Lessons From A Master

Handsome Husband and I are just home from a field trip of sorts to Kansas City, Mo.

Our trip took us across northern Kansas on Highway 36, a beautiful strip of highway cutting through wheat fields and rolling pastures dimming into blue hills far into the distance.  Those who claim Kansas is flat need only travel this area to see how beautiful this part of the country is.

Our field trip was inspired by the Nelson-Atkins ArtCenter’s exhibition of Claude Monet’s Agapanthus Triptych, painted from 1915 to 1926. (Interestingly, the agapanthus of the title was painted over sometime during the 11 years Monet worked on this painting.)  Doubling the pleasure of the weekend was the opportunity to visit the southern branch of the Handsome Husband family tree and go to a cool jazz gig featuring our trombone playing nephew, Brian.  The only way the weekend could have been better was if Santa Claus himself was there.

Our first stop was the Nelson-Atkins.  I approached “The Monet” as if I were in a church; quietly, reverently, waiting for angels to proclaim the moment. I will even admit that I was prepared to fall to my knees in awe. 

Claude Monet  Water Lilies Series  Agapanthus Tryptich panel three 1915-1926

The painting itself is beautiful without a doubt.  Virtually abstract, the swirls of pigment moving from green to pink to blue in short dashes of color, accentuated by thick white figure-eight shapes captured my attention immediately.  What I didn’t expect was the muscular surface (it’s the only way I can think of to describe it).  Monet thought “out loud” with pigment and brush.  He painted, considered, scraped off, painted more, painted over, changed his mind and did the whole thing over again and again.  Rather that claiming the painting ‘finis!’, it is believed he simply ran out of time, dying before it was done.  The surface shows this thought process; it is heavily textured in places, harsh marks show where he scraped and re-worked, and layers of paint hide groups of lilies painted in previous sessions.  There are areas of paste-y pigment, not unpleasant but not entirely expected either from a master of painting.  My college professors would have raised an eyebrow.

My knees didn’t buckle, nor did I hear angels sing.

It’ll be awhile before I have the experience completely evaluated.  I'm not hard-hearted; the painting is beautiful. I am awed by Monet’s obsessive struggle to translate the physics of light into pigment.  That awe includes the appreciation of the plain hard work that goes into this type of creative exploration.  It is a lesson taken to heart.

©2010 Patricia Scarborough New Day  12 x 18 pastel

Monet spent decades discovering what his water garden had to offer, right up until his passing from this earthly world. For me, as an artist exploring new territory there may be no moment of arrival, but simply, delightedly, perhaps painfully, the awareness of yet another step in the process until the work is declared complete - or the clock runs out.  

2011 Patricia Scarborough  Early Morning Spring  6 x 9 pastel

Tick tick tick tick . . .

Monet Meets Curly Joe

After reading Christine Kane's blog about expanding vs shrinking I shrugged off all shrinkiness (read stinginess) and purchased a really lovely plein air easel. Painting in the open air, away from the studio, sounds so romantic and, well, just plain fun. Turns out it was more like Claude Monet meets Curly Joe.

Becuase I am fairly new to painting away from the studio, I traveled only as far as my back yard.

It's a good place to start, actually. The sun on my black-eyed Susan's was really gorgeous. (That's my sister's really awesome chain-saw carving you see there in the background.)

There I stand, just like Claude Monet. The warm sun, cool shadows, brilliant yellows, purples, birds and cicadas breathing life into every stroke of my brush.

Things begin to go awry fairly quickly. Monet steps aside and Curly Joe moves in. Somehow I managed to flip my 5 x 7 board upside down, onto my fresh palette. The backside is now decorated in great gooey globs of cadmium orange and scarlet. Not to worry I tell myself, I'm outside. Wipe it off, put the board back and get back to work. I notice a bit of red paint on my brand spankin' new pochade box. The pochade box is supposed to carry the paint in it, not on it. Stop painting, wipe it off, gotta keep that new pochade box shiney and clean.

It's not long before I find I'm holding in my left hand a paper towel full of red paint, 4 brushes and a palette knife. Yes, my paint box came with a brush holder. It's just that my hand is so, well, handy. And yes, I have managed to get red paint on each and every brush. Oddly, the hair part is clean.

About that time a cute weiner dog strays into the yard to check out the Lady in Red. We introduce ourselves, and he leaves a moment later with a red stripe behind one ear.

An hour later, I've got red paint on my hands, brushes, pochade box, up my arm, on my shorts, the back door, my left sock, and on my right cheek. My hair is highlighted in - yup, you guessed it.

But I've also got 70 square inches of really lovely flowers painted, and I'm thrilled.

And now, as I'm typing, I see cad red scarlet on my keyboard. And up my arm again, and on my right knee. What would Monet think?

I'm thrilled. I survived my first real plein air session. I expanded my horizons, all the way to my back yard. Maybe tomorrow I'll expand them all the way to the end of the block.

How far will you expand your horizon? And what color will it be?