We’re all familiar with the problems associated with Sunday Painters. Cranking up the old machine once a week may be okay in the vintage car hobby — but it’s bad news in the creativity game. The steady worker who applies his craft daily is more likely to make creative gains than an intermittent one. Even when tired, or even because of it, the rolling creator can generally squeeze further.
Depending on your point of view, he was either one of the world’s most important painters, or the original amateur. J. M. W. Turner (1775-1851) influenced many artists, particularly the impressionists. (Monet and Pissarro were knocked over by his work) His paintings of luminous vapour have etched their way into the popular imagination.
One magic day years ago I stood in front of the real stuff at the Tate in London. Ever since then I’ve been wired for Turner — both the artist and the art. I always feel I owe him a visit.
Liz Reday of Southern California wrote, “What do you do with all the extra art? Especially after fifty years of painting? How do I build a storage shed that will adequately protect the paintings and get them out of my now cluttered studio? Yes, I intend to destroy a number of the unfortunate unsuccessful ones (note I don’t call them “dogs”) but we can’t burn outside here in Southern California. Is a raised wood deck archival for storing paintings or is it better to have a concrete slab? Do your readers have any suggestions?”
These days the wind blows on this island from the northwest, fluttering hard the worldwide flags of the beach-cottagers. Clouds form over the distant coastal ranges, building among the highest peaks. Then they move out into the great gulf and rise to pass overhead. Effortlessly they form and reform. They have their early character and their late. In the morning: blue-gray, transparent, understated. In the evening: warm, purpled, energetic, dramatic. These clouds present the perennial quandary: Do I redesign them to suit a composition — to add control and solidity to the work? Or do I go with the arbitrary mystery of the vapour — the magic of hiding and transformation?
Last weekend I attended an exhibition of the work of a wide range of painters. A lot of it was photo-derived — some of it really crackerjack — others not so hot. Why is it that some people can take photographic reference and make it exciting, while others only succeed in reproducing a photo?
A lot of it has to do with the analysis that an artist gives to the reference prior to picking up the brush. Here are a few ideas you might find useful
Near Sydney’s Circular Quay, a set of stone steps wanders through the historic foundations of Australia’s first European settlers. Here, convicts and pioneers of 1788 erected new lives amid gum trees and sandstone. “The Rocks” or “Tallawoladah,” as the Aboriginal Cadigal people called it, swirls today with ice cream lickers and city slickers, though its colonial past still pokes from behind the doorways of its remaining terrace houses. Across from the cutting-edge Museum of Contemporary Art and its Aboriginal masterworks nods the dusty entrance to the Julian Ashton Art School.
Every few days someone asks me to send a personalized checklist of things they need to do and think about while they’re painting. As everyone’s creative concept is really quite different, this is a tough order. Even though I may have looked at the work, their continued flourishing depends on a unique vision and a sense of individual entitlement. We are all specialists of some sort, and specialization demands we make our own checklists. In our game there’s no silver bullet, no one size fits all.
Near where I live there passes an ancient pathway called the Semiahmoo Trail. It was first used by native peoples — the Semiahmoos — then by gold seekers, and later — not much more than a hundred years ago — by the first settlers in our area. Much of it has now been overtaken by urban sprawl. Some sections have been designated a heritage trail, bike path or nature walk. In some places it calls for a strong heart — small posts mark kilometers and encourage citizens to use it to increase their heartbeat.
More than a few of us report that our first inspiration to pick up a brush was Les Automatistes of Quebec or Kandinsky and Der Blaue Reiter. Fast, intuitive strokes invite access to a spontaneous and visceral creative experience — an appealing prompt. Others first fell under the spell of the carefully planned masterworks of Neoclassicism, the incremental chiseling of a hunk of marble or the specific strategy required by conceptual art that leaves the end fabrication to a team of minions. This slower system, set in stages with rules and requiring concentration, focus, observation and accuracy, may have felt the most natural.
Good karma is a creative tool. By contrast, bad karma can interfere with your work, slow your progress and spoil your fun. Your words and deeds are your honour and your glory. Future power is needlessly given away every day by thoughtless moves and ignorant remarks. It’s sad to realize that most of the world’s evil begins with our mouths. Here are some karmic tips for artists: