Gratitude

I love it when life decides to underline things. I was busy digesting a thought-provoking and timely article on "Gratitude" in that excellent publication, The Christian Science Monitor (November 21 issue), when I got news that delighted me and made me feel distinctly grateful.

I had found a listing for Art Residencies in Neopoli, South Italy, in one of the bulletins sent out by the Fulton Council Arts Council; it sounded totally alluring. So I applied, outlining ideas for the work I might do during a two-week residency. To my delight, I have been accepted for this Residency at Palazzo Rinaldi.

So when I read in the CSM article on "Gratitude" this quote from Albert Einstein: "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle", I can only echo - Amen.

Painters' Heritage

Just in time for Thanksgiving, I learn from Science News of a reason to thank our ancestors again for artistic ventures.

Apparently, in that amazing archaeological treasure trove of very early man's life, Blombos Cave, along South Africa's coast, yet another indication of man's early artistic interests has been excavated. The engraved pieces of ochre, dating from some 80,000 years ago, have already been celebrated, and in fact, I blogged about them in August, 2010. Now, Dr. Christopher Henshilwood of Norway's University of Bergen has found a pair of tool kits which show that man, some 100,000 years ago, was already deliberately mixing chemicals to produce a pigment. Dr. Henshilwood and his colleagues have shown that these early inhabitants of South Africa were taking ochre chips, treated animal bones charcoal, quartz in granular form and some unidentifiable liquid and producing a form of paint. They were planning ahead, preparing pigment for a specific purppose, just as artists do today.

Abalone shell for mixing Pigments, Blombos Cave, South Africa

Among their finds, the archaeologists found this abalone shell which held this "paint", and an animal bone that had traces of red on it and which was spatula-shaped, perhaps to stir the paint and apply it. (Image courtesy of Science News.)

100,000 years is a long stretch back in time. To know that artistic activities - i.e. mark-making by deliberate pigment preparation - were already underway makes my mind really stretch. But it is a good stretch! And a reason to give thanks.

Making Others See

Every artist knows the excitement of seeing something, discovering something or thinking of something that can then be translated into a work of art. The greater the excitement, the more impassioned the work and frequently, the better the results. Yet those results are then out in the wide world for each viewer to interpret and understand. And the path to achieving memorable art for viewers can be long and arduous.

Edgar Degas remarked, "Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." This wise and oh so experienced artist knew that that transformative alchemy needs somehow to come into play amidst the excitement of creation. His skill and innovative methods in choice of composition - often daring indeed for the time with their nod to Japanese woodcuts - allowed him to direct the viewer's gaze in almost unconscious fashion. He also commented, "No art was ever less spontaneous than mine. What I do is the result of reflection and of the study of the great masters; of inspiration, spontaneity, temperament I know nothing." As he grew older, he would work and rework compositions, trying out parts and juxtaposing them in different fashion, seeking to express movement, psychological impact, social distinctions, but always mindful of what he wished the viewer to appreciate. Chance was not in his methodology of art making.

Woman Bathing, 1886 pastel, E. Degas (image courtesy of the Hill-Stead Museum, Farmington, CT).

Dancers at the Barre, c. 1888 oil painting, E. Degas, (Image courtesy of the Phillips Collection, Washington, DC.)

Look at these two works with their bold, unusual compositions. In each case, Degas is playing with the viewer, directing the eye like an orchestra director conducts the musicians. If you pull the works apart and analyse each one, there are all sorts of odd shapes of limbs, strange angles of bodies, tipped lines. He is using almost hieroglyphic forms to convey what he wants us to see.

Some of the influence in later works is also photography, a medium that Degas embraced from the 1870s onwards. The camera's eye allows even more radical cropping and organisation of space than did the Japanese woodcut tradition, and Degas used these possibilities to full advantage, often in multi-layered compositions.

Part of his way of creating art, especially as he grew older, was to rely on his memory or on the small working sculptures he created of ballerinas, refining and refining the marks and gestures, in the same way that ballet dancers practise and practise movements. I read that he once said that were he to set up an art school, he would house it all under one roof, a building with six floors. On the top floor, he would put the novices to start drawing from the model. As the students progressed, he would move them downstairs, floor by floor. When they were at their most proficient, they would be on the ground floor, and that meant that in order to see the original model, they would actually have to clamber back up the stairs to the sixth floor. By this, he implied that memory is critical to an artist. Until you have practised, practised and re-practised until your art-making has become indelibly part of your inner being, you cannot then devote your attention to organising your artwork in seeming spontaneity but in very purposeful fashion for the maximum effect on viewers.

There are, coincidentally, a number of interesting exhibitions currently on display about Edgar Degas and different aspects of his artistic endeavours. Perhaps the most unusual sounds to be that of Degas and the Nude, at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. At the Phillips Collection, there is Dancers at the Barre: Point and Counterpoint, while at the Royal Academy, London, Degas and the Ballet: Picturing Movement. Lucky viewers can savour of being skilfully "made to see" what Degas wanted them to see.

Parables of Creation

The celebrated art dealer and collector, Ernst Beyeler, who died in Basel, Switzerland, last year, remarked, "I have always perceived works of art as parables of creation - analogous to nature, as Cezanne once said - an expression of joie de vivre". That perception and keenness of eye made him famous for his choices in art.

Art as a parable of creation is an interesting concept. In a literal sense, there has long been art which illustrates and teaches aspects of religion, particularly when the Catholic Church was, de facto, the sponsor of some of the world's greatest artists during the Renaissance time and beyond. One of the most celebrated examples is, of course, Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Hands of God and Adam, Michelangelo, Sistine Chapel ceiling

This is one of the most iconic parts of that vast series of paintings, when God gives Adam the gift of life.

Artists explored every way they could conceive of conveying interpretations of creation, as written in the Bible. Some of this art also spoke of joie de vivre, of sensuous love, of beauty and of life. Nature came once more into prominence, as it had been in earlier Medieval art, when depictions of flowers, birds, and landscapes had symbolised holy matters. As the 16th century moved on in Italy, for instance, more and more artists were combining the richness of the new technique of oil painting with their draughting skills. Their subjects expanded to landscapes, cityscapes, everyday scenes – art where creation could have a much wider meaning. The same movement was happening in Northern Europe.

Rembrandt, for instance, was magisterial in his ability to create art that evoked deep meaning about creation, about man's condition, and - sometimes - joie de vivre. Interestingly, as highlighted by an exhibition this year at the Louvre and at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Rembrandt broke with artistic tradition by using Jewish models to depict Christ and made his Christ a living person, not an icon due great reverence. Indeed, by the 17th century, the artistic vocabulary had become much more elastic; it could allude to many more emotions that were not so dictated by religious concept.

As art - and Western society - moved on through the centuries to our own, both the definitions of creation and joie de vivre have evolved hugely. Art became less and less "coded" and straightforward, so that knowledge of symbols, especially religious, became unnecessary. There can of course be many layers of meaning, but most paintings can be read to some degree, with consequent enjoyment. (Think of people's reactions to Impressionist paintings, or those of 20th century artists.) Nature has always contributed greatly to the joie de vivre of viewers, from flower paintings onwards. Now the parables of creation are more about general celebrations of life, our world in general.

Meanwhile, other civilisations' art (China, Japan, Korea, India, Islamic art, etc.) have been equally eloquent spokesmen for parables of creation - just in totally different fashion. In truth, personally, I have always found Japanese art totally intoxicating in its beauty and thus,joie de vivre.

Pine Trees,  Hasagawa Tohaku six folded screens on paper, (Image courtesy of the Tokoyo National Museum.) 

In the same way, exquisite Koranic calligraphy is sacred art and in a way, a very real parable of creation. Look at this:

Maghribi script version of a Koran Sura, done in North Africa in the 13th century (image courtesy of the Smithsonian Museum.)

I have strayed far from Ernst Beyeler's opinion, but I think his criteria of how to delight in beautiful art, of all descriptions, are very accurate. When a work of art rings true, is "analogous to Nature", then a viewer can indeed fall in love with that art at first glance - in other words, have a coup de foudre. What fun!

A Gift of Colour and Light

The Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida, is a place of such contrasts. Dread and hope, anxiety and tranquility, fears and laughter. Yet it is often a vessel of transformations and healing alchemy.

There are sculptures gracing the lawns, fountains play in the different lakes, live oak trees shade camellias in bloom - all help calm and center the visitors to the Clinic.

There is, however, an even more beautiful gift of colour and light at the moment, in the Mayo building, en route to the hospital. It is a small exhibition of work by the Scottish Colourists, owned and lent by the major Mayo benefactors, Isabelle and Robert Davis.

I have always loved the bold, elegant work of the Scottish Colourists, a small group of artists who included Samuel John Peploe(1871-1935), John Duncan Fergusson(1874-1961), Francis Campbell BoileauCadell (1883-1937) and George Leslie Hunter (1877-1931). They achieved a wonderful fusion of French artistic influences that ranged from Manet to Cezanne and Gauguin, in composition, brushwork, colour and their choice of humble everyday objects that became monumental. Post Impressionist in their approach, they all worked together, often travelling to different locations to work as companions. Fergusson and Hunter were essentially self-taught, while the Academie Julian in Paris played an important role in their collective development, along with the artistic ferment of early 20th century France, where Matisse, Picasso or the Fauves were supplanting the Impressionists.

Still life - Peonies and Fruit, Samuel John Peploe

Whilst he painted many landscapes, Peploe loved to paint still lifes, such as this Peonies and Fruit, one of his many carefully arranged compositions. "There is so much in mere objects, flowers, leaves, jugs, what not - colours, forms, relations" he said. "I can never see mystery coming to an end."

Fergusson was also very much influenced by Manet and even Velazquez. He was a pivotal figure amongst the Scottish quartet of artists, and he in turn influenced other artists such as the young American artist, Anne Estelle Rice, (1877-1959), who had been trained at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, before coming to Paris.

Anne Estelle Rice, drawing, John Duncan Fergusson

Fergusson painted some fine portraits of Rice; this is a drawing he did of her in preparation for a painting. She too produced some wonderfully strong and simple still life paintings, such as the one displayed at the Mayo, Still Life with Dahlias.

Anne Estelle Rice in Paris - Closerie des Lilas, 1907, oil on canvas, John Duncan Fergusson

Still Life, oil on canvas, Anne Estelle Rice

Her friend, Fergusson, produced a huge body of work: at a 1961 memorial exhibition, his artist friend, André Dunoyer de Segonzac, wrote, ""His art is a deep and pure expression of his immense love of life. Endowed with a rare plastic feeling, almost sculptural in its quality. he joined with it an exceptional sense of colour, outspoken, ringing colours, rich and splendid in their very substance." This late painting is a perfect example of his love of life.

The Red Sail, oil on canvas, John Duncan Fergusson

Frank "Bunty" Cadell studied in Paris and became noted for his portraits of glamorous women. He returned to Scotland, where he discovered the island of Iona, an important turning point in his development as an artist. He served in world War I, as did his fellow Scottish Colourists, and he reacted to the horrors of war with optimism and heightened joie de vivre, both of which were reflected in his subjects and the joy with which he painted them. He returned often, after the War, to his utopia, Iona, where he summered, alone or with Peploe in 1920. A fellow artist noted, "It seems to me more than ever clear that your forte lies in a gift of colour and light." The joyous mid-1920s painting above of Iona would bear out that statement.

Iona, oil on canvas, Frank "Bunty" Cadell

George Leslie Hunter moved from Scotland to California with his family as a young boy, but as an adult, he spent time in Scotland, France, Italy and America. He was recognised early on as a skilled draughtsman and drawing remained one of his great strengths. Like Cadell with Iona, Hunter found Largo, in Scotland, to be a place of great inspiration, as is shown in this painting. He was also noted for his treatment of light and sense of colour.

Lower Largo, George Leslie Hunter

The Davis collection of Scottish Colourists being shown at the Mayo is also rounded out beautifully by exquisite canvases by three artists who had links to the Scottish Colourists - Anne Estelle Rice, the American artist whom Fergusson both encouraged and celebrated in portraits.

Still life with fruit and flowers, Anne Estelle Rice  (recently sold at Sotherbys)

Another Scottish artist, Anne Redpath (1895-1965), was a student of the Scottish Colourists while she was studying in Edinburgh. She later moved to the South of France with her husband where they became part of the Scottish Colourists circle. In her work, she was, to an extent, one of their heirs, being especially influenced by Peploe and Cadell.

Flowers on a White Table, Anne Redpath (Image courtesy of Portland Gallery)

Her celebration of familiar household objects in her still lifes and her use of colour harmonies of cool contrasting with warmer hues were hallmarks of her work. This wonderful flower study, Flowers on a white tablecloth, was in her collection at her death.

The last artist represented in the Mayo exhibition was a British artist, Robert Bevan (1865-1925). The link with the other Scottish artists was that he too studied at the Academie Julian in Paris. He also spent time in Brittany and was linked to the Pont-Aven school of artists who were experimenting with the use of colour and form. During his life, his work was considered controversial and too avant-garde, with one critic labelling his use of colour "garish". However, by the time he died in 1925, he was celebrated in art circles and hailed for his "modernist powers".

Near Applehayes, Robert Bevan

By the time I had finished savouring of the beautiful and interesting exhibition in the Mayo building, I had become sadly aware of how many preoccupied people had hastened past this gift of colour and light. All I can hope is that they will find a moment of peace and delight the next time they pass that way. They would be rewarded.

The Process of Discovery

When artists embark on a creative venture, particularly one that uses Nature as its springboard, a process of discovery is often necessary.

Take, for example, a tree that may be inspiring a sculptor, a photographer, a draughtsman or a painter. Unless the artist already knows that tree very well, he or she will need to study the tree to learn of its characteristics. Height, form of growth, girth, type of leaf and bark, its flowers and seeds, its general look that identifies it as an oak, a cherry tree, or a poinciana. Only after learning about that particular tree can the artist move on to creating art that evokes it, in some form. By finding out about the tree, you can then decide what to depict, what to emphasise, what to eliminate, how to weave the fruit of your discoveries into a composition, a work of art. In essence, the process of discovery allows one to distill some order out of the seeming chaos in front of one's eyes.

For a painter or draughtsman/woman, small thumbnail sketches are one passport to imposing some order on one's discoveries. Frequently, when one is working en plein air, there is such an abundance of information pouring into one's brain that it is overwhelming. Translating all those discoveries of form, light, pattern, whatever... into a coherent composition is daunting. So small, quick studies, trying out compositions, seeking to simplify shapes and strengthen light patterns and passages. introducing repetitions and contrasts, are a way to further the process of discovery.

These studies don't take very long, one can try out lots of versions, in any medium, and each one helps further to refine what one is trying to say. They are also a form of shorthand note-taking, helping to catch fleeting light or shapes, or sorting out complex aspects. I find that they are especially valuable before I launch into a silverpoint drawing, because they can save me lots of troubles, given that silverpoint precludes any alterations or erasures.

Thumbnail drawings of landscape (Image courtesy of Marion Boddy-Evans. (Licensed to About.com, Inc.)

Since I have never scanned any of the thumbnail sketches from my drawing books, I am indebted to other artists for allowing me to illustrate ways of using thumbnail sketches. Above is an example of small exploratory drawing/paintings which use knowledge already absorbed from the landscape to determine which is the best way to proceed.

Park Sketches, George Bumann

These thumbnail drawings are done by George Bumann, a noted wildlife sculptor living in wild and beautiful Montana. The studies were apparently done on a visit in 2009 to Yellowstone National Park. Eloquent shorthand, they show how his knowledge of those landscapes, born of multiple discoveries and observations, helps define his art. I am grateful to him for such illustrations.

Because an artist has taken the time and made the effort to discover what it is that makes a subject notable, beautiful, interesting, relevant... the resultant distilled knowledge becomes a passport to making good art, art that rings true without having to be a faithful reproduction of what is being viewed. As the French poet, Charles Baudelaire, once remarked, "All good and genuine draughtsmen draw according to the picture inscribed in their minds, and not according to nature."

For that picture to be inscribed in the mind, there needs first to be a process of discovery.

"Deliberate Practice"

I am still reading the fascinating book, Moonwalking with Einstein, by Joshua Foer - it rewards with lots of ideas. One that I found thought-provoking today is one about hitting a wall when you are trying to achieve proficiency in some activity, from golf to music or memory-training.

According to Foer, this limiting plateau is know to psychologists are the "OK plateau". When we learn a skill, we go through phases - the beginning "cognitive stage" when you are learning the ropes and finding out the best ways to accomplish the task. Then comes the "associative stage", when things are becoming more automatic and fewer errors happen. Finally, the "autonomous stage" is reached, when you are no longer really conscious of exactly what you are doing when performing the task. Being on autopilot allows us then to concentrate on other, less familiar things whilst still getting the job done, but there is a drawback. You no longer improve your particular skill.

I think that happens easily to all of us as artists. We work and work, practise and practise, and believe that the more we spend time doing art, the better we will become. But apparently, there is a remedy to the walls we all hit in our art. Thank goodness!

Professor K. Anders Ericsson of Florida State University's Human Performance Laboratory, Department of Psychology, in Tallahassee has apparently studied the top experts in many different fields and analysed their methods of working and improving skills. They all adopt similar strategies: they find ways consciously to keep their "autopilot" state from turning on when they practise. They pay close attention to their technique, they remain very clear about their goals, and they rely on lots of feedback that is frequent and immediate.

Applying this wisdom to making art seems to be very relevant. It makes the case for being flexible and inventive in the techniques we use for art-making, using new media, trying a different approach to media we already use... I think any successful artist knows that realistically-defined but very clear goals are vital ... and need updating and "nourishing" frequently. The feedback aspects are terribly important too, but harder for those of us who tend to work alone. It is a wonderful gift of the gods when one has a group of trusted and respected fellow artists, or even a friend, to whom one can show one's efforts and get reactions and feedback. Every time I am lucky enough to have a critique session with artist friends, I know that I learn and grow a great deal.

I find it so interesting to have these foundations for artist growth confirmed so elegantly in a book on enhancing memory. It is logical, but unexpected!

Learning to See Things Accurately

Saturday was one of those days when it was so misty at one point that one could hardly see anything across the marshes at Dunham Farms, Midway, Georgia. Within a couple of hours, however, it was brilliant sunshine and the world was transformed. It all made one stretch as an artist working outdoors!

I thought of a remark that Michael Gormley had written about the artist, Bo Barlett, in an American Artist article in the March-April 2011 issue. He reported about Barlett that, "Like many other artists, he notes that looking and learning to see things for what they really are (my emphasis), rather than seeing a projection of a preconceived mental concept, is key to the development of a visual language."

Barlett's observation is so true for all of us as artists. I found that as I peered through the mist to try and see accurately, it became a series of surprises. What I saw first, in the scene below, (Edge of the Creek, Dunham Farms,graphite), were indistinguishable silhouetted lines of distant horizons. I looked harder, and finally began to see individual small islands and different trees edging the marshes.

Edge of the Creek, Dunham Farms, graphite, Jeannine Cook artist

The same thing later occurred when I wanted to draw the wood storks perched on a dead tree on a distant island. The birds moved constantly, the wind riffled the palmettos and their fronds were a maze of lines and ever-moving shapes. It was a real challenge even to make any sense of the scene, let alone create a drawing.

 Dunham Farms, Midway - wood storks, graphite, Jeannine Cook artist

Another effort of intent observation, later in the day when the sun allowed one to see better in the forest, was trying to follow the myriad lines and patterns in a magnificent old dead live oak tree trunk. Time had distilled the upright trunk to rhythmic sinews, an endless maze of movement. Its patterns and rhythms fascinated me, but I found it really challenging to sit and concentrate on following its ways whilst trying to create a sensible drawing.

 Live Oak Rhythms, Prismacolor, Jeannine Cook artist.

Every time that I go out to work plein air, I am reminded of how difficult it actually is to look really hard and see things accurately. It is a siren call to assume one knows what is going on in the scene in front of one. It is so much easier to think one knows. Only when I remind myself to look again and again, with my eyes really open, do I discover that Nature is once again liable to fool one. In other words, a facile, preconceived "visual language" would not necessarily be an accurate one that reflects one's artistic voice.

Landscape Painting

Back in March of this year, in The Spectator, Angela Summerfield discussed Peter Frie:Last Summer, an exhibition of landscapes by a Berlin-based Swedish artist, Peter Frie. In view of the fact that tomorrow, I am planning to work plein air on landscape drawings, this statement in Summerfield's article came back to me.

I quote, "Landscape painting has not fared well within the dictates of modernist and post-modernist art definitions. It is as if an urban-centric, text-driven and often anti-aesthetic dogma has stifled both alternative discourse and individual human expression. Yet our experience of landscape, and by association Nature, is fundamental to the development of our senses, perceptual vocabulary and cognitive awareness.

Eliopainting No. 3   Peter Frie, oil on canvas, (image courtesy of Eskilstuna Konstmuseum.)

This statement resonates for me in a number of ways. Since I live in non-urban environments, I find most of my daily delights and inspiration in Nature, in one way or another. I am also very aware that my tastes are therefore different from those of countless millions of people who live in big cities, where the dragooned green trees along streets and in artificially-constructed parks are the major remnants and reminders of the natural world, apart from weather conditions.

The world in which we all live is indeed mostly text-driven, a fact which again contributes, according to this thought-provoking book that I am reading, Moonwalking with Einstein, by Joshua Foer, to our collective loss of the capacity for memory. Because we can all rely on books, Google, digital files or whatever to recuperate facts, our memories have virtually abdicated, as compared to the memory of Greeks, Romans and medieval notables.

In those early times, people could remember vast amounts of knowledge, from all the names of soldiers in an army to long, involved speeches or treatises. After Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1436, our memories took a hit. In the same way, only well-trained artists retained the capacity to remember innumerable details of landscape or human form. Familiarity with landscapes and Nature's ways became the domain of the few in the art world.

Today, that is indeed true. Yet unless we artists somehow learn how Nature "works", an enormous chunk of our personal vocabulary is stunted. It is as if we try to learn French, but never hear how the words are correctly pronounced. We thus never understand the nuances, the cadences and accentuations, let alone the words themselves, that convey a world of meaning.

Ultimately, I fear that Angela Summerfield's rather pessimistic outlook about landscape painting will continue to pertain. I don't see art collectors returning en masse to support landscape painting (and drawing). Nonetheless, for those of us who believe landscapes and Nature in general have much to offer, there is the comfort that personally, we are enriched, and that there are indeed some people with whom landscape painting resonates. Hurray for "alternative discourse and individual human expression"!

Peter Frie's version of a "Blue Morning" (image courtesy of artfinders.co.uk.)

Just look at  Frie's Blue Morning.  He should give us all encouragement and hope to follow our own paths vis-a-vis Nature.

Artists' Ways of Seeing Things

I am reading a book entitled "Moonwalking with Einstein. The Art and Science of Remembering Everything" by Joshua Foer. The title is self-explanatory, the style is highly readable as Foer is a seasoned writer for such publications as the New York Times, National Geographic, Slate, etc. The content is totally fascinating - about how science is slowly understanding better how the human brain works, especially in terms of memory.

I still have many pages to go, but one page started me thinking about the parallels between artists and the master chess players that Foer was discussing. In the 1940s, Adriaan de Groot, a Dutch psychologist and chess player, decided to investigate what separated a good chess player from a master chess player - what was going on in their heads? Were the top players able to think further ahead in their moves, did they have better mental tools or a more honed intuition for the game? From past high level games,De Groot selected a series of board positions where there was one correct move to make which was not all that obvious. He then asked a group of top flight chess players to ponder these boards and to think aloud as they selected the proper move.

To De Groot's astonishment, the players mostly did not think many moves ahead, nor did they consider more possible moves. What they did was to see the right move, and almost immediately. After analysing the players' commentaries, De Groot realised that the chess experts were reacting, rather than thinking, and they could do this because their long experience of playing had taught them to think about "configurations of pieces like 'pawn structures' and immediately noticed things that were out of sorts, like exposed rooks". They had learned to see the whole chess board and thirty-two chess pieces as systems and groups. Later studies of top players' eye movements confirm that they literally see a different chess board, for they see more edges of the squares, which means they are encompassing whole areas at once. They also move their eyes across greater distances, without lingering for long at any one spot. Those places on which they do focus tend to be the key areas linked to making the right move.

This description of how master chess players function made me think of artists who have honed their skills day after day, year after year. Their eye-hand coordination has been perfected, their senses of composition/design, colour and content are developed. When they draw a nude, for instance, or work on a landscape painting plein air, for instance, they are not looking at just one spot. Rather, they are encompassing the whole so that almost intuitively, they can adjust their composition, their values and colour in the work for the best results. Their powers of observation and concentration are almost unthinking, because they are trained and disciplined.

The Red Canoe, 1889, watercolour, Winslow Home (Image courtesy of the Peabody Art Collection, Baltimore, Maryland)

To me, Winslow Homer is an example of a highly skilled painter, producing amazingly fresh landscapes, frequently plein air, and often in watercolour. One such example is "The Red Canoe" (image courtesy of the Peabody Collection, the Athenaeum).

Foer goes on to comment on the master chess players' amazing memories. I suspect that the great artists, past and present, also intrinsically rely on their memories quickly to understand a subject after a brief moment of studying it, Like the chess players, they can also call upon past experiences to bolster and inform their present work. The saying, "Been there, done that" applies, in a very positive sense, to an artist as well as chess players. Perhaps one should just add, "umpteen times"!