A Changing Light on the Landscape

Working on some new approaches to landscape painting, trying to avoid that "pat" formulaic technique -- tree here, water there, etc...  Looking for the light, too. Not necessarily the beautiful light of a summer's day but rather the tempestuous light of a passing storm . . . scudding clouds roiling over a stretch of marshland in the early evening hours when shadows begin to creep across the land.

Passing Storms

oil on canvas

12 x 16

The other kind of light, which is much more difficult to capture, is the night. This painting, working from some photos I had taken at the Cape, was an attempt to evoke the light of a large, luminous moon. You know the type -- the one that looms up over the horizon while you're driving and you just about slam on the brakes because it is so awesomely beautiful it takes your breath away . . .

Harvest Moon

oil on canvas

9 x 12

Both are quite different in my approach as I truly beat these canvases to death, poor things, trying for that impressionistic, lost edge look. I painted, scraped back, etched with tip of the brush, smudged with fingers. You name, I think I did it. The camera shots are not good; I took them rather quickly as I brought down the show at Aetna, so my apologies. But with winter upon us I didn't think I'd have much opportunity to do a shoot outdoors, which is usually what I do to avoid costly professional photographer fees.  It's also another reason why I usually paint on a smaller scale so I can scan the painting and then upload, print, etc.

Here are a few works that I've admired for years from the American Tonalist school of artists that painted in the late 19th century and early 20th century.  Their works celebrated the natural landscape, especially in light of the encroaching industrialism in the East.  Henry James wrote that their shared vision was one of experiencing the natural landscape as a "personal epiphany" -- ah, yes!

George Inness' Early Autumn, Montclair

James Whistler's Nocturne in Black and Gold

Charles Warren Eaton's Sunset Glow

Painting is by nature
a luminous language. 

Robert Delaunay

Simple Gifts

Although the weather here is not too bad, warm actually in comparison to last year at this time, one misses color. If you're a gardener, this is about the time when we pour over seed catalogs, planning for the spring. Today while food shopping I grabbed a lovely little pot of yellow kalanchoe, which now sits in the kitchen overlooking the dirty dishes -- ah, well, at least it's in the sun! 

Trying to organize all my photos before the computer overloads and goes into a tailspin, I browsed through my flower pics -- Oh joy!!! So I thought I would share a few with you all, perhaps brighten your January afternoon --

There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.

Celia Thaxter

It's Wide Open Now

It's wide open now.  My blog, that is.  Could be painting or it could move into another realm altogether, such as knitting, quilting, weaving -- even gardening when spring comes round again!

I have decided that this blog, as was originally intended, would be my space to explore and to share with others.  It should not be a space to sell my work.  I already have a website for my formal portfolio.  That is enough.  And I do not intend to immerse myself for hours on end between Facebook, Twitter and more blogs. After all, most fellow bloggers that I've come to know over the years are artists.  So it is sort of preaching to the apostles, as the saying goes. 

What have I been doing these past weeks to relax and find the joy once again?  Returning to the terrain of fiber in its many forms -- knitting, quilting, a little weaving.  Just trying to find a quiet space somewhere in the midst of this holiday madness.  Here's my latest attempt -- knitting cables.  Scary stuff, to me anyway.  I'm making neck muffs for my daughters using a Norah Gaughan pattern from Berrocco:

and big beautiful yarns by Gedifra, heathered and textured like a Highland moor --

I just have to finish off the edges, add some funky buttons and voila!  It's so good to feel something "grow" under your fingers; also to feel the rhythm of the needles and the yarn. 

So it may be art next week; maybe something else.  I can't guarantee anything.  Life is too short to limit oneself, and there's so much to explore, even the small, seemingly insignificant counts. 

I hope you'll stay with me and visit now and then.  But if you don't, that's o.k., too.