Painting from the Ground Up

I once went on a cider-making course. The instructor stood up and said, in effect, that there is no single right way to make cider. Simply putting juice in a barrel and letting nature take its course would not necessarily produce a bad cider. But do exactly the same thing in another year and you might end up with something undrinkable, or vinegar. His point was simple: he could offer choices and steps which would reduce the chance of disaster.

The same, I think, applies to oil painting, though I would say the range of choices is even greater. There are many approaches to painting, extending well beyond subject matter into questions of detail, palette knife or brush, and whether one uses impasto or keeps the paint relatively thin. Thick books have been written on all of this, and I have no wish to attempt a summary of them here. All I can do is describe what works for me. I should add that this is very much my studio method, since I am predominantly a studio painter.

To some extent, the subject itself dictates how one approaches it, as does the place where it is painted. By that I mean there is a considerable difference between plein air painting, which is usually substantially completed in a day, and studio painting. When working outdoors, the light changes continuously as the sun moves, and weather conditions alter not only the quality of the light but also the clouds, shadows and atmosphere. There is little time for elaborate methods. At the risk of offending some, I tend to think of plein air as a form of note-taking: a chance to record true-ish colour, true-ish shadow and an overall impression. Sometimes that study is enough. Sometimes it is not. Sometimes it becomes the basis for a studio painting, and sometimes I choose a different viewpoint altogether.

That said, the camera is useful as a reference aid. Depending on practicalities — time, the subject, or simply whether one can carry painting equipment around with ease — the camera may be essential. Even then, I think it is wise to bring memory back into the process and make a studio study from what one remembers and feels about the scene. I call that a kind of reverse plein air. Memories fade, so it is worth doing this sooner rather than later.

It has often been said that a camera never lies. Oh yes, it does. It records relative intensity, which means that on a bright day, especially towards the sun, land and sea can appear far darker than they really were. Exposures can be adjusted, of course, but the problem remains. Shadows are exaggerated, blacks and blues can dominate, subtle colour is lost, and some colours — often the sky — become more intense than they were in life. Perspective can also be distorted. So, for me, the camera is useful, but it is only one tool among several.

Before starting

The first thing I do is check the composition. I prefer to begin with a black and white thumbnail sketch, or perhaps one in mid-tones — what some people call a notan. Are the shapes pleasing? Do the tones work? It is far better to spend ten or fifteen minutes on a small sketch and decide you do not like it than to spend days on a painting that never really convinces.

There is always a temptation to move things around in a composition, but this needs care. Once you begin shifting elements too far, you risk creating a scene that no longer feels like the thing you set out to paint. The shadows and colours belonging to one arrangement do not always make sense in another. I have also learned the hard way that one can become too attached to what one intended to paint, especially if the original study was made on a difficult verge, in bad weather, or while one was boiling or freezing. At times, it is necessary to kill your darlings.

The Crabbers - preliminary sketch

Colour study and value study

It may be useful to do one or both of these. Since value — how light or dark something is — is so important in painting, a black and white study is often a very good idea. Even when the underlayers eventually provide much of that structure, it helps to have an aide-mémoire to avoid ending up with an unbalanced painting.

I do not think the study needs to be highly detailed. That is my own approach, though I know the older academic method would often use a more developed cartoon or line drawing. For those of us who are short-sighted, removing one’s glasses can be surprisingly effective. Squinting works too, and red acetate can help if your eyesight is better than mine.

On what surface?

The next question is what to paint on. Having experimented with different surfaces, I have found that fine linen canvas works best for me, and for smaller works I often prefer canvas-covered board. Medium-grade duck cotton can be used, but I would want several layers of gesso and a fine sanding. I sometimes use gesso even on prepared fine linen canvas. At the other end of the scale, very smooth boards are not to my taste, as they feel like an invitation to skid around the surface.

References to hand

I usually have a medium-sized monitor nearby, with the main photograph enlarged in sections if needed. There may be two or three reference images. The study sits above the canvas, and the black and white drawing is within easy reach. I find it helps to keep everything visible rather than constantly hunting for reference material.

Drawing out

Some kind of moderate preliminary drawing works for me. As people should know, pencil is a big no-no because it shows through, so I tend to use charcoal. Some artists fix it with spray or hairspray, but I generally do not unless I am experimenting on something that will not be sold, and even then rarely. My understanding is that this works better on rigid surfaces than on traditional canvases. Otherwise the charcoal has a tendency to shift, though a bit of hand rubbing can soften the lines and make things less messy.

Sometimes I draw freehand, which also helps establish proportion. Sometimes I use the grid method, depending on the subject. The beauty of charcoal is that it can be erased and moved around without creating a slow-drying paint slick if I decide I do not like where things are. I also like to take in some tonal hints at this stage. After all, nobody sees a pure line drawing in real life.

The Crabbers - raw umber paint

Underdrawing and underpainting

Next comes a monochrome painting, which is relatively quick to dry and full of tonal information. I tend to need warming up in my paintings, so at present raw sienna suits me. Once charcoal mixes into it, though, it may not remain particularly sienna in appearance. Sometimes I do two layers here, with the second being more detailed than the first.

By this stage the picture is no longer a blank idea but a working structure. The essential relationships are in place, and the painting is ready to move into colour with some confidence. That is the point at which the work begins to take on its own character.