Dare to change, Vive ya

Starting a painting is one of the most difficult task, I think.

When I look at a blank piece of Xuan, I begin to fret. Where do I start, which area gathers the darkest ink value, should I "cheat" by sketching a rough outline first, etc.  Mind you, I usually don't start a painting without having run through an image in my mind a hundred times so theoretically I should already have a pretty concrete blueprint in my head.  It's just a matter of translating it on paper.  Yet the understanding that the Xuan paper is unforgiving, in that it registers every minute nuance of the brushstroke, and that I am suppose to refrain from overpainting on areas that have been painted already, creates this innate fear that whatever I lay down on the pristine Xuan is going to be so final.  It almost demands that each movement of my brush needs to be perfect; it has to be done right the very first time.

Obviously this is hogwash and the self-inflicting suffocation sometimes seems like a requisite ritual that I must hurdle before I can start.  I've heard sayings like you should write or paint for the waste basket.  Don't be so hung up on the demand that each piece of work is worthy, just assume that I will file them in the round basket.  It's easier said than done.

I've had teachers that would correct my paintings by overpainting on them.  The corrections usually involve how a brushstroke needs to be done, and seldom about composition or anything else.  My brushstrokes would be unbecoming for an orchid, or my "chuen" is non-descriptive etc.  My teacher would paint over my work to illustrate their points.  

I've also had a teacher that would not lay a hand on my works.  The teacher would just critique and it's up to me to perceive the shortcomings and make corrections.  Thus my job is to make changes, perhaps by starting a new version of the same painting, incorporating alterations and see if  I truly understand what is wrong and try to be able to pass muster eventually.  After all the major faults are addressed, the next question from the teacher is always " do you consider your painting done?"  The teacher would never say if the painting is good as it stands, or if it needs progression.

Thus the teacher in the latter scenario resembles more of  a graduate study course, where I am expected to have all the prerequisite techniques checked off and I am now honing my skills by delving into the detailed intricacies of brush painting.  My teacher's reticence purportedly is based on the desire to revamp the rote system of studying brush painting, and not wanting the temptation for students to imprint on the teacher's style or techniques.

For a student who suffers from impatience and always eager to see the completion of a piece of work, this is a torture.  Especially as I worked as a pharmacist in my younger days, the ability to fill hundreds of prescriptions daily means I must concentrate on and sign off on hundreds of tasks on a daily basis.  To leave a prescription "unfinished" is a cardinal sin, and the phrase "not done yet" is clearly not in my vocabulary.  

Whereas impatience prods me to hurry on a painting, impulsiveness prompts me to unabashedly alter a "finished" painting.  I suppose the word impulsive is a relative term.  A lot of pondering and waging over time, looking at a "finished" painting and ruminating on the possible paths to alter the painting, leads to the sudden "impulsive" event.  Some of my recent feats involve using sand paper to correct tonal qualities and using latex paint to overpaint my rams.  With the help of these seemingly sophomoric methods, I am also more willing to buck the restraints a little.  One of those restraints stems from what I was taught from early on, to use a blank void as "white" value.  Hence waterfalls, water, stream, clouds, mist are never painted with any hint of a white pigment.  My most recent attempt at Multnomah Falls changed all that;  I find new energy in actually using a white pigment to paint something "white".

So I dug up a "finished" painting that is all of a sudden deemed "unfinished".  This is a painting of a inner city park that I frequent, and it attempts to showcase the filtered light shrouding the branches and trunks of the woods.  Aside from a sentiment being told with light, I tried to impart some compositional skill by including a zig zig pathway at the bottom of the painting, to contrast with the vertical lines.

 

I relied on different ink tones to describe how I perceived light in this woods.  My intention now is to alter the painting, with the help of white pigment.  I am willing to suffer the consequence if the scheme is not workable, yet I have this anticipation of something new and drastically different from the original interpretation.

With seemingly random, but judiciously placed dabs and lines, my titanium white laden brush tip begins to make leaves and branches shimmer in the light.

The owl that's been quietly perching on a branch gets a more rounded face, as in a barn owl.  This owl was actually inspired by reports of park visitors getting attacked by owls, for apparently coming too close to their nests.  Personally I just assume the owl adds a little bit of drama to the static scenery.

Then another mischievous thought comes to mind.  What if I find a new way to show texture of the tree trunks.  I mean, is there a way to "chuen" trunks, the way we do rocks or mountains in landscape painting,  How would I invent a way to paint the bark?

For some reason a picture comes into focus.

These are sutras carved onto stone pillars and they adorn the grounds of the huge Buddha statue in Hong Kong.

Don't they resemble the stands of trees in my woods?  Can't the calligraphy on the pillars be the "chuen" that I am looking for, as a means to add texture to my trees?  Can they be the grooves on the tree bark?

There's only one way to find out.

I begin my experiment by writing words on the back of the painting, where the tree trunks are.  My theory is that the translucent Xuan will allow some of the writings to come through on the top side.  The fact that the words are now illegible will make them perfect candidates as "chuen" brushstrokes, as in a novel way to texture tree trunks.  I am WRITING barks.

Viewed from the top side of the painting

This seems like a lot of nonsense and going through a long rigmarole to do a simple task; in other words being absurdly redundant.  

Well granted there is certainly a heavy dose of that stench but I just couldn't hide my giddy grin and my goofy glint for I succeeded in totally geeking out.  Who knows, perhaps I am bored.  The fact that no one else will appreciate what I am doing is really not important.  The important thing is that I am the one who initiates the change and only I know about all the little sheepish details; about this new reality. Without my impatiently painted first editions, I would not have been motivated to do my second or third editions.  And while I am contemplating the merits, or lack of, of my nerdy episode, I am beginning to understand perhaps what Laura Pausini and Andrea Bocelli sang in "Vive ya",

     Vive ya, no se puede vivir sin un pasado

Putting old latex paint to use

 I was trying to clean up my garage and found some latex paint test samples.  Since the chemicals collecting stations had been shut down due to the Covid situation, I thought I would find some way to use them up.  I wonder if I could paint with them.

Found my old Ram painting at hand and that was as good a guinea pig as any, for my latex paint experiment.

I started out with the ram on the bottom.  The first thing I noticed was the ability for the paint to hide everything.

The second thing I found out was how thick the paint was, and it rendered my soft hair brushes totally limp, with no ability to rebound.  Now I understand why the paint stores sell stiff nylon bristle paint brushes.  I was just glad that I didn't use my "nice" brushes for my experiment and I was also quick to clean my brushes out the moment I was done with one section.

I really wasn't planning on documenting the whole process so I didn't take pictures along the way.  I only had the finished experiment to show here:

I also painted a couple canvas in red and wanted to dry mount a couple of my zodiac animals on them.

I did the Ox painting first and quickly learned that the paper I painted on was too thin and allowed the red from the canvas to shine through.  That was a bummer.

For my Pig, Zhu Bajie, I painted the area where the painting was going to be mounted a cream color, with the same latex paint sample that I painted the rams.  My theory was that if any color was going to filter through the thin paper, it wouldn't be red.

My theory worked, and I received an education on how important the backing is for paintings done on Xuan paper.

It was a fun way to re-purpose some old latex paint, canvas and old paintings. 

Finishing Multnomah Falls

 After a couple of weeks looking at my bouquets of flowers adorning the Multnomah Falls, I felt less offended by the painting.  Granted it wasn't what I had in mind but it had its own nuances.

Anyways I needed to go through with what I had imagined originally.  So I liberally applied my cinnabar to showcase the fall foliage.  They were no longer these timid dots but a full blown fall color with aplomb.  

I was having problem with the darkest black level along the bottom of the painting.  The ink I was using dried to a muted black.  So I broke out my special very "black" ink and overpaint those areas, and also used that to better define my tree silhouettes on the right hand side.  Notice I used the black smudges to contrast with the lack of which on the left side of the painting.  Same as I chose a composition where the upper fall was not at dead center, especially in relation to the lower fall.  I thought such contrast added interest to the painting.

I really enjoyed the highlighting done on the bridge.  It really set off the bridge against the background. I am convinced that this is an advantage of western painting over traditional Chinese painting, if one's concern was realism.  All this time I was thinking how I would have portrayed the bridge if I had to use classical Chinese brush methods.  I probably would have left a misty void behind the bridge to set it up and gave it distance from the background. 

The painting was being wet mounted.

Framed Multnomah Falls painting.

How does that grab you

I was trying to clean out my room and spotted something in the pile destined for the paper recycle bin. It was a painting from that I had started long ago but never finished.  More like a doodling than a painting actually.

I felt the urge to add something to the painting.  I had nothing to lose, it was half way out the door already.  Anyways I finished it in the wee hours of the night and took a picture.  What came to mind was the word Avatar.  How about the Dawn of Times

So I took another picture the next morning, under normal daylight. A different white balance gave the painting a different personality.

I like the night time version better.  Anyways, it was a fun way to have spent a couple of hours.

Multnomah Falls

A major part of the historic Old Columbia River Highway was reopened not long ago, iteafter the landslide was cleared away and damaged section repaired. One could again drove to the many different falls dotting the highway.  I recently painted the Vista House from the Columbia River Gorge, and was itching to paint the Multnomah Falls again.

I must have tried 3 or 4 different iterations of the Multnomah Falls over the years and I realized that my approach to this subject matter was different each time.  I was more or less bound by the Chinese brush doctrines before, despite my inadequacy and being a poor student.  I decided that I was going to rid all shackles and just paint this time.

I chose a rather thick, very fibrous "leather" Xuan this time.  The fibers added texture and the thick leathery Xuan was absorbent, yet allowed the water to float a bit before being assimilated, not unlike watercolor paper.

The first rule I broke was to paint the water of the Falls.  Normally I would define the water with the negative void space.  In fact from what I was taught, the using of a white color to paint water was frowned upon.  Treating water by painting it was quite liberating.  In fact that was the very first thing I did, painting the water of the Falls, using lighter grades of ink intermingled in the titanium white streaks to signal a flow.

As for the cliffs from which the falls clung to, I used broad dabs of a mixture of colors, setting the base tones of the landscape and accenting particular colors to set the stage for the features that I planned to portray, i.e. mist, sky, top of the cliff etc.  At one of my painting lessons, I was asked to randomly splash red and phthalocyanine blue onto the Xuan paper and then tried to make some sense of the resulting splash pattern and create a landscape from these two colors.  I was employing the same principle with this painting, albeit the mix was a lot tamer. There were tons of overlapping brushstrokes, totally against the etiquette of not covering the previous brushstrokes as prescribed in a proper Chinese brush painting method.  Again, this was liberating.  I felt like I was doing an oil painting, and my thick leathery Xuan was a perfect cohort and took the abuse with such poise.

Oh, did I also confess that I cheated, well sort of, by sketching out with charcoal my Falls and the bridge etc. on the back of my translucent Xuan first?  It was much easier to follow the lines and paint on the top side, especially for the water.

I think some of the charcoal from the back of the paper might have gotten incorporated into the paper once the moisture from the top side reached it.  This actually worked out great, especially as far as the edges of the Falls and the silhouette of the bridge was concerned.  It added depth to the brushstrokes and rendered a 3-D effect.  Something I might need to explore in the future and warrant further experimentation. 

The painting actually didn't look half bad at this point.  I could have passed it for a blurry, mystic interpretation of the Falls?  But that wasn't what I set out to do, so forge on!

I intended a fall color for the Falls, thus the yellow dots were the base color for my cinnabar.

I seemed to have run into a dead end.  I didn't like the painting at this stage.  It felt like the landscape was dotted with bouquets of flowers instead of a fall foliage. I wished I had stopped at the stage when the painting looked kind of fuzzy.

Time to rest.  Give the painting a rest,  Give myself a rest. 

 

Mounting my demo pieces

I decided to mount the two pieces of paintings from the demo session at the wetlands.  I happened to pick the very fibrous and thick "leather" Xuan as the paper to paint on that day, so the mounting should be relatively easy.

I would be wet mounting them as usual.  I've discussed and debated with people concerning the dry silicone mounting method.  If I brought my hubris to the table, I would have said that the dry method was for those who either didn't know how to, or lacked the skill to do the wet mount.  I have personally tried both methods, and have even tried ironing commercial food wrap as a binder, but I've always preferred the wet mounting method, despite the many cumbersome steps it requires.  Call me a snob but there is a je ne sais quoi quality about a starched, perfectly stretched and flat piece of work from the wet mounting that dry mounting can never hold a candle to.  I would however use dry mounting if I chose to present my painting mounted under a piece of glass.  In that case I would have used the very thin, semi-sized "cicadas wing" Xuan as my painting paper, and the added reflective layer of the silicone binder provides a seemingly ephemeral, yet perceptive richness to the color and the translucent paper when viewed through the glass pane.  I guess that's what linseed oil does to color pigments.

The doors on my storage cabinet are covered with smooth mylar, perfect as a mounting surface.

Being a good student of wet mounting, I even included a blow hole provision on the right side of the mount.  Supposedly one is to blow through this passage such that the wet painting is lifted from the mounting surface ever so slightly, to prevent sticking from any bleed through starch.  I personally have found this to be more academic than practical.  The lifting seems to occur around the blow hole area only.  Perhaps I am not doing this correctly or that I need more than one blow hole. In reality I've almost never encountered any paintings stuck on the mounting surface when dried.

Depicting a straw connected to the blow hole 

The dried paintings were taken off the mounting surfaces and stamped with my seals and were ready to be framed.

So I examined the landscape painting and noticed my geese were bigger than the water buffaloes. Hence scale wise it seemed like I failed, in a hurry or not, during that 30 minutes demo.  But logically, I could dig myself out by saying that the painting represented a view from a drone flying overhead, with the geese much closer to the lens than the buffaloes.  Right?  How else could the distant background be placed so far up in the painting, composition wise.  Could this be the scattered focal point perspective in play?  Hmmmmmmmmmm.

Demo

I was invited to do an hour long demonstration at a local wetlands preserve.  This was in response to my painting of the wetlands, which I had posted on this blog.

I quickly realized that Chinese brush landscape painting was not a good match for the en plein aire mode of painting.  I needed a flat table and not a sketch pad or easel, and I needed a wool under pad for my Xuan paper.  Something that would be harder to disguise would be my reluctance to do serious work in front of an audience.  I felt that when I paint, it was my private moment, as I would be grabbling with my thoughts and feelings.  I would feel naked and exposed if there was someone watching.  Besides, I believe a lot of the classical Chinese landscape paintings were never about the actual sceneries, but rather stories about virtues, or euphemistic depictions of retreat.  Thus the artists conjured up the scenery, almost like building a studio set for a movie, to get their point across.

I thought a more appropriate approach would be to demonstrate how the Chinese round brush works.   I would still try to paint the wetlands, or at least describe my thought process in arriving at the painting, but I thought a more dramatic demonstration was needed to call attention to the round brush.  I decided to paint a peony flower.  Painting a peony demanded the full employment of the entire brush, from tip to belly.  The tip of the brush helped with creating the serrated edge of the petal, and the belly was used to describe the petal.  Typically the entire brush would be loaded with titanium white and the tip alone would entertain a different color, depending on the color of the peony.  Thus a single brushstroke rendered two different colors, with white being the belly of the brush and the colored tip would contrast with the adjacent void space to create the petal's edge.  It would be easy to understand why the proper placement of the brush is of paramount importance.  

Since I only had 60 minutes to attempt to explain and paint two different paintings, I thought I would cheat a little.  I would have a painting of two peony flowers, with one of them already painted at home.  In other words I would show up with a peony painting with one flower missing, so all I had to do would be to fill in the blank.

Obviously I needed to do my part, honing my peony flower skills.  I didn't want to make a fool of myself.

I prepared two paintings of peony, done on different kinds of Xuan.  I hoped to have a chance to illustrate how absorbency affected the presentation of the brushstroke.

I also planned a little theatre to get one of my points across, the fact that a painting on Xuan had to be mounted in order to be presented.  I planned on squishing my finished peony painting as if to dispose of it, and upon disapproval, I would wet the painting down to relax the paper fibers, to impress the audience that the wetting down was the initial step to ready the painting for mounting.

My stop watch told me that I needed 15 to 20 minutes to paint the flower.  That meant I had at least 30 minutes to do my landscape painting of the wetlands.  Time management would be critical during the demonstration and this was how I prepared myself.

I invoked the Mustard Seed Garden manual as a witness to my interpretation of a mixed species woods, which the wetland had.  I started out with the darkest ink value and proceeded to pan out my landscape.

I pointed out the fact that I wasn't constantly reloading my brush with ink, since I wanted to ink to gradually be depleted which led to a lighter value.  This was how the different ink tones could develop naturally, if we allowed them.  I would intersperse my talking strategically to allow my brush time to become drier as I yakked.  I let the audience in on my ploys, so that they knew what I was doing at all times.  I tried hard to dispel any myths or hypes to using the Chinese brush as an instrument to paint.

As the brush became drier, I proceeded with the Chuen technique, which granted more information about the rocks; and the Ts'a technique, which was rubbing with the dried belly of the brush to add texture.

I had time to add the obligatory pair of Canada geese, showcasing the calligraphy brushstroke.  I punned the painting by adding in a pair of water buffaloes ( it would be strange to see water buffaloes in this neck of the woods) blaming it on the fact that this is the year of the Ox.  It was just a spur of the moment jest to show what could be done with a few simple brushstrokes.

And so the hour flew by and mission accomplished.

And these were the results: