So Sometime Early Last Fall...

...I had to swim back to my old home because when you leave somewhere, there is always something you forget. This time it was not something I did not pack, but to take notes on what light actually looks like at night.


As the white balance in the photo was off and all the lights do not blink at the same time, the next step was translating these notes into colors back in the studio.


It's a lot of color mixing for such a small amount of paint application.


But once the lights were in, I could paint the sky and landscape around them (although to show this step I am skipping to the second layer of paint).


By painting the sky (and later the tree line) over the lights, I accomplish two things. First, I can control the size and the shape of the lights.


Secondly, I avoid the look of the of the lights being plopped on top of the painting. Think of any bad starry night painting you have seen.


And just in case you were wondering, the above is a shot of my palette and how many different colors go into one sky. Light pollution courtesy of N. Charleston is to the left, and moonlight provided by Artemis is to the right.


Now I can focus on the water and marsh reflecting the sky in the middle ground and foreground, with the same style of palette gradient to accomplish it.


Finally in the category of difficult work, I wanted to soften the edges of the little lights. Think of a star or a streetlight, and how they have a small halo around them.


In the previous picture, only the yellow lights had a small, transparent glaze painted around them. In the picture above, all the lights are softened by this small (but very large for the stress of its nerve-wracking precision) glaze.


The last layer is a true, all over, glaze layer, which I sometimes use to adjust the overall tone or atmosphere of a painting. But in this case, it was just a clear coat to even out the sheen until a varnish can be applied.


And just because this post was not long enough, here is my favorite part, pulling off the tape (props to Scotch Blue Edge Lock for making superior tape ;), exposing the sides that I painted black nearly two years ago, and dropping it in its home, the frame:


And ul 104 (sink or swim) is done!

-jb.

Although There Is A Video...

...documenting the entire process in the works, here are a few progress shots of my newest painting.


Aside from the delicacy of painting the oyster beds, the greatest challenge in this painting was making the transition from marsh grass in shadow to the full light of the setting sun.


It didn't work well in the first layer, and so I slowed down and focused on getting it right in the second.


With a glaze of Indian Yellow to bring out the highlights and give it a setting sun kick, I think it came out great!


It is titled ul 102 (standing at the threshold) and measures 9 x 33" in its frame.


-jb.

For The "Evolution" Group Show...

...I took the opportunity to step in a different direction.


As my "before" painting was architectural in nature, I chose to paint one of my favorite cornices in Charleston.


It is the fourth architectural landscape that I have created in the past dozen years.


The main trick was to remember to catch the sunset and the late light bouncing off the building, taking notes on the colors and hues.


Photographs only go so far, and the vagaries of printing sometimes distort what is captured via the camera (just like these photos vary in colors).


But photography's main advantage is the level of detail captured, and freezing the moment, so I didn't have to freeze outside painting it!

-jb.

For The "Evolution" Group Show...

...I've chosen this work from my sophomore year of art school. It was 1997 in a landscape class.


We had to stay in one area of a Boston park, and I remember having the worst time picking a subject. But the cornices of the this building intrigued me.


So I painted them, but running short of time, ended up giving them neither the time nor detail they deserved.


My new painting (here in pink and earlier in the process of being built) will remedy what I did wrong in the original, Charleston style...

-jb.

Woohoo! New phone...

...a working camera phone, and all the settings and requisite passwords remembered and entered means that hopefully I'll get back into the blogging habit.


A while back, you may have seen some of the photos for my latest series of paintings that run from mid-day low tide to full moon flood tide in four paintings.


These are long ago process shots of the first layer of the first painting being competed.


The painting is now complete, so hopefully I can catch up on the blog.


More to follow...

-jb.

Some Paintings...

...are like jigsaw puzzles. They come together one section, or piece to the puzzle, at a time.


You can divide this into positive and negative shapes. Think of the positive space as the big shapes, or the large blades of grass.


These shapes are defined by the negative space around them, in this case the jumbles of smaller blades.


By painting the negative space then cleaning up the edges with a razor blade, the pieces (or big blades of grass) fit in neatly.


Oh, and I case I forgot to mention, these three paintings are all mounted on a neat box made of discarded pieces of the gallery's floor, from when it was refinished years ago.


-jb.

I Left This For Last...

...because I thought it would be the easiest of the series of studies. I have to learn to replace "easiest" with "least really frigging difficult" because nothing is ever easy.


I also remember that this reference photo was a pain to get.


Because of the vagaries of the moon and tidal strength, three afternoons in a row I was standing out in the marsh, looking at water that would would not come in far enough.


But once I figured out the reflections, the painting came together like a jigsaw puzzle, using negative shapes to define the things to be painted.


But you will notice that while the snails reflections were painted, the snails themselves were not.


This is because the reflections have a fuzzy edge to them, while the snails themselves must be crisp and sharp, so I let the paint dry first to get a sharp edge (then forgot to photograph the result).

-jb.

Because I Wanted To Try Painting Stars...

...I started with the night series at high tide first.


The image transfer just left a jumble of charcoal lines, and although I usually only use one layer for studies, here I made an exception and threw in burnt sienna and umber for anything not sky or water.


Then the sky went in, and to my surprise it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be paint a star, then color in the sky around it, leaving it to look like it is shining through the sky.


I did the same for the reflected stars in the water.


Finally, after waiting a couple of weeks for the moon to return, I spent a couple of nights taking notes on the the color of grass under the moonlight, and completed the marsh grass in two sittings.


-jb.

Usually When I Fall Off A Ladder...

...some variant of "Man, that was stupid!" runs through my head. But this time it was "Hmmm, that is kind of a pretty view!" And in need of a subject for a series of studies to work out the different qualities of light in a day, I was sold on the subject.


The next day (because at this point I was covered head to toe in mud, shivering, and my shooting time was therefore over) I went out to catch the sunset.


Dirty work, shooting from a low angle perspective (also known as "worm's eye view") but the view is unique.


It is also a bit stressful, as the high tide shots required the camera to be just inches above several inches of camera killing water.


But I did what I do whenever I am in this type of situation, and reminded myself that my camera is worth about the same as my car, that I am therefore holding my car in my hands, so do not choose this moment to be a klutz. Even though being a klutz got me here, by falling off a ladder!

-jb.

Speaking of My 100th Landscape...

...maybe I should explain how I got to that number, or, how I title my paintings.


This was my first painting on canvas, in acrylics, completed when I was about 15. It was probably titled something silly like, "Valley in Vermont" or some other sad trope. But in college, my school was directly across from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, and I spent an inordinate amount of time within it's halls. One thing I noticed is that as soon as someone was drawn to a painting, the first thing they would do is read the label giving the title, artist name, and other details. While I did not know what went through the viewer's mind, sometimes this info would cause them to completely abandon a painting they were otherwise drawn to. Most landscapes were either named after the place, or the place was included in the information. I wondered if a person's preformed idea of a place would alter their relationship with a painting of that place.


So I wanted nothing at all to do with titles that would influence my viewers relationship with my paintings. Being a giant fan of 70's minimalism, I went with "untitled landscape #_" for my titles. But having to start somewhere with a number sequence, I retroactively gave the above painting the honor of "untitled landscape #1" as it was the my first truly successful (for reasons perhaps only known to me) landscape painting in oil.


But gallery owners HATE untitled series #_ and want real, pretty titles. To be dead honest, I kind of agree with them and acquiesced for the simple reason that keeping straight the difference between painting #37 and #38 on numbers alone, two months, let alone two years down the line, is a giant chore. But keeping the system already in place, I shortened "untitled landscape #" to simply "ul#" and added on a title in parenthesis. So the above image is "ul 25 (a tribute to Georgia O'Keefe)."


Most of the the time, the titles are not so specific, as once again, I care not to influence a viewer's idea of a painting with something as benign as a title. But it was the view from her front porch in Ghost Ranch, New Mexico, so in this case I made an exception. Besides, I've had a poster of one her paintings since I was like seven. It is the least I could do to repay the favor of her works' influence on me. Mostly painting titles come from songs I had running through my head at the time, like the one above "ul 50 (samson)."


Or, when they are a series or body of work, track names from the album I had playing in my studio at the time. Vainly, I hope one day to have a retrospective at a big museum. Then, instead of the audio tour with some narrator waxing philosophic about the lengths I went to create, the influences on my work, my intentions, etc. (for which you have this blog, my dear reader, minus the annoying voice over), you can take the other option, simply a soundtrack of each painting's song when you stand in front of it. For the one above, "ul 75 (the bagman's gambit)," you would be listening to The Decembrists in my pipe dream retrospective.


Which brings me to my latest painting, "ul 100 (carriers of the light)." The song is by Brendan James, and explains why he continues to sing. I thought it fitting, for not only having an infectious tune, it also could explain why I continue to paint. And hopefully this extremely long blog post also explains how much I think about you as the viewer, and thank you for viewing, and caring for and about, my paintings. Thanks, and on to 101!

-jb.