Goose Me

I had painted the Canada Geese a few times before.  Back in 2003, before I started to actively pursue painting, I did a family portrait of Canada Geese using water color.  In fact I used that painting as my litmus test.  That was the permission I gave myself to find teachers who could show me how to paint.

Eight years later, I want to try my luck again at using Canada Geese as my main characters.  I am intrigued by the long black necks of the geese.  Their necks telegraph so much motions and emotions.   Sometimes agitated, sometimes embracing; sometimes curious, sometimes alarmed; yet always interesting.  I thought their necks represent a perfect challenge to depict using Chinese calligraphy strokes.  I would need to find a way to "write" their necks with meaning and strength.  It is with this intent that I embark on my new journey.

First I worked up a general sketch.  I've done a painting on zebras ( see my Horsing Around with Stripes blog) and I liked the general composition of that painting.  I am going to arrange my birds in that array again.

I worked up another model employing colors that reminded me of patina.  I  defined the bodies as if they were commas, dashes and dots.

Well, that looked interesting but somehow it lacked the wow factor.  I know this was just a quick model, but I can't put my fingers on the missing link.

Xieyi

Xieyi literally means to write with meaning or expression.  The Xieyi style in Chinese Brush painting  prides itself in the artist's command of the brush, thus the aptitude  to "write" the painting with a freehand, allowing utmost expressiveness.

The concept of expressiveness in a brush stroke seems rather subjective and ill-defined.  Allow me to draw an example with the human face.  How could the same face portray happiness, ecstasy, mournfulness, sorrow, despair, resolute, anger, frustration, spite, respect, admiration, solemn, disregard, evasiveness, malice, anticipation, frown,  et cetera, et cetera. 

I am told there are close to 100 muscles controlling our facial expressions.   The permutation of these muscles, either as group or individually, is astronomical.  We need not understand fully which muscles are involved, and yet we definitely know when someone is pissed at us.  The same is true with Xieyi paintings.  Wherein the parameter for being "expressive" is obscure, the observer holds the dictum " I  know it when I see it".

Painting is an expression, our way of communicating with an observer and we all want to be understood.    Our innate fear of failure (to communicate)  makes us afraid to let go of whatever we are able to cling onto, somewhat similar to people in abusive relationships.    Our faithfulness to rote learning and emulating often rob us of spontaneity.  We try hard to be perfect and take solace in mimicking the shape rather than the spirit of the brushstrokes, and there is nothing Xieyi about our work.  This is the shackle that I try to be rid of.

The same painting done with expressive brush strokes.

An honest account of a dragonfly.

Same dragonfly done with  expressiveness...... a little more Xieyi.

A good brush stroke is comparable to good bowing on a string instrument.  When I watch Itzhak Perlman or Yo Yo Ma perform and see them using full bows from tip to frog with their eyes closed, I often wonder how much of that is from muscle memory (rote) and how much is from sensing  the
interplay between the string and the horsehair,  and using these full breaths  to complete their musical sentences.   Their cues on the stroke is no longer visual, but tactile.  In calligraphy equivalence, we say a stroke is "delivered".

 Xieyi does not mean an awkward semblance, but a genuine love-making between a brush and paper.

Salvage Operation

I was demonstrating how to paint insects; not in the capacity of being the principal in the painting, but rather a supporting role.   In my scenario these insects would occupy the role of an ancillary chop, to fill a void without destroying the ambiance of the painting.   If done correctly, this space moderator would add to the flavor, as in the use of fish extract in Wonton soup.

The first piece was initially a sketch done at a local nature park.  The fern struck me as a ideal subject to learn to "write" a painting.  The fronds present themselves as broad stroke lines that taper and convolute with grace.  At best, that was almost like a botanical study with calligraphic overtones.  I therefore used this sketch as an example of salvaging an otherwise plain painting by adding a little interest to it.

The other piece was a sketch of peony.  The original sketch had the floral petals "gou"ed  (outlined) .  It was an exercise in still life sketching with a brush.  I took liberty with the sepals and leaves, for a more cohesive presentation.  The coloring of the petals was an afterthought.  Unfortunately this is where I biffed.  I did painting by the numbers.  The outlined planogram tempted me to fill in the boundaries with color.    I committed the cardinal sin of  blocking in with titanium and not using it as a transitional member.  Thus the whole thing as a rather "plastic" feel to it.    Perfect candidate for OPERATION SALVAGE.   I used it as an example of how to revive your dead painting by adding a smidgen of interest to it, in the form of a grasshopper. 

Unto the bad painting, a shtick was given, or was it a straight man?

PS Taming of the Silk

As I mentioned in the last blog, my painting on silk was not colorfast and I had to display that behind a glass pane, which is kind of a pain for me.  The reflection off the glass really bothers me and I can't afford museum grade non-reflective glasses.

I thought of using Scotchgard.  Unfortunately my local arts supply store does not stock it  and a quick visit to Target found them out of stock on that item.  Just my luck.

Was cleaning out my garage one day and behind a box of medicine vials, masked  by cobweb was a can of Camp Dry.  This aerosol can must be 20 years old at least.  It is a product used to water-proof boots, tarps etc. for outdoor activities.  So I decided to give it a try.  What the heck, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.  This whole thing about painting on silk was an experiment to begin with.

I wiped clean the aerosol can, followed the direction, 3 applications with 4 hours drying time in between.  I sprayed generously onto my painting, not even bothering to test for discoloration or anything.

To my utmost gratification, the result is awesome.  Not only is my painting repelling water like a shellacked hull, but the product also made the painting look richer.  And the best part is, no glares!!

This pack rat has found salvation.

Taming of The Silk

A good friend of mine , a Hua Yu ( meaning members who paint), gave me a roll of silk for me to paint on.  My friend does beautiful Gonbi style paintings, and she was showing me her paintings, and relating how different brands of  color and gouache work on silk.  She must have sensed my eagerness to try and graciously let me have some.

Unfortunately I always thought I knew better.  This is my Achilles Heel.  I felt that the silk that was given to me feels too synthetic (feels crispy and looks shiny) so I was determined to find "real" silk.
A few phone calls later checking into the usual craft stores and fabric outlets, I located some silk at the local Mill End store.  So here is my friend who knows a lot about painting on silk, and yet I wanted to be my own trailblazer.  I must also clarify here that this is not an original work by me.  I was trying to emulate some ancient painter (Ming, or Song Dynasty??).  I am sorry I can't remember who the arts was, so enthusiasts could trace back to the original and learn from the master also.

My nightmare is about to begin.

The silk I purchased is brown in color ( I want to do paintings with the antique look), soft and feels heavy in the hand.  I couldn't wait to take out the fabric from the plastic bag and began to write a few words in ink on it.  To my horror, the ink just ran off the fabric, like water on the back of a duck.         They must have used something in the dye to render the fabric water repelling, so  the silk went into the bathtub,  and I poured in a generous amount of denatured alcohol, and Resolve, and detergent.   Whatever it was in the fabric, I was determined to  extricate that.  My bathroom permeated with the scent of alcohol, reminded  me of a clinic; a clean smell.  I am glad I am not a smoker.

Well that trick did not work.  I remember my friend telling me that she had to use a gum and alum solution to size the silk before she paints on it.  To me, this was counter-intuitive.  Sizing would add to the water repelling property. 

For some reason this worked, albeit just a little bit.  The fabric would take on ink now, but it required several passes before the ink stroke registered.   I like the fact that the pigment in the gouache seems to migrate to the edge of the stroke, leaving a natural border to the stroke.  I don't know if I could attribute this artifact to the silk.

Since I had to make overlapping  passes with my brush, any brushstroke qualities became virtually indistinguishable.  The texture of the silk fabric, tandem with multi-layered strokes, made the lines take on the air of a  charcoal drawing .

Bamboo stems, which needed to portray the bouncy tensile, showed instead a string of splinters, reminiscent of a bad whittling job.

This absence of brush stroke would absolutely ruin the bamboo leaves.  The blades had to suggest an edge, a point, at the very least.   I remembered  the "Magic Brush" I bought in Hong Kong.  It has a very soft (felt) tip, behaving much like a fine brush, and is fed by disposable ink cartridge.  I bought it for use for my plein aire sessions, but it fit the bill quite nicely here.  Whatever the cartridge holds, takes to the fabric pretty well.

The final obstacle came when I was trying to mount this silk painting on canvas and discovered that ink and color was coming off the fabric.  Back to the drawing board, literally!

I need to use the silk that my friend gave me.

Let The Sunshine In

Traditionally we have  to mount paintings done on Xuan to a substrate for viewing and display.
I have explored substrates like canvas ( my Xuan-boo technique) and Wonderboard to benefit from their textures. 

The matrimony of water soluble pigments and ink and the translucent Xuan produces a lush and ethereal feeling.  One way to exploit this characteristic is to NOT mount the Xuan.  This is best done by allowing light to peek through from behind the Xuan, adding another dimension to the viewing experience.

I did a painting of aquatic and atmospheric scenery.  For the rays, I employed the "minus" technique.
I used a wet clean brush to go over the freshly painted areas repeatedly to take away (minus) from the saturation.

Here is a look of the work in ambient light.

Here is a look of the same work when put against a window.

I used a float frame for this dramatic effect.  Reminds me of the stained class works.

The Frustrated Apprentice

Some people would differentiate art from craft in that the former requires originality on top of the skills which are required by the latter.  Hence learning by rote runs the risk of asphyxiating one's inspirations, and railroading one into unimpassioned styles.
But how else are we going to learn?  Hopefully from the works of great masters.  Here again, " great " is in the eye of the beholder.  We must have a good core before we can sprout our wings.

The following is a glimpse of tree trunks painted by a Ming Dynasty master, followed by the works of a frustrated apprentice.

As we can see, the second photo insert showed basically the same form, yet exhibited no "life" to the brushstrokes.  This is especially evident towards the top of the trees, where little branches are formed.

In Chinese brush painting, the terms "Chi" or "Li" describes force and strength and spirit and energy.
It is a concept that refuses to be explained, especially to the casual observer.  Mumbo jumbo, exclaimed the ignorant.  I often pose the question, what is the difference between a stationary live snake and a dead one?  They both possess the exact same morphology.  Yet somehow the live one portrays life.  Perhaps  the muscular tension exerted to each pair of ribs gave that away, or was it the turgid appearance a living organism, however subtle.   What we are aspiring for is the stored potential energy in a brush stroke.  Each stroke should exude the feeling not of  a wet noodle, but of a drawn bow ready to flex.

Here is work done by a Qing Dynasty master.  The brushstrokes here are rather colorful and free spirited.

Frustration in trying to decipher the strokes, the force needed, and the correct dry/wet brush.  All these considerations dialed in too much damper to the hand and mind machinery, resulting in stencil like babbling.

Getting a little better.

Throw your caution to the wind.  The exact likeness is not there, but the strokes are effervescing with "Chi". 

"So now you tell me, "copying" does not mean "copying", or does it? " says the frustrated apprentice.
"Paint me a live snake", says the master.