I love the excitement of standing outdoors in the middle of a beautiful scene and painting en plein air, but sometimes it's a nice change of pace to slow down and paint a still life. It's a more controlled, quiet process, and the act of painting becomes almost meditative. Unlike the fast-changing light I often encounter outside, I can make the light relatively constant in the studio, and can control exactly what I want the set up to look like - no cars parking in front of the scene or sun dipping behind the ridge of the mountains before I'm done. I brew up a pot of coffee, put on some appropriate music (opera arias, baroque chamber music, or Gregorian chants), and settle down. I've always been fascinated with glass and collect a variety of colors and sizes of vessels to use in my paintings. The task of depicting transparency while still showing a solid form endlessly challenges me. I've found that I can bring no preconceived ideas to painting glass: it's different every time depending on the light shining on it and through it. With solid, opaque objects, there is usually a predictable light and shadow pattern, with reflected light and highlights thrown in, but with glass, it's never that easy. Only direct, careful observation creates the form. Painting glass is the quickest way I know of to get on the left side of the brain and "in the zone" . When I'm going through a dry spell with my work and need to get back into the zone, I get out some glass and get lost in those reflections and refractions and the pure, abstract joy of painting.

When I first started painting landscapes in oil, I concentrated on painting a lot of quick plein air studies - 45 minutes to 2 hours, max, and I'd be done. It was a great way to get "brush mileage" and to learn to paint quickly and decisively. The drawback was that when I got to the point where I wanted to do larger studio paintings, I always felt like I had to finish them in one sitting - alla prima, like my plein air work - or else they'd loose their freshness and spontaneity. But as I've been painting more over the years, I've found that I really enjoy working on larger paintings for several sessions, making really subtle changes and taking my time with the painting process. Now I put paintings away for a while - anywhere from a couple days to several months - and when I take them back out, I can see better what I need to do to finish them. There's always the danger of overworking a painting, but I feel like I have to take that chance and risk losing the painting  in order to see if I can take my work to a higher level.

I've spent the last year and a half getting ready for my solo show that opens this week. One of the paintings in the show, "Evening Sun" 30x40, went through several transitions before I finally framed it up and took it to the gallery. I had painted the original version quite a while ago, thought it was finished, and set it aside as a "keeper" for the show. But when I pulled it out to frame it a few weeks ago, it was so glaringly obvious to me that I still needed to work on it: the shadows on the rocks were too dark and flat; the sky was too blue; and the trees in the background were too symmetrical and dark. Why didn't I see that the first time around?? The distance of time made me see the painting more objectively. So....back to the easel for yet another round with this one. 

I have a new rule in my studio now: no painting goes out when it's fresh off the easel anymore - the all have to wait for a "cooling off" period before I'm sure they're expressing what I want.

"Sonora Pass Study" 6x8 1st painting of the morning

I love painting so many different subjects- everything from architecture to animals to cityscapes to rural scenes- but my true love is pure landscape. Fast-moving, dramatic light on a vista with no human touches marring the view gets my heart beating faster and makes me just have to get out the paints. It seems like recently I've been painting everything but pure landscape, and I've not felt quite as excited about painting as I usually do. So last week, I decided to put everything else aside and head up to the Sierras to re-connect with my true passion. And the Sierras didn't let me down! I got up at 4, threw the dogs in the car and was at the top of Sonora Pass by 6:30. The sun hadn't quite made it over the rim of the mountains, so it was perfect timing: I had a chance to set up my gear and get all ready for sunrise. This time of year, dawn happens in a flash, and you'd better be ready to move fast. I started with a little 6x8 and had paint flying everywhere..as usual, I got too excited and started out too fast. The second painting, a 10x12, was a little more planned out and technically more successful. But there's something about the immediacy and energy of that first little study that I like - it's emotion on canvas rather than calculated painting. Every good painting should be a combination of both, and this trip to the high country reminded me of that.


"Solstice Sunrise" 10x12 - 2nd painting of the morning

When I have the opportunity to talk to collectors at art show openings, they inevitably ask similar questions about my paintings: Where was this scene? Did you paint it en plein air? How long did it take? Why did you choose this particular perspective? I've decided to use this blog as a chance to let you see a little behind the scenes and find out what goes into the creating of some of my paintings. I'll periodically post images and tell you the "backstory" about them - what motivated me to paint this scene, what happened as I was painting plein air or in the studio, and the particular challenges that I faced in bringing the painting to completion. I hope this gives you a better understanding of my artwork- please feel free to post questions...it's your chance to talk to me without having to go to an opening!

I spent a lot of time this month painting barns in Lodi in preparation for the upcoming show "Rough Sawn" which opens at the Knowlton Gallery in June. At first I wasn't too excited about the subject matter: barn paintings can be so trite and I've always avoided painting them. But as I explored the Lodi area and painted a few of these old relics, I developed a real appreciation for the subject .....and a realization that I had better get my drawing skills honed to a fine point if I was going to paint these complicated compositions with accuracy and confidence. It's easy to just like to paint what you're good at: it's a heck of a lot harder to take on a subject that you know you're more than likely to fail at in order to grow as an artist. I've scraped off quite a few paintings, but after several weeks of pursuing this subject matter, I feel like I'm making progress. My challenge has been to find a unique angle to paint, a different take on the typical barn/mountain/tree painting. "A Cool Spot" comes from the Biglieri ranch in Clements, CA. I stopped to paint the big red barn, but found the design I was looking for when I walked through the packing shed and saw the barn through the open door. Keeping the foreground elements close in value while still giving enough detail to make sense was a challenge, but I had so much fun playing with the tempreature shifts on the cool highlights in the shadows vs. the hot sun highlights in the distance.

Although I enjoy getting together with fellow artists to plein air paint, my truest companions are my dogs Angus and Louie. They're always ready to go, never complain if I take too long, and are filled with joy at the prospect of being outside for the day. We added Lou to our "pack" last August - he's a mastiff/lab cross, 105 pounds at 8 months old and still growing. My first few attempts at painting with the new puppy were predictably chaotic (see photo above) and I've lost more rolls of paper towels to his shredding than I care to admit. But as a woman painting often on my own, I know that my dogs provide good protection. Angus stands and growls if anyone comes near, and Louie's bark would deter just about anything. Both dogs have backpacks, and they carry some of my gear....along with dog biscuits and water. It's gotten to the point where I can't touch my backpack without setting off a flurry of dog joy as they dance around the door, waiting to go and paint.


Angus on a painting trip last winter.


Louie at 6 months

Update to last posting: I've decided to concentrate my web efforts to 3 areas: updating my web site, sending email newsletters, and blogging more frequently. Facebook and all the rest will just have to wait for now. Thanks to all of you who commented last time.

Web sites, blogs, Twitter, and now Facebook: it seems like every day there’s something new that’s come along to keep me from painting. I’m not naïve enough to think that I can have a viable career as an artist without a “web presence,” to use the lingo of the day, but how much is too much? How much time should an artist devote to the internet? As you can tell by the dates on my blogs, I haven’t been the best at writing on a regular basis. I’ve thought of a dozen subjects to write about that might be of interest to people who visit my site, but the challenge is finding the time and motivation to sit down and write.  

The social aspects of Facebook can be fun, and I’ve enjoyed reading other artists’ blogs. I’ll continue to occasionally blog, and I’ve cautiously joined Facebook  But as I’m typing this, I keep looking over at my easel: the 30x24 of Clooney Lake that I started a couple weeks ago needs tweaking- I could use some more temperature shifts in the granite in the foreground, and that line of the rock at the base of the composition is too sharply angled. So do I get on Facebook and add a Friend? Do I write on someone’s Wall? Do I post a video? Add a link? In the end, does that make me a better painter or further my career? The jury's still out on that, but for now, I'm going to go finish that painting.

I started my art career as a still life painter, but once I discovered that I could combine my two favorite things in life - art and the outdoors - I knew I had found what I wanted to do for the rest of my days. Plein air painting has given me the excuse to visit some of the most beautiful areas of the country and to explore places I'd never otherwise go. On Tuesday of this week, I had the opportunity to kayak the Mokulomne River in Lodi - Robin Knowlton from Knowlton Gallery set up the evening event for the artists who are participating in her Delta show (opening October '09). About a dozen artists, including Ray and Peggi Roberts, Gil Dellinger, Terry Miura, Randall Sexton, Clark Mitchell, and Kim Lordier, all grabbed paddles and headed out as the sun set on the water. I've never seen the river from this perspective, and it was spectacular! I wish I could have set up an easel and painted right on the spot, but just juggling the paddle and my camera was enough of a challenge. I'm sure there will be many paintings that come from this trip, and Robin has several other excursions planned for us. I never dreamed when I switched careers to be an artist that I'd have "work days" like this!

It seems like whenever I spend a long time on a painting, I become completely blind to it and can't assess its strengths and weaknesses. This is such a source of frustration for me...I often find that I'll re-work an area for hours, only to wipe it all off and start all over again. But I'm so fortunate to have a couple of great sources for critiques. My husband is not an artist and has never had any art training, but he is blessed with an astute, critical eye and often can spot things in my paintings that I just don't see. I rely on him to come in the studio at the end of a long day of painting and see my work with a fresh perspective. Sometimes he tells me things I don't necessarily want to hear (like "it's not finished, is it?" or "is that the block in?") but I know I can count on absolute honesty from him, and that's the most valuable thing any critiquer can give you. An honest negative critique is better than a dozen with empty praise. My other source is my artist friend Terry Pappas (see her work at www.efgallery.com )- she's a great painter and is very skilled at spotting what a painting needs. Even though she lives 2 hours away from me, thanks to the internet and jpegs, I can send her an email and get a long-distance crit when I get stuck on a painting. Thanks to both of you!

For me, the last 10% of a painting usually takes 90% of the time spent to complete a finished piece. But it's those last few brushstrokes, subtle temperature shifts, and minor design changes that can take a painting from being good to (hopefully!) being something that really grabs the viewer and leads them in. Every plein air piece that I paint gets to about the 90% stage outside; it's back in the studio, when I'm away from the scene, that I can judge what the painting needs to be a better work of art, instead of being overwhelmed and over-influenced by the scene in front of me. Even when a painting fails outside, I still always work on it in the studio- those are the best pieces to learn from: I've got nothing to lose since I'm going to throw  it out anyway, and I'm more willing to take chances and experiment. "The End of Ski Season" underwent some radical changes in the studio: I lightened the background mountain, added some variety to the greens in the foreground trees, and re-designed the snow patches on the ground plane.

The art season starts heating up at the end of April, and the last couple weeks have been busy with travel and shows. I spent last week at Bass Lake, just outside Yosemite, painting with a great group of artists. I painted "Awahnee Alfresco" on location with John Cosby and Kent Rogersen - the crowds aren't too bad at this timeof year, but we still had a group of spectators who enjoyed the show while we were painting! I also went to the California Art Club Gold Medal Exhibition in Pasadena- it's the best show of contemporary representational paintings that I've seen. It's great inspiration to see these paintings in real life! Take a look at the exhibit at www.californiaartclub.org.