Same Roots, Different Feel

Now that I have two paintings of banyan tree roots, I'm left with the task of deciding which one I like better.

The one on the right is methodical, deliberate and manicured.  The one on the left is devoid of discrete lines and comprised mostly of shadows.

The right one gives a very detailed accounting of where everything is.  There seems to be order in the chaos, if one is interested and motivated to find out.  The one on the left just stares at you; you either hate it or love it.

Somehow the left one elicits a stronger emotional response from me.  I can't really put a finger on it.  Perhaps it's my dark personality. In fact as it stands right now, the more I look at the one on the right, the more anemic it seems.

So now I have to choose a piece for an exhibition and I am still vacillating between the two.

In a way I would really hate to lose the one on the right, if by some weird luck I manage to sell the piece. I want to be able to savor the fruit of my labor a bit longer, especially after the enormous amount of time and effort into it.  Something tells me that painting is not fully done yet.

The fact that there are leaves depicted in the painting added another layer of symbolism to the work.  Chinese has a saying that as the leaves fall, they return to the roots.  The meaning could be literal, but it actually describes the cycle of life.  Leaves mature, fall, and decompose and return the nutrients to the tree to be recycled.  We also have another saying; whenever one drinks water, think of where it came from.  So along with finding one's roots, one also appreciates the natural cycle of life.

One might say that the one on the left is a shallower painting, but only I know the hidden meanings.  So I will go with my gut feeling, put the darker one into the exhibition, the one that is more superficial yet elicits a stronger feeling.

I also want to show the translucent property of the semi-sized Xuan.  Ink from the brushstrokes totally penetrated the paper, such that the back side of the paper showed a painting in reverse.

Here's the back side of the one on the left

and the back side of the one on the right

This is the reason I worked on my process of Suliao Xuan Ban; on the process of mounting on plastic.  I wanted the effect of a float that can be viewed from either the front or the back.  Perhaps the painted panes on a lit lantern illustrate my point.

Trials and tribulations

I finally had the banyan roots painting darkened to the point that I considered was dramatic for the piece.
I also emphasized the shadows on the left and the under side of the roots.  The effect was as if one was shining a spotlight on them.  The whole set up reminded  me of those  portrait head shots from the studios. To maximize the impact, I would need to hang the painting on the right side of the display area, surreptitiously forcing the viewers to look at it from the left, hopefully amplifying the perspective.

I chose to employ the traditional cinnabar color seal, arguing that this dark piece could use a hint of color, to jazz it up a bit, in a subdued way.  I chose the negative seal, thus the script would be the color of the painting.  Since the painting was so dark, the script was not immediately legible, inviting the viewers to investigate further to decipher what was being carved.  I think this adds to the overall mysterious feel of the painting.

I wanted to continue my experimentation on my Sulio Xuan Ban format, but I wanted to try the wet mount using starch.  I began with the back side first, since any mishaps were not going to be catastrophic.  I used a blank piece of double Xuan, brushed on a moderately thick layer of starch on the plastic and laid the Xuan on it.

So far so good.  I grew a little bolder.

When it came to the top side, the painting side, I used the backing that was already glued on as a placement guide. The semi-sized Xuan was a lot flimsier than the double Xuan and it was difficult to post it correctly. The leading margin softened and wilted immediately when placed on the wet starchy plastic surface and any subsequent yanking or adjusting only made matters worse.  I was also running the risk of tearing the Xuan like a piece of wet paper towel.

My heart was in  my throat; I was about to encounter my Waterloo.

My dilemma was that if I had attempted to lift the whole piece, the paper might not support the wet weight and would tear for sure.  If I left it there, then there were simply too many folds.

I had to find a way to salvage this, and fast.  I remembered watching on YouTube how auto body shop technicians would apply protective film to the car body.  I remembered them using shampoo to float the piece so the film can be manipulated easier while on the car.  Obviously I would not use shampoo, but I grabbed my spray bottle and thoroughly wet the entire painting.

That seemed to work.  I could now press against the plastic and apply firm but steady pressure on the Xuan to make it slide on the plastic, gradually eliminating the unwanted folds.  I started from one edge and patiently but gingerly moved to the other areas, all the while keeping wetting down the paper.

After what seemed like an eternity, most of the major folds were gone, and the paper was squared up.
Time to put layers of newspaper on top of the wet mess to soak up the excess water, and to protect the painting from the harsh bristles of the palm brush that was used to tamp down the paper onto the plastic.

This insert showed the effect of tamping.  The left side, which was tamped, was drier and much smoother, devoid of bubbles.

The entire piece was treated this way, and allowed to dry.

A sigh of relief !  I've averted a cataclysmic blunder.

To my disappointment, I found out that the Xuan did not stick to the plastic as I had anticipated. I could peel off the entire piece as if it was a static cling.

It worked on the back !  My theory was that the profuse wetting during my rescue process severely diluted the starch, to the point that adhesion was greatly diminished.  The paper itself was flat and stiff though.  Reminded me of the starched school uniform days!

Should I reapply with the thicker starch now?

I decided against it.  I didn't want to repeat the same mishap.  I couldn't afford to destroy this painting now, not when it was committed to an impending exhibition.  My initial eagerness to wet mount this piece was fueled by the success I had with the back piece that was used as a white board.  So I dry mounted it.

I shall wait for another opportunity to try my wet mounting on plastic.  I'm in no hurry.

Finding My Roots, Chapter Three

I wanted to leave the lower left corner devoid of details, to contrast with the upper right corner of intricate arrangements of roots.  Call me fastidious but somehow I always bear in mind the importance of contrast in my painting, the ying and the yang, and in Chinese terms, the host and the guest.  Perhaps this is even more critical in a painting like this, where the entire paper surface seemed to be occupied by the same monotonous subject matter.  Soon I deemed that corner to be too meager, so I turned to my leaves and gravels.

Judicious application of shadows around the edges gave them a three dimensional feel, lifting them off the ground.  The shadow of the top leaf gave the illusion that it was folding onto itself.

I happened to notice that when viewed from a very shallow angle, the surface of the paper is buckled with lots of tiny undulations, as a result of all the brushstrokes.  That explains why the ink wash sometimes found interesting routes on its own.  By capitalizing this phenomenon I was able to form more natural margins on my roots.  At the very least, I could use that as a guide to apply my shadows.  This is an advantage this semi-sized Xuan offered.

There were lots of places where roots branched out like a cross, and shading was done by sitting the belly of my brush at these axillary points.  This is analogous to running a round file at the inside corner of crossbars to get a nice chamfer edge.

My finished work:

I particularly like the upper right quadrant of the painting.  It narrated very nicely the relationship of  the mangled roots; which ones were on top, which ones were on the bottom.  I could almost trace each root as they emerged from the main branch and then fused with others or submerged into the soil.  This is what we Chinese meant when we choose to say "to read a painting" over "to view a painting".  By reading a painting, one is not turning over pages, but all the elements and nuances with our mind.

Finding My Roots, Chapter Two

I've been devoting much of my time working on the banyan tree root painting.  As I said, I was vacillating between  the blotchy one and the more line drawn one.  I tried to do both of them simultaneously but found myself shunning the more complicated line drawn version.  I still think this version is devoid of emotion and it looks sterile.

I thought I've reached a good stopping place for the blotchy one, as I've shown on my last blog.  There was no more excuse not to spend more time on the line drawn one.

The presence of the gravel granules helped to untangle the messy roots in the last painting and I would like to continue to pursue that effect.  Why not leaves too?  It's just as likely to find them by the roots on the ground.

Thus I sketched in a couple of them; sort of reserving a spot.  I would work them into the overall ink tone as I get there.

Here's an example of a few leaves that have found their places,

I was allowing my brush to guide me, going with the flow.  I suppose this must have been very close to jamming with a group of musicians, improvising my cadenza.

Then I noticed the few rootlets in the dark depression seemed to end abruptly.  Since I was in the vicinity, I adjusted the ink gradient a bit such that they appear to fade into the ground. I am referring to the area at the tip of the black V,

So this is what I have to show for a couple of days of honest work,

Finding My Roots

As I was continuing my attempt in painting the Banyan tree roots, I was reminded of  the reason why.

The above photo is a pretty good representation of the sort of imagery that motivated me.

I don't know how many of us can recall unraveling a ball of yarn.  I certainly do.  Helping my mom when I was much younger as she knitted cardigans for my brothers and I.  For that matter, how about unraveling fishing lines or extension cords.  The task seemed daunting to begin with, but as we grabbed a hold of some loose strands we began to make heads and tails out of them.  All the time we were wondering if we picked the right strands to follow.

I believe it was Voltaire who said " uncertainty is uncomfortable, but certainty is absurd".  It is the lure of success that keeps our forward motion.  I find it exhilarating to tackle something with just a tad of difficulty, such that I won't be demoralized, yet the promise of success is so rewarding.

Obviously in the case of painting a jumbled bunch of roots, failure is inconsequential, just time lost and energy wasted.

The overriding issue in this particular attempt was accountability.  How do I account for these roots; their origins and their destinations.

At first I was obsessed by being able to trace each root and its branches.  It took me a while to realize that perhaps I was more worried about the inability of the viewers to trace the roots.  Did I give off the impression that I was just wantonly throwing a bunch of lines together and called them roots?  The truth of the matter was, many had questioned me.

Once I realized my own insecurity, I thought of our circulatory system.   We can see the major arteries and veins, but not the microscopic capillaries.  Yet each cell in our body depends on these vessels to deliver oxygen and nutrients and carry away waste.  Thus if my roots do not seem to be connected, they actually are.  Accurate mapping is not a necessity.

Once I understood this concept, I was at peace with myself and thought of ways to narrate my roots better.
Some of them could be below surface and re-emerge someplace else.  This would totally take care of the accountability issue.

So I started to paint dirt and gravel, suggesting a ground.

Since I had painted everything so dark, I had to use white color to introduce the granules of gravel.
I actually used latex paint, as an experiment.  I thought the latex paint would give me thickness and texture.

Then I painted in the left margins of these white specks with ink, to give the illusion of light coming from the right.

I did that to accentuate the three dimensional effect and to give more realism to the gravel and sand granules.

I picked out a few main roots and applied stronger shadows to them, at the same time making the left half of the painting darker, adding a little drama to the work,

I think this is a good place to stop, allowing myself time to re-evaluate.

I shall call this painting Finding My Roots.

Literally and figuratively.

We think we know where we came from; our heritage, lineage, pedigree.

But do we?

We are all interconnected.

Bit off more than I could chew

Winter is here.

Trees are shedding their leaves.

For more reason I love a naked tree more than one with full foliage.  I think I enjoy the intricacy and the stubbornness of the branches.

I've attempted branches before, so why don't I try roots.

Banyan tree roots to be exact.  Full, intertwined, entangled; yet each branch leads to something, somewhere.
Like capillaries in our body.

I sensed this is a daunting task.  How to make sense of a senseless mess.  Yet my OCD beckoned.  How else could I enjoy the obsession of  repetitive work without regret!

I wanted to paint this in black and white.  I've grown really fond of this setup.  It appealed to me at a visceral level, one that I could not verbalize.

It didn't take me long to realize that I was in deep trouble.  I was losing sight of what I was painting, or for that matter, what image was in my head.

I started out by thinking that I would paint the roots as negative spaces against a dark, sumptuous background.  That took too much planning.  It wasn't natural.  So I abandoned.

Then I tried to paint the roots using a light ink, filling in the non-roots areas later with  darker ink.  My lack of patience got the better of me.  I simply could not wait for the visual effect to materialize.  I had problem envisioning the painting.  I wanted to throw my brush against the wall.

So I resorted to my tried and true method of sketching.  I took time sketching out the roots using charcoal; developing each lead.  I then developed the painting by addressing which area should be filled in or not.  It wasn't as easy as I had planned because I was soon immersed in this jungle of lines.

On top of that, the painting looked more like an illustration than a painting.  There was something amiss about it.

So I went back to my other method.  I just dived into a new sheet of Xuan and started to paint.  Again I was confused about my positive and negative spaces.... which I subsequently said "the hell with it".  Once I decided that I didn't care, and perhaps aided by the recent attempt of sketching with charcoal, I seemed to be able to fuse the positive and negative spaces together and make some sense of the composition.

 I forged on until I had all the spaces accounted for.  Often times the positive space tuned into negative space and vice versa.  I did it without much thought; I just went along.

This is how the draft looked like after the ink has dried.

My next move is to work on the details with regards to my ink values.  I am still vacillating between my charcoal sketched  version and the purely brush version.  I promise myself to be patient.  I shall wait for another day.

Obviously I've bitten off more than I could chew.

Shi Tao Revisited

I mentioned that I was not pleased with my rendition of the flat tops in my emulation.  I sensed there was something wrong and I was disappointed at myself that I just brushed over it (pun intended).  What was the haste?

The reason my flat tops looked awkward was because I ignored the minute breaks in the lines.  I had dealt with this subject matter in my blog More Than Just Broken Lines dated 3/29/2012.  In that blog, I surmised that the breaks in a line are often used to create distance, depth.  When these gaps are strategically placed,  an illusion of 3-dimensional thickness is created.

When I painted the flat tops, I painted the parameter line as a continuous, non-broken line.  Thus it was boring and two dimensional, despite the presence of vertical ch'uen lines denoting a folding feature in the land mass, i.e. a raised ridge or slope of sorts.  I magnified the original print of Shi Tao's landscape and was delighted about my observation.

In the above cut-out, one could see a break in the line at where the fold could occur.

Here I have an example of another ancient Chinese brush painter whose name escaped me, but his technique of using the gap was even more astute and deliberate.

While examining Shi Tao's painting I also noticed evidence of light markings underneath the darker ink.  He sketched his paintings.  The practise of sketching had at times become a contentious issue with me, at least during my encounter with various teachers.  Some of my teachers are staunch objectors to sketching; they deem that a sign of incompetence.  Whereas I had teachers who advocated sketching, regardless of whether one was doing brush work or not, especially in laying out a landscape painting.

Armed with this knowledge, I made another attempt in Shi Tao's landscape painting.  This time I sketched it out in charcoal first.

After the sketching is done, I went over the charcoal lines with my brush work.  I must say this allowed me to control my brush tip much better.  I could devote more attention to the quality of the lines, since I didn't have to be too concerned about placement of shapes.

In my once over with light ink brush work, I was paying special attention to the breaks in the lines when I got to painting the flat tops.

As usual I filled in my ch'uen lines and shading whenever the brush was in the right condition to do so.

This was followed by my blues.  After that I took a day off, which I shouldn't have done.

The reason I regretted taking the day off was because I had allowed the blue to totally dry, thus it would not bleed into the browns, forming hard, artificial boundaries between the different colors.  I found the lack of transition unpleasant to look at.  I should have known better!  Is this what people refer to as wet on wet technique?

I paid better attention to the round leaves too by using better brushstrokes and using side-tip strokes on one side to denote thickness/shadow, allowing a more 3-dimensional appearance.

With the mixed foliage, I tried to paint in the under layers with light ink first to give an impression of a fuller tree.

A wash with brush cleaning bath was applied to blend the colors.

After the final wash is dried

The first and second attempts side by side

The two works have a different color cast, mainly due to the different time of the day when the photo was taken. The one on the right is the second attempt.  It shows better articulation of the flat tops, as it should be; that was my motivation for this second edition.    It turned out that there is an additional flat top on the right that I didn't catch during the first attempt, and the little water level drop  right next to the red round leaves that I omitted is now added back in.  Obviously more ch'uen lines, albeit in disarray they seem.   I need to hone my skills in having a rich field of lines without making them look  like a wad of jumbled  noodles.  I also do not like the blotchy look of the colors; a consequence of my not mixing the colors in a timely manner.  I suppose it wouldn't be fun if it was easy!