the foliage droops and mostly covers it. Last May I went outside to the creek bank and painted the 9x12 oil posted above. Instead of a broad view, though, I wanted to study the rocks and water. The creek was running briskly over the sand and rock bottom. It disappeared under overhanging branches less than thirty yards away.

"Downstream, Early April,' oil on panel, 2020

Early last month was the first opportunity this year to go out an paint on the creek bank. Because of the pandemic, of course, it was one of the few places I could go without worry. Unlike the earlier view, there was almost no grass or foliage and the creek was low and sluggish, exposing more of the bottom. Nonetheless, the light was better, the temperatures were warmer, and it was a delight just to be outdoors.

Painting the Neighborhood

Claude Monet, "The Highway Bridge at Argenteuil," 1876

Some painters are well-known for their habit of painting whatever area they lived in. Claude Monet painted in Argenteuil, a far suburb of Paris in the 1870s, and made some his most memorable paintings as he was exploring his concepts of light and color. While living there he painted a number of the works that later became the backbone of Impressionism. One of my favorites is The Highway Bridge at Argenteuil (above), from 1876. Monet painted this standing on the bank of the Seine, just across the river from the village. A sailboat club had its headquarters along the bank to the left, with a few of the boats moored nearby. Here Monet has painted the water in bits of color reflecting sky, banks, sails, and hulls placing the only red at the vanishing point. He painted views of a number of bridges, streets, the river, and other neighborhood places and all the while built his vocabulary of painting. He moved on to other sites and other opportunities, the most famous being Giverny.

Andrew Wyeth, "First Snow (study for Groundhog Day", 1959

Andrew Wyeth did something similar, but unlike Mr. Monet, he painted his two environments in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, and Cushing, Maine throughout his life. Unlike his predecessor, Mr. Wyeth founded no movement and remained a maverick during his lifetime, when the art world had turned to abstraction, installation, and other artwork rather than his more realistic paintings. And he painted in egg tempera, a decidedly unfashionable medium, too. Mr. Wyeth used to hike the woods and fields near Chadds Ford, painting and sketching the neighborhood. Many of his watercolors were made on the spot in the fields. He has been quoted simply: "I paint my life." To a fan of his work, a visit to the town is almost like coming home.

Upstream

Hoff, "Upstream #1," oil on panel, October 2019

The current pandemic has caused most of us to spend much more time at home or nearby than at our studios or in public. For me that's meant doing a lot of oil painting outdoors along our creek, where there are no crowds and no coronavirus. You might think that circumscribed location means less to paint, but that hasn't been a problem. Unlike many neighborhoods, I have a creek out back.

One of the benefits of painting outdoors is simply the chance to be out of the house. These spring days with warming temperatures and brighter, warmer light have been therapeutic as well as inspiring.  I've concentrated on a single view of Druid Hill Creek over the past few weeks, looking upstream on the creek. It has been instructive to study the trees, the creek, the streambed, and all sorts of things alongside. Last fall the foliage was dense and the banks overgrown with grasses (above).

Hoff, "Upstream, Early Spring," oil on panel, March 2020

In early spring the were hints of green against the sere, brown and grey ground. The rocks along bankside were even dull and the trees were grey-black in the weak sunshine. I painted the upstream view one morning when the temperatures were only in the forties, taking every opportunity to run indoors and warm up before going out and tackling it again. The result is nearly monochromatic and abstract.

Hoff, "Upstream, Spring Light," oil on panel, April 2020

As the weather became more hospitable and grasses and honeysuckle undergrowth leafed out it was easier to work outdoors. In the most recent upstream view, the opportunities for color exploration and compositional ideas were considerably more varied, and it took nearly six hours to complete (above). It's fortunate that this view is just out the studio door, so as the season progresses my home base will likely continue to be the neighborhood, even if the pandemic winds down and we can mingle again.

Stay safe.

Outside in April Finale

After three sessions of 90 minutes to 2 hours the view upstream on the creek is finished. Sometimes you have to simply stop. This was a great learning experience, and so has each outdoor session been. Tomorrow I'll start another outdoor work, maybe here along the creek or maybe over at Gray's Lake, where the parking lots are closed but you can still walk or cycle into the park. Either way, there is always more to see, more to think on and more to learn outdoors.

"Upstream, April Light," oil on panel, 9x12

The great thing about these serial works is the record they make of the subject. That is, if you go back and look at the earlier works this month using this same view, it's obvious how quickly the undergrowth grows and covers the floor of the woods. Monet had the right idea.

Outside in April Three

For nearly the first time this spring we've had warm dry days with few clouds--absolutely perfect spring days. I posted earlier this week that the weather and light led me outside to paint the view upstream on Druid Hill Creek, and I've continued that. I've painted at the same spot along the bank at the same time of day for a couple of days. As you can see in the photo, the honeysuckle is a beautiful light green and the creek runs clear over a rocky bottom. Left to finish is the sandbar and rocks and an overlapping honeysuckle growing on the near bank. If the weather holds, it might be done in a day or so.

Outside in April Too

So many people are keeping themselves away from others that the physical world has actually changed--cleaner air and water, quiet streets and wild creatures coming into cities to name only a few alterations. Many places are locked down and people are unable to go outdoors but here in Iowa the outdoors calls and we respond, most keeping their distance.

The closures of most workplaces and schools, though, means that our parks and trails are actually crowded with people as they seek sun and warmth after another midwestern winter. And that makes it harder to paint outdoors, at least for me, except here along Druid Hill Creek.

Yesterday was a warm sunny day, a relief after a week or more of high temperatures in the 40s. I spent two hours outside on the bank, working on a new view upstream. The sun was brilliant and warm and the honeysuckle has begun its spring explosion of growth. Today will be another two hours or so, basking in the sun and working.

If it goes well, I'll post another interim progress report.

Outside in April

The weather has been cold in flyover land, with highs in the mid-40s at best, and damp these past few days, hampering outdoor painting. So studio work has occupied a lot of the time. Happily, before the weather closed in we had some bright sunny days, mostly warm, that gave time to get outdoors. Warmth and earlier rain has caused honeysuckle undergrowth across the creek to burst into leaf, its sprays and clouds of green already scattered and beginning to hide the bare earth.

This spring one of my resolutions has been to work outside as much as possible, but with pandemic restrictions I have had to limit trips away from the home studio. The view downstream on the creek has been a favorite subject in years past, mostly because it's closer to the studio, but those earlier works were mostly watercolor. My current work is almost all oil or digital, and until now only downstream looked interesting to me. But with the sun streaming down into the honeysuckle I turned the other way for a new view.

This painting is 16x12 on panel, done looking upstream from the creek bank. The honeysuckle and grasses have begun to glow in the warm shady recesses of the woods. It took three sessions of about two hours each. After that the light changed too much. The honeysuckle branches bowed over the opposite creek bank, and in the distance a fallen tree has washed onto the shore.

"Upstream," oil on panel, 2020

I stood on the bank's edge for this one, in a cold wind that made it necessary to go indoors and warm my fingers once in a while. Even wearing good mittens wasn't much help, so every twenty minutes or so I took a few minutes to thaw. During my next to last trip inside, when the painting mostly looked like this, I heard a distinct thud and rushed to the window. Sure enough, my easel had blown over in a gust, but at least it had remained on the bank. When I got outside I found that the painting had been ejected from the easel and flown into the creek, where it was floating downstream. Naturally, I scrambled down the steep bank and retrieved it, almost falling into the water in the process. Luckily I stayed dry, the lightweight panel floated, and there was no damage. Ditto for the Open Box M. I found my brushes, cup, and rag, but the cap to the cup was nowhere to be found. Next time I'll weight down the tripod in the wind.

Pandemic Faces

The covid-19 pandemic continues to devastate the world, taking the elderly and ill disproportionately, invading extended care facilities, overwhelming hospitals and health care workers, shutting down economies and businesses worldwide. As gloomy news continues and many have died, the impulse to draw has been strong. We see faces of people on television and the Internet every day who work on the forefront in hospitals and clinics and essential services like transportation and law enforcement--working on behalf of society--who have died of the illness. Their stories are often so compelling that the urge to draw them in homage and mourning is strong.

These digitalia are an homage to all of those whose work is essential, lifesaving, and the underpinning of civilization.

This is Frank Gabrin, thought to be the first ER physician to die here in the U.S. He lived in New York City where he worked in one of the emergency departments that are still overwhelmed with suffering. Before he died he was forced to work with actively infective patients without sufficient protective equipment but continued despite his own personal danger. He died within two weeks, a true hero.

The digital drawing to the right is of one of the truly brave Italian physicians, his exhaustion and anguish etched on his features. Although available data is still not clear, Italy has definitely suffered at least 150,000 known cases and about 20,000 deaths. The toll on nurses, doctors, and other health care professionals is probably 50 or more by now.

This is Dr. Li Wenliang, the first hero of the pandemic. He is the Chinese ophthalmologist who first reported what he believed to be a new viral illness, and later died of it. Although he reported the problem to colleagues in late December 2019, he was officially silenced by the Chinese government, who said that he was spreading untrue information. He died in February. Had his warning been heeded, many would have lived.

Nurses, who spend hours at the bedside of the sick, find themselves exposed to the coronavirus for longer and longer periods. Many nurses, like the ER doctor above, either have had inadequate protective equipment or have had to wear the same gowns and masks for an entire shift or even for several days. Lisa Ewald, RN, the nurse sketched digitally here died after being symptomatic and unable to be tested. However, her symptoms and exposure make it certain that she died of the virus.

Victims of the pandemic are everywhere, many in the service sectors of this country. The fellow pictured to the right is Jason Hargrove, a bus driver in Detroit, Michigan. Mr. Hargrove became famous because of a post he made on the Internet deriding a woman on his bus who coughed a number of times without covering her face. He pointed out correctly and profanely how an unthinking person could endanger everyone, particularly people like himself who were working on their behalf and to continue feeding their families. Within two weeks of his posting he died of the virus.

Not all victims of the virus have died. In one recent episode, the skipper of the USS Theodore Roosevelt, an American aircraft carrier based in the Pacific, was cashiered by the Acting Secretary of the Navy for sending more and more urgent requests for assistance for his 4000 person crew after the virus infected a number of sailors. Captain Brett Crozier, acting in faith with his crew, contracted the virus himself. At this writing remains alive and in isolation, but his clinical status has not been reported.

A global disaster is almost impossible to actually understand because the sheer enormity and scope is beyond the experience of anyone alive. Drawing these faces has been a way to humanize the shambles of our world. No doubt there are many many more to draw.

Looking Upstream

Most of my paintings of Druid Hill Creek or environs are views downstream. Lately though I've paid more attention to the opposite view, southward. The land rises to the southeast, first with a steep bank and then a hillside, the top of which is at least 30 feet higher. The banks are wooded and often dark, and it's harder to see that direction from the studio windows. Nonetheless, the last couple of weeks I've taken an easel outside and worked on the upstream view.

Hoff, "Upstream, Early April, oil on panel, 9x12

The creek widens and shallows as it bends and heads more northward. There is a sandbar that is uncovered when the water is low, as it is now, and tall trees line the western bank. In the early and mid-mornings, tree shadows cross the stream perpendicularly and the water takeson a yellow to dark appearance. Mornings can seem less focused, somehow.

A Few Weeks Ago

Hoff, "Winter Sun," gouache on panel, 6x8

This particular painting is 6x8 on a gesso panel, done using a kind of gouache. The panel was an old, stained one (notice the pool of transparent dark, upper right) that was in the studio. The gouache base I used was titanium white to which I added staining watercolors to make the colored passages. Normally when painting with gouache you'd use several tubes of separate hues, but this method seems to work in a pinch. This is the view of my studio window in mid-February, around Valentine's Day. Quite a change in six weeks--the grass outside is bright green and the honeysuckle undergrowth is a frothy, yellow-green cloud.

April at Last

Hoff, "Downstream, Early April," oil on panel, 9x12, 2020

Although it is still a little chilly on some mornings, it has been warm enough to paint outdoors several times this past week. I did wear mittens and duck indoors every so often to warm up. Nevertheless, it's clear that spring has arrived for certain. The predictions for the coming ten days are for every day highs to reach the 50s(F). This is the result of about three outdoor mornings while shadows still covered most of the creekbed and made the stones stand out where sunlight raked across. It was took a couple of short indoor sessions to add fine detail. The honeysuckle undergrowth along Druid Hill Creek has burst into very early leaf in the last two days. In fact, there was no greenery at all four days ago when this began, and now there is green everywhere along the stream. In this time of pandemic, this turn of season fills me with hope.

Skyline

March has been a difficult month this year because of the widening pandemic. In many parts of this country people are under "lock down" orders--only allowed out to walk the dog, get groceries, see the doctor, or other essentials. It's not so strict here, and many who are furloughed from work want to get outdoors, shake off the doldrums. I've managed that by working in my gardens, though outdoor painting has been one of the things keeping me occupied.

Hoff, "March Skyline, " oil on panel, 11x14

This is another outdoor work--well, begun outdoors--that started earlier this month but had to be postponed owing to inclement or different weather. It was painted on the spot, only a few steps from the spot where I painted the most recent posting of outdoor work. The thing about painting outdoors is how it forces me to stay accurate in drawing and in color. I actually finished this in the studio in two more two hour sessions because the grass has changed color, the light is different now, and the undergrowth is now showing a hint of green. Too much to finish outdoors.

Despite the emergency, outdoor work will increase weekly as the season warms. 

Outside Again

The season is advancing and we all itch to be outside, regardless. In spite of the current voluntary "social distancing" artists are fortunate if their art is a solitary one--painting doesn't require company. So even though much of the machinery of life has ground nearly to a halt, I managed to get outdoors to paint a few more times earlier this month. The first effort was posted a while back. This one is a view of the Iowa capitol building from the shore of Grey's Lake, not far from the studio. Although you can't see it in the painting, the Raccoon River is just beyond the trees, between the lake and the opposite side, where a new town center shopping district is about to be built over an old industrial site. This view will change soon.

The painting is 9x12 on linen adhered to a lightweight aluminum panel. My panel carrier holds two of this size, so I keep two and put one one the easel. The day I worked on this one the sky and grass were considerably less bright, but the aims here was hope and cheer. The day was cold and clouds hung in the north sky, but the sun was on my back and with no wind it was a pleasant few hours. 

We'll see what the warmer days bring, but so long as we're not legally confined it shouldn't be hard to slip outside and paint.

Everyone stay safe.