When is a drawing "finished"?

Sometimes when I am drawing, particularly life drawing, time runs out and the drawing can seem incomplete. But, on a second look, it can stand as a completed drawing, despite it being unfinished in some sense. Other times, it is hard to decide. I think it is a question of intent and whether the drawing makes sense for a viewer. The life study I did, on the right, was done in about thirty minutes, in Prismacolor, and it can, just, stand on its own, I believe. I would be interested in other people's views.

Life Study - 30 minutes, Prismacolor, Jeannine Cook artist

Life study - 45 minutes - Prismacolor.Jeannine Cook artist

I did another Prismacolor study, in about forty-five minutes to draw, with this young man whose muscles are amazing, and the play of light on his back was fascinating. However, although the composition is perhaps more stable than the other life drawing, I am not sure it works as it stands. Nonetheless, I know that the next time I draw him, it will be more straightforward. Why ? Because, as Swiss essayist and writer, Alain de Botton, observed, "The very act of drawing an object, however badly, swiftly takes the drawer from a woolly sense of what the object looks like to a precise awareness of its component parts and particulars".

There is, however, another way of going in seemingly unfinished drawings. I tend to do drawings that don't leave loose ends, as it were, but there are plenty of artists who very effectively leave lines, blotches, splotches, blobs and squiggles in the drawing which actually all contribute to the effectiveness of the drawing, conveying immediacy, rhythms, drama, etc. An artist whose work I admired the first time I saw it, Lori-Gene, is a very good draughtswoman of this type of drawing. Her work, frequently combining motion, sound and sight, is a wonderful amalgam of energy. She often works with musicians and orchestras as they play, and the results convey the sense of music most successfully. The whirl of lines and marks on the paper is the perfect demonstration of the "unfinished" drawing which is beautifully finished.

Brass 1, Lori Gene, (image courtesy of the artist)

Art and life

Scrolling through the amazing amount of mail received on the Web, I sometimes come across an image of a painting or drawing that stops me in my tracks. Just as when you round the corner in a museum and come face to face with a work of art that takes your breath away...

Yesterday, I was reading the daily Art Knowledge newsletter and there was the image of a painting I had always loved, Rogier van der Weyden's St. Joseph, done about 1445. I know it from having seen it in the wonderful Museu Calouste Gulbenkian in Lisbon, where it is hung with another part of the original altarpiece, the painting of St. Catherine. Her painting is lovely, but it is the tempera painting of St. Joseph which is breathtaking.

St.Joseph, Rogier van der Weyden, between circa 1435 and circa 1437 , tempera and oil on panel, (Image courtesy of the Calouste Gulbenkian Museum, Lisbon)

Van der Weyden depicts an elderly, thoughtful man whose powerful expressiveness is remarkable. His portrait, direct and detailed, even to the whispy stubble on his chin and the lined, reflective face, depicts him three-quarters face, as if he were hesitating and thoughtful just before he turned to face one and say something gentle and considered. The Gothic architecture and slight landscape behind him are neutral and elegantly refined, a perfect complement to the directness of the portrait.

As I gazed at the digital image of St. Joseph, I thought of the quote I had found when Henry Miller wrote that "art teaches nothing except the significance of life". This portrait is a supreme example of that.

The portrait was being reproduced as it is presently being exhibited at the opening exhibition of an enlarged and updated Vander Kelen-Mertens municipal museum in Leuvens, Belgium. The link to Leuvens for Rogier van der Weyden is important - he apparently painted one of his most celebrated pieces there, the Descent from the Cross, another amazing work which is in the Prado, Madrid. Not only did van der Weyden achieve paintings of refinement and luminosity whose human dramas reach out to us across some six and a half centuries, but he also left us a work which I particularly love as a silverpoint artist. At the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, there is a wonderful self-portrait as St Luke done about 1440. He is making a drawing for his painting of the Virgin, in a setting he apparently copied from Jan van Eyck's Madonna of Chancellor Rolin. And he is making a silverpoint drawing....something I don't believe was depicted by any other artist.

Framing art

I have been matting and framing artwork that I have done in recent months in preparation for exhibitions. I learned some while ago how to do my own framing as I was nervous about sending out fragile silverpoint and graphite drawings to be framed elsewhere. I invested in a big mat cutter and learned about the different museum mat boards, 2, 4 and 8-ply, which are totally acid-free and thus archival. The boards I use, made by Rising, come in shades of white and cream, and their merit is that they are double-sided, so you can't make a mistake on cutting in the wrong direction! The 8-ply mat board is what I use for silverpoint drawings and while elegant, it is a bit like cutting concrete if you don't have a really, really sharp blade in the cutter. I always feel as if I have gone to the gym double-time after I have dealt with this framing job!

The choice of mats and frames is a corollary of the actual art work, and this means that there are plenty of ways that people chose to go in complementing their artwork, let alone the choices made by purchasers of art.... In terms of coloured mat boards for works of art on paper, the more conservative route, mostly required if the work is to be considered for juried or group shows, is for creams or white. Personally, I tend to favour neutral whites and lots of breathing space for my art, which also means floating the image and not confining it within a mat. Double mats, sometimes with a flash of another colour or shade, can be effective. I follow a simple rule of thumb: how far the artwork itself needs to be spaced far away from the glazing. If I am dealing with a graphite drawing, for instance, I will devise a deeper mat area, either with doubled mats, an 8-ply mat or mats deepened with hidden layers underneath which create an extra space and depth.

Frames are a vast and complicated chapter. Historically, there are some absolutely wonderful frames which are works of art in themselves and indeed, there are sometimes exhibitions of frames alone, empty and beautiful. I always remember staring with entrancement at frames in an exhibition of early Masters' art from the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts. Their ornate carving and wonderful use of different woods alternated with other frames of the most complex gilded ornamentation. It was a frenzy of creativity that was entirely separate from the fabulous art enclosed within the frames.

When I frame, I am always mindful of various things - firstly that the frame, like the mat board and glazing (UV-protective acrylic in my case), should protect the artwork and not add to the dangers of damage to the art. I am also aware that if I exhibit the work in shows and send it elsewhere, there is always a possibility of damage being done to the frame, even by the most careful of art handlers. I am also mindful that frequently, if people purchase my work, they will want to reframe it to their taste and surroundings. So if I use a neutral, non-acidic, high-end brushed metal frame, the work is relatively safe and robust. The clean, simple look also matches the look that I want for my artwork, both watercolours and drawings, that speaks to light, space and air. From a practical point of view, this framing choice also makes it much more feasibly that I can do the framing myself, at home, with acrylic gazing, and end up with lightweight, simple frames.

So this is the world I have recently been working in... and I am really eager to return to actually trying to make art. That, for me, is the really fun side of being an artist!

Drawing... closest to pure thought

Back to life drawing - oh bliss! And oh!! It is always such a humbling exercise, whilst at the same time, utter absorption and entrancement. It put me in mind of a quote I found from John Elderfield. the former eminent Curator at MOMA, who said, "Drawing, within the visual arts, seems to hold the position of being closest to pure thought". It is the medium that shows one up as an artist - there is nothing to hide behind, and it is thus always risky, just like thoughts that are unpremeditated.

Even finished drawings, in the pure sense of a drawing standing as a completed work of art and not something that is a step towards a painting, are very revealing. Take an artist like Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, or Il Guercino, one of the leading Baroque artists who lived from 1591 to 1666. Known for his speed of work, together with great discipline and constant practice, he left a wonderful collection of drawings as well as many famous paintings. This is somewhat ironic, in a way, for he was known as Il Guercino because he squinted. But it did not impede him from drawing magnificently. I see that a selection are on view now at the Kunstmuseum in Bern, Switzerland, which is a treat for anyone to see as drawings such as these travel rather rarely.

Esther and Asuhueerus,,pen and brown ink,brown wash, Il Guercino (Image courtesy of Christies)

Il Guercino's drawings fall perfectly into this category of drawings as pure thought... And very successful thoughts!

More on John Marin's "bow" to landscapes

I alluded in a previous entry to John Marin bowing to the landscape, and if it bowed back to him, he would then feel permitted and able to paint it.

John Marin, Hurricane, 1944. Collection of the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

I was reminded of this again while reading a fascinating book, "Beauty", by Roger Scruton which was published earlier this year by Oxford University Press. Professor Scruton meticulously examines the aspects and characteristics of beauty, point by counterpoint. At one point, he writes, "My pleasure in beauty is therefore, like a gift offered to the object, which in turn is a gift offered to me... the pleasure in beauty is curious, it aims to understand its object and to value what it finds."

That is exactly the way I find myself approaching and reacting to the beautiful landscapes I see here in coastal Georgia, or in Mallorca, for instance Not only does one savour of their beauty per se, but then, as one draws or paints, it is first a quest to see carefully and understand better what one is experiencing. Somehow, one needs to "process" all this information internally, almost intuitively, and then try to transmit the results of this wordless dialogue to paper, in one's own style and idiom. Scruton goes on to talk of the fact that only humans can look at - say - a landscape in an alert, disinterested way, "so as to seize on the presented object, and take pleasure in it".

Perhaps that is one of our privileges as humans. But it is also much easier to talk or write about apprehending the gift of beauty in landscapes than actually "bowing" back to the landscape as an artist and producing a decent work of art!

Thoughts on September 11th

The passing of years since September 11th, 2001 has brought so many changes around the world that one can scarcely put oneself back in the frame of mind of that time. I suddenly remembered a painting that I did to deal, in some measure, with my own emotions after the Twin Towers fell and so many people perished in such frightful fashion. I had loved the brashness of the Twin Towers when we lived in New York. Taking visitors up to the top of the world, as it felt, on the top viewing deck, was so utterly New York in its drama and strange combination of elegance and a technological defiance of nature.

It seems that artists dealt with these events in a multiplicity of ways, many working on sculptures and pieces some years later. I found allusions to many of them again today in Tyler Green's blog at Modern Art Notes. In some fashion, the responses had to do with the degree of connection to New York, I think, and also, of course, the degree of political involvement of each artist. Personally, I painted and drew my piece about a month after September 11th, really before the Bush administration became, in my opinion, out of touch with many of the more admirable aspects of the American Constitution.

Twin Towers (after September 11th) watercolour-graphite, Jeannine Cook artist

As a European, I had always been very aware of the legend of Manhattan's streets being paved with gold. Purple is also the colour of deep mourning in the world I know. Violets often signify faithfulness, watchfulness and modesty. Faithfulness to duty and cause, as far as the firefighters and police and other responders were concerned, watchfulness too, and modesty, in a way, for all those people who were going about their daily business in the Twin Towers. I tried to combine these aspects with the island of Manhattan, the flight paths of the various planes and then the unimaginable debris of the fallen towers.

It was strange to pull out this painting and look at it again today, but perhaps this, of all days, is the day to do so.

Open Eyes

I marvel constantly at the wisdom and insights that I stumble across on the Web. Following a thread on my passion, drawing, I found this observation from the artist, Timothy Nero. He said, "Drawing keeps the eye fresh, the mind alive, and intuition nimble."

Timothy Nero, "Set and setting; An observation-all over your back," 24.75" x 25", acrylic on panel, 2017. (Photo: Courtesy of Timothy Nero)

Every draughtsman knows instantly what he means. As you draw, you find you see things differently, more intimately, with more awareness of space, connectivity and light. Your mind works more alertly, even on a subconscious level, and your senses are honed and more tuned. The act of drawing is a very complex, alive-making affair and things happen in the drawing that you cannot foresee as the artist.

Interestingly, Marc Wilson, Director of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, made a parallel observation about viewing art in an interview reported today by Tyler Green on his Modern Art Notes blog. Mr. Wilson was talking about the galleries in his Bloch Building addition to the Museum and how art is presented there to the public. He said, "I'm not trying to teach you art history. I'm trying to open your eyes, your own senses and your own intelligence to what's in those works of art. That's the first step."

What art involves, whether in the making or the viewing, is basically, I would venture, a good dose of curiosity and having the willingness to open yourself up to new experiences and insights. It is a way of seeing and understanding another person's viewpoint, another version of reality or imagined "reality". In an era when open-mindedness is in short supply in many domains of society, it is to be celebrated that art has still the ability to break down barriers, inhibitions and prejudices. This situation does, however, imply quite a responsibility for each artist somehow to be the provider of keys to unlock doors to different, perhaps new experiences. Perhaps it is lucky that most artists are almost impelled to draw and paint, whether or not their results have this effect. Each of us, as artists, just needs that special feeling of being really alive as we work.

More on Landscapes - Canadian Style

A group of artists who exchanged the most wonderful John Marin-like "bows" with landscapes in the early part of the 20th century was Canada's Group of Seven. Every time I see any of their work, I am captivated all over again, because I find in these paintings a directness, an elegant truthfulness and such a celebration of Canada's natural scenery. The Seven are Lawren Harris, A.Y. Jackson, Franklin Carmichael, Francis Johnson, J.E.H. MacDonald, Frederick Varley and Arthur Lismer. Others who were associated with them but not officially of the Seven were Tom Thomson and Emily Carr.

F.H. Varley, Stormy Weather, Georgian Bay, 1921

All of them began to go out into the Canadian provinces and explore the wilderness at a time, in the very early 1900s, when artists had considered that Canadian landscapes were in essence unpaintable. Yet, they started to travel and paint, encouraging each other to do more. By 1920, they were ready to exhibit their first collective body of work under the label of the Group of Seven, and show the world just how wonderful the dialogue between artist and landscape could be in the dramatic landscapes of Canada.

 In the Northland,  Tom Thomson (Image courtesy of The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts)

When you see collections of these landscape artists' work, at The National Gallery of Canada and the Vancouver Art Gallery (where there is currently a special exhibition of their work entitled "Dawn"), every landscape artist will find delight and inspiration. Many of their oil sketches are the typical small format plein air boards. A big display of these at the National Gallery is like a breath of fresh air in their directness and sensitive use of colour and form. If anyone ever doubted the importance of working plein air, time spent studying these studies/sketches would soon banish those reservations. The later, larger-format paintings are more considered and highly finished, more studied in composition and thus they lose a fraction of that headlong breathless excitement of the plein air work. But that is really cavilling... they are still wonderful, in my opinion. It is nonetheless very interesting to be able to compare outdoor sketch and finished studio painting.

Lawren Harris: Maligne Lake, Jasper Park, Oil on canvas. (Collection of the National Gallery of Canada).

These early 20th century painters embraced and understood the landscapes in which they worked - it shows. They sing easily - at least apparently - of their sense of place, and we share their celebration of the seasons and grandeur of Canadian landscapes, both intimate and majestic.

Landscapes and John Marin

After I had been writing about the evolution of landscape painting and the attitudes towards it, I was fascinated to stumble on the following quote : "How to paint the landscape: First you make your bow to the landscape. Then you wait and if the landscape bows to you, then, and only then, can you paint the landscape." That was John Marin's observation.

From very early on, he believed in the importance and power of the visible, the need actually to see himself what he was seeking to portray as a landscape. His landscapes were amazingly individualistic and memorable. His "bows" to and from the landscape meant that he truly understood that scene and had processed it through eyes, brain and hand so that it became his own, his own version of it.

Franconia Range, White Mountains, No. 1, 1927, watercolor, graphite pencil, black chalk, John Marin (Image courtesy of the Phillipes Collection)

Vincent Van Gogh talked in a similar vein about the importance of the artist knowing the landscape well enough to create art about it. He said, "One can never study nature too much and too hard." Like John Marin, his landscapes can never be confused with anyone else's - he distilled what he saw and experienced in a totally individualistic fashion to create marvels.

The Real versus the Ideal

I have been reading about the Middle Ages to remind myself about aspects of this key transitional era in our Western history. One of the delights is to have small illustrations of contemporary illuminated manuscripts by artists such as Loyset Liédet of Bruges, who did many of the illustrations for Jean Froissart's Chronicles in the text prepared for Luis de Gruthuuse, a wealthy Flemish nobleman. In these miniatures, people are the most important part of the image, and the landscape behind is purely secondary and very idealised. For instance, the painting of the Battle of Poitiers 1356, shows an idyllic backdrop of blue mountains and peaceful scenery which contrasts sharply with the battle depicted in the foreground.

The Battle of Poitiers, Jean Froissart (Image courtesy of Bibliotheque Nationale de France)

The same treatment was meted out to landscapes in medieval wall paintings and tapestries; they were merely the background to human activity. Battles, religious events, societal changes were worth recording. Nature was not of much importance,

This state of affairs continued for many years, with artists paying some attention to landscapes and nature - think of Leonardo da Vinci's studies of dogs, horses, water flowing or landscapes in Tuscany... or Albrecht Dürer's studies of flowers, rabbits, countrysides. But in France, the landscape did not become an independent and valid subject for artists to paint and draw until the 1620s, when it became more of a specialised subject. Claude Lorrain was one of the pioneers in landscape painting, but his works were idealised and romantic to say the least. Interest in landscapes increased gradually until artists such as Jean-Baptiste Corot became a skilled interpreter of the landscape, even if he did do many "pot-boilers" to earn his living. By his time, landscape painting was being taught in the art academies in France, although it was a genre that was ranked pretty low on their "intellectual or moral content" scale. History painting and portraiture were still far more highly esteemed. Landscape painting, which did not require knowledge of anatomy, still had to be idealised really to win respect and admiration from connoisseurs and other artists.

Pastoral Landscape, oil on canvas, 1677, Claude Lorrain (Image courtesy of Kimball Art Museum)

Then came the radical change in France. Pierre Henri de Valenciennes worked hard within the Academy to establish a Prix de Rome for "historical landscapes", advocating that artists paint a "portrait" of a landscape. His publication, Eléments de perspective pratique à l'usage des artistes, (Elements of Practical Perspective for Artists, 1799-1800), was a key influence for artists painting landscapes for decades. By the 1830s, Charles-François Daubigny was painting outdoors in the Fontainbleau region, soon joined by others, like Millet, in the Barbizon School, while another group was forming on the coast near Le Hâvre, led by Eugène Boudin. Monet joined him as a student, and the rest, as they say, is history. Pisarro, Sisley, Renoir, Van Gogh, Cézanne and even Degas on occasions - they all worked outdoors. Edouard Manet tried his hand too at plein air when he painted a small work, "Effect of Snow at Petit-Montrouge", in 1870, when he was on guard during the siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian War.

Edouard Manet - Effect of Snow at Petit-Montrouge, 1870

These artists had all completely altered the concept and quest for beautiful painted landscapes. No longer was anything idealised. Instead the 19th century French artists, and especially those who became known as the Impressionists, turned their energies and their passion towards portraying the landscape as real, as they saw it, experienced it firsthand and interpreted it. They showed not only nature's beauties but also its intricacies and vagaries. Nature had been transformed and placed centre stage, no longer subservient to any human presence in the work of art. A huge change from the careful, tiny depictions of background idealised landscapes of medieval times....