Guilin Landscape, Chapter 2

I showed my emulation to an art professor.

I did not tell the professor that this was my copy of a painting by Bai Xueshi.  I didn't want the comments to be tainted by any biases.

The professor liked how the mountains were depicted but had issues with a few things.

>The painting was trite.  The presence of boats was too predictable.  The boats were too detailed.
>The thin ribbon representing the foreground made the painting feel cramped.
>The boats on the left impeded the energy emanating from the mist. That space should be left void.

So I painted another version.  I really have gotten better in pursuing an understanding of criticisms.  I am now willing to retrace my footsteps just to see what differences might show up in the end.

This painting had no boats.

It was deemed too austere now.  It lacked a story.

Time to put the incidentals back in.  I drew my boat on a small piece of paper now.  I could move and attach it to various parts of the painting to find a perfect home before any permanent damage was done by the indelible black ink.

Notice that I had simplified the boat to the bare essentials.

It was suggested that I put a boat to the left of the mountains, in the form suggesting a sail.

The reasoning behind this was a vertical line would harmonize better with the pillars of mountains.  This smudge of a line would not block the flow emanating from the mist either;  basically leaving the void space untouched.

My left brain however was having great difficulty with this arrangement. The painting had all the distinctively recognizable traits of Guilin landscape, and the Li River in particular.  Vessels that float on this waterway included small fishing sampans, bamboo rafts and now convoys of tour boats.  Sailboats just weren't common, unless they were used as props for photo shoots.

It is kind of silly to get hung up on a minute detail.  The smudge could be anything.  It is only a vertical sail if I recognized it as such.

I am my worst enemy.

I am therefore still vacillating on my next move.

Guilin Landscape

I know I'm getting old.

I'm getting forgetful, for sure, but that's not it.  I'm actually reminiscing quite often now, more so than ever before.

I was trying to relive some of  the trips I've taken.  One of which was to Guilin, considered to be the most scenic area in the world.  Somehow I was able to locate the obligatory guide book that I purchased while over there, and started to thumb through that, and fill my head with memories again, augmented by the pictures.

Most people might be impressed with the ribbon like strands of strange hills and mountains, rock pillars and conical lime stones.  For me, it was the bamboo groves.  I simply had no idea that groves of bamboo would look nothing like bamboo.  I used to question and doubt my teachers when they depicted  bamboo as rungs on a ladder.  Now I understand.

I also thought of this painter, Mr. Bai Xueshi (1915-2011) who had painted quite a few Guilin landscapes.  I decided to study his painting expression and tried to emulate it.

I picked the semi-sized Xuan again because I needed to be able to layer on my ink; since I had no idea on how to control and render the different ink tones. The un-sized raw Xuan would be too messy for my tentative brush strokes.

For the groves I would dab in the shape of the plant(s) first and then write in the infrastructures.  I was able to be more expressive this way.

After I was done, I thought the painting looked a little stark and cold, so I warmed it up a bit with my notorious coffee.  The sepia was applied mainly to the edges of the mist, and seemed to impart a little drama.

Then I realized that one of the bamboo seemed to line up with the edge of a mountain in the background and the appearance was a little disconcerting, as if I was looking at a scar.

I am sure this was due to my incompetency.  I was not able to distant the foreground from the background with my ink tone.

There was only one thing to do.  Make the mountain bigger.

After this reconstructive surgery, the scar is gone.

Etude-Lotus Leaf Chuen

I've touched upon the techniques of Gou, Chuen, Ts'a  and R'an often employed in Chinese Brush painting, especially in the landscape genre.

One of the Chuen technique is called the Lotus Leaf Chuen;  this is where brush stroke resembling the vein of a lotus leaf is used to describe the topography.  This is commonly employed while painting the foothills of mountain ranges, perhaps depicting a watershed.

I practiced that technique with my students in class and I intend to apply that technique to something tangible at the next lesson.     Recall that I am not a real fan of the rote technique, when we keep repeating and copying props that are from the past.  I therefore wanted to paint a local iconic mountain using that brushstroke and make this technique relevant in today's application.

That means doing homework myself, otherwise I don't have anything concrete to show.

I first laid out the contour lines of this mountain and installed the lotus leaf Chuen around the base of the mountain, where the slope is not as steep.  I then selectively shaded the different areas of the mountain, using these Chuen lines as a guide, paying attention to where the light source might be.  I know this is highly irregular for traditional Chinese Brush.  Emphasis is on line quality and the unwritten meanings and nuances rather than an overt representation of the subject matter.  So I've committed blasphemy.  Perhaps in the name of progress.

The dark background helped to contrast the white snowy peak and pop up the mountain.

Here's a close-up of the lotus leaf Chuen

Pupil of The Eye

I wanted to paint a flight of spiral staircase.

A bunch of concentric circles; well maybe not entirely concentric, but think of it as a bunch of circles of different diameters placed together.  How difficult could it be.

I was asked the reason for picking this subject matter.  It really does not have a whole lot to do with Chinese brush painting.  So why bother.

My short answer was that I wanted to continue to explore the property of the semi-sized Xuan that I was using, and to continue my study of the Jimo (accumulating ink) technique.  

Actually the spirals with radiating spokes of steps and alternating bands of illuminated flat surface against vertical dark balustrade fascinated me.  To me, there existed complexity in this simplistic arrangement, and vice versa.

The schematic was too complicated to paint extemporaneously, so I took my time to sketch it out.  I wanted a reasonable spatial proportion and relationship of the different elements.

 

 

 

 

Next step was to build up the details by writing in the steps.  To help me perceive the perspective better, I painted in the floor at the bottom, designating that as the darkest portion, and began to build my risers from the bottom up.

 

 





I continue to construct until all the steps were in.  I felt like I was installing vanes in a jet engine.

It was time to test the water.  Like a proud parent, I introduced my piece to my cohorts.

I had done a few pieces of works with ink and semi-sized Xuan, namely the roof top piece and the pillars piece.  Those pieces were done in the portrait format.

Why couldn't I turn my painting 90 degrees to the left and make it into a portrait format too.   After all it's just a bunch of circles so the orientation should not matter!  By doing this, I could add to my collection of ink paintings in the portrait format.

To my chagrin, the reception was lukewarm at best.

Is that a pupil of an eye?   Mused someone.

It looked convex to me!  If you were trying to paint stairs, they appear to be poking out the painting rather than looking down  Commented another.

You need to blur out the top levels so the bottom is in focus, so people get what you are painting!  Suggested yet another.

So I monkeyed around with it and dramatized my light values to better illustrate my helical steps.

Still looks like an eye!  There's something wrong with your painting but I couldn't put my finger on it !  That was pretty much the general consensus.

Then the art professor came over and rotated my painting 90 degrees.

Now everybody went Ah!  Much better!

What I thought was a bunch of circles and the orientation didn't matter actually did matter in this instance.  I thought hard and long for my misconception. 

Here is plausible explanation.

When we are looking down a flight of spirals, we are inevitably closest to one point on the rail or banister.  As we gazed downwards, the corresponding points on each ring would seem to stick together.  For example,  when we looked through a tunnel or a huge water pipe, we typically see the
ceiling curving around us, and the floor of the pipe seemed flat, even though it is part of the circle.

By displaying this painting in a portrait format, we took away that point of reference and our brain could not rationalize the anomaly and cried foul.  Order was restored only when we restored that frame of reference.

You just can't fool the eye!  Nor the pupil, for that matter.

Suliao Xuan Ban - The Journey is complete

I submitted my Journey painting for a local exhibition and the jury gave their nods.

That meant I needed to mount the Xuan so it could be presented.

I had always wanted to try something really far rout with this piece of work.

Obviously painting with coffee and cream and tea was unconventional, especially as far as Chinese brush is concerned.  When I needed to mount this painting for presentation, I didn't want to do it the traditional fashion either.  This was in part motivated by the fact that the coffee and tea had no fixative in them and the color tends to move if not careful.

I had wanted to exploit the translucent quality of the Xuan.  I also deplore the glass covered look, the omnipresent glare from the glass.  I am also too cheap in invest in non-glare museum quality glass.  That was my motivation for inventing  the Xuan-Boo ( Xuan on canvas ) to begin with.

The only plausible way to showcase the semi-transparent Xuan was to mount my painting on a piece of glass; tampered glass to be specific.  I toyed with the notion that my painting could be viewed almost like a stained glass window or a double sided silk embroidery.  I had visions of  my work mounted on the surface of glass.  The entire piece would be a float and I would epoxy a platform behind the glass so it could be displayed several inches off the wall surface, allowing ambient and reflected light to dance on my painting.

That won't work; too heavy.

Then I was going to use a heavy gauge plastic, in lieu of tampered glass.  It turned out that anything over three-sixteenth thickness is cast plastic, and costs an arm and a leg.  Besides, even at one-quarter inch thickness, the piece flexes due to the large dimensions, and it was heavy.

I eventually abandoned the frameless float idea and settled for a frame.

My work was still to be mounted on the surface of the plastic.  I mounted another piece of Xuan on the backside of the plastic for proper white balance.   The thickness of the plastic sheet gave the backing an interesting look.

In order to not distract the painting with my traditional red seal, it was suggested that I sign with pencil.

But I really wanted to use my seal.  I am better represented by my chop than a pencil signature!

Who says the chop has to be red?

I used my ink box as the seal mud and stamped my chop in black ( buried in the right bank)  The important thing is, that chop looked great.  For people in the know they would recognize the presence of my seal.  For the less enlightened, it was not obtrusive and it didn't matter.  It was proper and soothing.  It belonged.  I thought.

(close-up of the black chop)

With this set-up, shadow would form behind the painting, behind the frame, and yet one could see it through the plastic. 
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It helped to move the painting to the front.  Now the audience can fully explore the miasma of the atmosphere homogenizing with the land, only to be interrupted by the intrepid riders.

The entire piece was finished with several layers of spray urethane to protect the delicate Xuan from soiling.  At least that was what I hoped.

I am naming this process of mine Suliao Xuan Ban,  Xuan on plastic board.

Paint Myself Into A Corner

I was at this pavilion like structure.  It had two opposing arcs of pillars, standing under a roof, otherwise exposed to the elements.

When the sun tilted to one side of the pavilion, it casted long shadows of these pillars across the mosaic pavilion floor, ending up on the opposite side..

The shadows crept towards the opposite pillars, and just happened to sandwich in between the cement masses; juxtaposing amongst the lit floor and the reflected shades of gray.

The pattern of thin, rigid metal inserts of the pillars contrasting with the heavy cylinders, staged by bands of shadows and light, garnished with rows of small mosaic tiles on the floor.

I found this composition alluring

Since I had so much fun painting my roof tops, another architectural themed painting, I made this my next project.

First I sketched the composition.  This painting is made up of geometric shapes and I wanted to get the position and relative size of the different elements right.  I also needed to demonstrate the weight of the pillars with convincing strokes and meticulous lines.  I could not afford to leave the whole thing to free hand brushstrokes.

Notice that I had planned to paint the mosaic tile floor too.  I thought the contrast between the stout pillars and the curvy rows of tiny mosaic tiles would be interesting.

This is how the painting looked after the initial playing with the gray scale.

I liked my foundation work.  I also felt that the light and dark was so powerful, that it would smother my attempt to paint in the rows of mosaic tiles on the floor.  I believe the tiny squares would take away from the emotional content.  It is as if I am looking at a beautiful bikini cladded model and I have to divert my attention to the glued on art nails.  Simply redundant!

Since I was using the semi-sized Xuan again, I took my time to paint, using the Ji Mo technique ( ink layering).  Each subsequent layer receded further from the illuminated edge of the pillar, giving it a rounded  cylindrical appearance.  I actually used a straight edge to guide my brush; forming these convincing lines.

As I was building up the painting, my focus somehow migrated away from toying with the light values, but gradually directed towards the corner formed by the ceiling beams on the upper right side.
It was as if all the pillars and things were just the guiding elements on a fishbone UHF antenna.  They just draw in and direct the signal to the collecting element.  In this case, the corner.

There was no rational explanation, but the more I wanted to not look at that corner, the more I was drawn to look at it.  Could my OCD be flaring up again?

I just went with the flow; followed my heart.  I accentuated the lines culminating in that corner and played up the shadows.  My attention could now follow the pillars, and end up in THE CORNER.

I had painted myself into a corner.

Better Roof Tops

With no hesitation I went for my second attempt at roof tops with aplomb. Knowing what was wrong with my first trial should make this child's play. Indeed it was.

It didn't take me long to lay down my patches.  I added windows to the houses on the left, now that there was room to reveal them.  The mitred roofs looked fine.  This should be easy.

 

 

 

It had different shades of black.  The roofs were a little more animated with texture.  The painting still carried an air of geometric patterns, but it wasn't cold.

 

 

Somehow things still did not seem right.  I didn't want to be agnosonosic, but I really had no clue. I just trusted my instincts.

 

Then it dawned on me.

 

 I amended my mistakes on the left, but I introduced them on the right side now. I had unwittingly painted the houses on a staggered line.  In other words, the houses on the right were not along the same curbside.  This was all due to the extended eaves.

 

 

 

 

 

I shouldn't have drawn eaves the same length on both sides of the roof.  If these houses were truly parallel to us, then the left eave and the left truss ( closest to us ) would be much longer than the other.  They should have followed the red lines in my diagram.

 

I didn't want to chalk this up as something that was not emphasized in typical Chinese brush painting.  Perspective was really not a vital player.  So this exercise had been most enlightening for me.

 

As I was ruminating all these tidbits of information, my thought process about this painting changed.

My original intent was to depict a narrow street amongst rooftops.  My initial zeal was triggered by the repeating patterns.  By now I know the painting by heart, especially with the composition.  Slowly a feeling emerged.  A maturation process was taking place. 

 

Then I left the room.  Perhaps to allow my thoughts to brew. 

 

It was evening when I returned and I had not switched on the lights yet so the room was dim, but not dark.  I glanced at my Xuan, which I had started to sketch in the blocks.  This painting was no longer about geometric shapes, although they were still integral parts.  The painting was about a silence of the night.  Not desolate, but calm.  Not abandoned, but at peace.

 

I emboldened myself with intense, decisive strokes.  The huge black patches now adorned with texture, barely visible but very discernible.  I did this in between flipping on and off the light switch just to feel the lighting effect.  Little horizontal lines reminiscing of clothing bamboo rods ( instead of clothing lines, apartment dwellers have bamboo staffs hoisted outdoors to hang clothes with)  helped to form a connection between the 2 sides of this painting.

 

 

 

This one I can  be proud of.  I delighted in the metamorphosis of this painting, and it happened serendipitously.