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Author: Carol L. Douglas

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Lake effect snow

Winter lambing, oil on linen, 30X40, $5072 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.

My home town of Buffalo, NY is the most famous lake-effect snow city in North America, but it’s hardly unique. Erie (PA), Rochester, Syracuse, and the small city of Oswego regularly get buried in snow. The Great Lakes are very deep, so they don’t freeze solid in winter. Arctic air sweeps across them, picking up moisture that then drops in deep blankets onshore. I miss those blizzards very much.

There are other, smaller snow plumes that are not as well known. One of these is in Orleans County, New York. I spent two decades driving weekly from my mom’s house in Niagara County to my house in Rochester. That took me straight through the Orleans snow belt.

Wind sculpted snow in Orleans County, NY.

As my children can recite by heart, you don’t drive in snow country without a candle and matches, bottled water, a chocolate bar, car blanket and collapsible shovel. People have frozen to death in their cars in Buffalo.

The drifts that formed the basis of ‘Winter Lambing’.

It was on a bitter winter afternoon that I found myself flagged down by an Orleans County Sheriff’s Deputy. She directed me around an accident and warned me that the road ahead was barely passable. The wind was whistling along the long, flat fields of the Niagara-Orleans lake plains. There, wind can pick up already-fallen snow, reducing visibility, and driving it into drifts as hard as cement. When these form across a road, your steering wheel can be wrested right from your hands. Road salt doesn’t work in extreme cold, which is perilous in icy conditions.

Bad parking job.

I’m an old hand at winter driving, but I slowed right down. At one point, I stopped entirely, which is when I saw the drifts above. At the time, I was thinking through a solo show at Davison Gallery at Roberts Wesleyan College called God + Man: Paintings by Carol L. Douglas, about which I wrote last week.

James Herriot wrote about the bone-chilling work of the Yorkshire veterinarian, particularly the grueling task of lambing during blizzards on the high Dales. Not only were shepherd and veterinarian at risk, but newborn lambs were in danger of freezing or predation.

I wanted to paint that feeling of intense cold at high elevations. At first glance, viewers see these shapes as mountains; it’s only when I tell them the backstory that they realize they were a series of drifts just a few feet tall. Context is everything when it comes to reading a painting, and the artist has lots of latitude in repurposing reference pictures.

It might look soft, but that stuff is hard as cement.

God + Man was about the relationship of God and man in the natural world. This painting was based on Isaiah 1:18, which says: “Come now, and let us reason together,”
Says the Lord,
“Though your sins are like scarlet,
They shall be as white as snow;
Though they are red like crimson,
They shall be as wool.”

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Art is not eternal

Tin Foil Hat, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 includes shipping in continental US.

“Art is eternal,” read yet another meme on Facebook. Not surprisingly, artists like to repeat this. But art is no more eternal than any other handiwork of man.

History is replete with examples of art that is gone. The Colossus of Rhodes. The Great Library of Alexandria and all it contained. The Great Hypostyle Hall of the Temple of Karnak. The 69 ancient Greek bronze statues of Olympic victors that once graced the sanctuary of Olympia. The menorah from the Second Temple, which was stolen when the Romans sacked Jerusalem; then it disappeared from Rome. The Imperial Seal of China.

Pinkie, pastel, ~6X8, $435 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Whole cities have been sacked, like Athens, Constantinople, or Kaifeng. Their art was destroyed with them. Insurgency and war destroy art, as in the French Revolution. Conquerors loot and lose it; Napoleon and the Nazis are just two examples.

This fall we had a massive fire in Port Clyde, ME. It destroyed several historic buildings and paintings by Jamie Wyeth and Kevin Beers. They were gone with sudden finality, and we were shocked and grieved.

There are spasms of iconoclastic fury that convulse humankind. The Beeldenstorm of the 16th century is the most well-known. The Reformation wanted to purge Northern Europe of Catholic ideology. What better way to attack it than through art? In England, 90% of religious art was destroyed. The percentages were probably similar in Germany and the Low Countries.

The Late Bus, oil on archival canvasboard, 6X8, $435.00 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Occasionally, great works are saved from iconoclasm by very brave people. The Van Eycks‘ Ghent Altarpiece, is an outstanding example of Early Netherlandish painting. It was already famous in August of 1556 when the Beeldenstorm hit Ghent. The first attack on the Cathedral was repelled by guards. On the second try, the rioters used a tree trunk to batter through the doors. But by then the panels and the guards had been hidden on a narrow spiral staircase within the tower. They were eventually moved to a new hiding spot in the town hall, but the original frame, itself a work of art, was destroyed.

To put that in context, imagine trying to stop the Taliban as they blew up the Buddhas of Bamiyam.

Art isn’t even above fickle fashion. It’s easy to date paintings because every era has its tropes. Right now, we’re in a long period where color is ascendent over detail. To the next generation, that will look as old-fashioned as leg o’ mutton sleeves look to us.

Hiking, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 includes shipping in continental US.

I told my daughter that when I die, AI should be able to reproduce me well enough to go on teaching my classes without me. “I won’t do that,” she said. “Your paintings will go up in value when you’re dead.” That is probably, true, but I’m not painting to impress people after I’m gone. Nor should you.

Our job as artists is to speak to the living. The Beeldenstorm happened because Protestants knew how powerful art is. The Nazis destroyed ‘degenerate’ art for the same reason. That’s what motivated the Taliban.

Of course, art can reach across the centuries to speak to us. Consider paleolithic cave art and its makers. We know almost nothing of their culture: we have no dishes, spears, firepits, foods, dwellings or traces of language. All we have is art: figurines, bone carvings, a few decorated tools and lots of cave paintings from all over the world. These speak to us powerfully but wordlessly. I don’t care if my own painting lasts 500 years, let alone 35,000 years, but I’m sure glad their art has.

Until the first of the year, you can use the discount code THANKYOUPAINTING10 to get 10% off these or any other painting on my website. Shipping and handling are always included within the continental US, but I’m afraid I’ll no longer be able to get them to you by Christmas.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Monday Morning Art School: feel the love

Susan Lewis Baines is an artist, gallerist, and the wrangler of a gorgeous and goofy half-grown puppy-in short, an all-around good egg. I had an idea for a Christmas exercise, but when I saw what Sue made, I asked if I could share it instead. It’s far more exciting.

Sue’s project is called a puzzle purse, and it is a craft with a long and storied pedigree. Tato (flat paper envelopes or boxes) date from Japan’s Heian era (782-1185 AD). They were used as portable storage for small items like buttons, pins and needles, or stamps.

Valentine Puzzle Purse, Anonymous artist, British or American, 1826, courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art

How they got to Europe, I don’t know, but by the early 18th century, puzzle purses were being used to exchange romantic messages in both England and America. Meanwhile, immigrants brought a distinctive calligraphy from Germany called fraktur. They applied this to puzzle purses to create highly complex love letters (liebesbrief) and envelopes.

Because I’ve never made a puzzle purse, I’m sending you to the Origami Resource Center for detailed instructions.

Love Token in Fraktur calligraphy, c. 1800, possibly made in Harrisburg, PA, courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art

A variation

A very elaborate cootie catcher, 2006, made and photographed by Paul Blais.

If you were a kid within the last century, you’re familiar with a paper fortune teller, or ‘cootie catcher,’ as it’s called in some parts of the US. This simple piece of folded paper also has deep roots; while it was first described in an 1876 German book for children, it resembles much older fortune-telling frameworks. Although it looks like Japanese origami, it’s European in origin.

In my childhood, adults had no part in making cootie catchers. Today you can find instructions for them all over the internet. Predictably, these adult-suggested fortunes are dull, like “signs point to yes,” or “doubtful.” I remember them as being far goofier, like “You’ve got cooties!”

Why not marry Sue’s idea for a holiday puzzle purse with the cootie catcher? Just replace the colors, numbers and fortunes with similar little illustrations to Sue’s. For anyone who ever used one, it would be a charming surprise, a twist on a happy childhood memory.

In case you’ve forgotten, this is how to make a cootie catcher. Courtesy Michael Philip.

What you need

Sue did her puzzle purse in colored pencil, but you could also use watercolor. Use any foldable, reasonably lightweight hot-press paper (cold press will be more difficult to fold). If you have a bamboo or bone folding tool, it would be a nice refinement, but it’s not necessary.

Enclose an ornament hook and your puzzle purse or cootie catcher will become a treasured ornament.

Aren’t you glad I didn’t go with Plan A, which was to have you draw the packages under your Christmas tree? Now, get to work. I can’t wait to see what you come up with!

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All Flesh is as Grass

All Flesh is as Grass, oil on linen, 30X40, $5072 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Of all the paintings I have hanging in my home, the one that gets the most comments is All Flesh is as Grass, above. It was part of a solo show called God + Man: Paintings by Carol L. Douglas at the Davison Gallery at Roberts Wesleyan College, and reprised at Aviva Gallery in Rochester, NY.

Harry Rogachefsky was an elderly man who lived across the street from us. He had a lovely apple tree curling over his driveway. He told us we were welcome to all the apples we wanted. They were not sprayed and thus organic, and they made great pies.

Mr. Rogachefsky’s house in happier times (2007) with his apple tree in flower.

The house was built in 1948, and the tree was planted around the same time. I thought of painting it many times, as I’m fascinated by the twisting branches of old apple trees. Alas, I never did it.

Mr. Rogachefsky eventually died at the venerable age of 95. His house sat vacant until Christmas, 2014, when a flurry of contractors descended. It had been purchased by house flippers. They yanked the mature foundation plantings and cut down that beautiful old tree.

I found its remains while walking with my dear friend Mary. Its trunk was shattered and its branches sawn into logs. Its fruit was crushed and frozen.

What Mary and I saw as we rounded the corner.

There must be a standard landscaping plan for house flippers. When they were done with Mr. Rogachefsky’s house, five little popsicle shrubs marched along the sidewalk. Luckily, I didn’t live there much longer. Although I’m now hundreds of miles away, when pie season starts, I think fondly of Mr. Rogachefsky and his apple tree.

All flesh is like grass and all its glory like the flower of grass.
The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever. (1 Peter 1:24-25)

We know that intellectually, but it’s still a shock when the chainsaw comes out.

No more pies, ever, from this tree.

A little while before the new owners moved in, I saw a boy knocking down icicles from the porch.

My next-door neighbor Aviva (may her memory be a blessing) had been seriously injured by a falling icicle a few years earlier. Icicles can weigh up to a thousand pounds and have a perilous pointy end. They’re especially lethal when they drop from any great height.

“Hey, kid, stop that!” I yelled from my stoop. “It’s dangerous!”

“Don’t worry!” he called back, and pulled off his hood to show me he was wearing a helmet underneath. It was Mary’s son Xoan, who was always prepared for any eventuality.

One knows it’s inevitable, but it’s still painful to see.

In the painting, I changed the setting to be an orchard of young trees; a chainsaw is in their unthinkably-distant future. The light is filtered and indirect; that’s the usual state of affairs along Lake Ontario in winter. There are warm lights and cool shadows, but they’re not as brilliant as in Maine. All Flesh is as Grass is a big painting, 36X48, but its delicate color structure means it’s not overwhelming. It’s in my own diminutive living room (about 14X12 feet) and looks lovely.

I recently pointed out to Naomi Aho that most painters’ paintings drop in price/square inch as they get larger. That makes a large painting like this a great deal, since it has the presence to compel as much or more than several smaller ones. Until the first of the year, you can use the discount code THANKYOUPAINTING10 to get 10% off it or any other painting on my website. And shipping and handling are always included within the continental US.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Intimations of spring

Spring Greens, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $652 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays me from the swift completion of my hike up Beech Hill (to paraphrase Herodotus and the US Postal Service). Here in Maine, we dropped into the teens last week. However, the worst hiking was through bucketing rain on Monday. I arrived home soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. My student and friend Amy Sirianni stopped by; I met her at my door in a flannel nightgown and robe because I couldn’t get warm.

What’s a poor New Englander to do when both days and nights turn bitter? My mother used to book a flight to Florida for March or April; it gave her something to look forward to. She didn’t want to come home until winter’s back was broken.

Coincidentally, I’ve ended up doing something similar. At the end of March, I’ll again be teaching in Sedona, AZ and Austin, Texas. Instead of shivering in sleet storms, I’ll be in shirtsleeves under clear blue skies. Alleluia.

Most of my workshops are on the east coast, which is my home turf. These are the only two workshops I’m teaching in the west (although I dream of reviving Pecos). Western painting is different from New England in atmosphere, color, and vista. I’m grateful for the opportunity to work in both.

Sedona is a small city of 10,000 people located within the Coconino National Forest. The town is encircled by red sandstone massifs in various stages of erosion. They glow brilliant orange and red in the rising or setting sun.

Peace, 8X16, $903 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

“This color looks exaggerated to me,” I told Julie Richard of Sedona Arts Center when I finished Peace, above.

“It’s not,” she answered, most definitely.

Much of what we paint there are long vistas and those incredible red rocks set against junipers, piñons, and prickly pear cactus. We often paint from isolated trailheads, from which we can sometimes watch vast cumulus clouds form over the buttes and mesas and just as quickly blow away.

Avenue B. Market and Deli at night. We had a riot painting nocturnes here.

Austin, on the other hand, is the tenth most populous city in the United States (and grown out of all recognition from the first time I saw it). Our painting sites are urban, including the delightful Avenue B. Grocery and Market, where we painted nocturnes and ate fabulous sandwiches last year. Then there’s McKinney Falls State Park with its huge cypresses and turquoise spill basin. That’s where we painted bluebonnets in their thousands. On that magical day, hundreds of birds flew overhead in long, winding skeins.

“Canada geese?” I asked, confused.

“Pelicans,” someone answered.

I find gift-giving challenging, especially for those people on my list who don’t want or need more stuff. I could look at all the catalogs in the world and still not find the right thing for that person who has everything.

Pensive 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $522 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

For him or her, experiences are a better bet. If you’re looking for a truly unique gift this holiday season that feels extra thoughtful, try a workshop. (And if you want a workshop for Christmas, print this out and leave it someplace subtle, like under your spouse’s coffee-cup. He or she can use the code EARLYBIRD to get $25 off any workshop except Sedona, which is already a discounted price).

Also, if you’re thinking of buying a painting as a Christmas gift (another great idea for the person who no longer needs stuff), let me know soon. I’m my own shipping and handling department and I want to be sure your painting is delivered by Christmas. Until the first of the year, you can use the discount code THANKYOUPAINTING10 to get 10% off any painting on my website.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

If you missed my North to Southwest virtual opening and have a high tolerance for listening to me drone on, you can watch it here.

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Monday Morning Art School: please learn to draw

The illustrations in this post were from Monday Morning Art School: Drawing a Globe, and done by Sandy Quang and me on a stormy night before Christmas. The original post is here.

Ten years ago I wrote about teaching Amy Vail to draw. She’d made the cardinal error of telling me she “lacked the gene to draw.” Since I know there’s no such gene, I challenged her to let me teach her, and she made great strides in just one week. Drawing is not a magic trick; it’s not a talent. It’s a technical skill no different from reading, writing or arithmetic.

Drawing is first and foremost a technical skill.

I know people who paint by tracing photos or photo-montages, but that prevents the non-linear part of the mind from getting involved. Art has always been about deeper things: reflection, aesthetics, ideas, feelings, spirituality and other forms of higher-order thinking. It makes no sense to shut out the part of your mind that processes these.

I’m writing syllabuses for my January-February classes (and I’m sorry, but they’re both sold out). This is the first time I’ve taught drawing outside the context of painting. What is important and how do I teach it?

Most complex shapes are riffs on simpler shapes.

Observation Skills

The ability to closely observe and analyze a subject develops hand-in-hand with the physical act of drawing. One can photograph a scene without paying too much attention. Drawing and painting from life is how skilled realist painters sort out what matters. The best way to really see something is to draw or paint it.

Details are almost the least-important part, although it’s amazing how much one glosses over them until one actually sits down to draw. What really matters is proportion and the relationship between elements. That comes down to distance and angles. That is why painters can get away with leaving out detail if they get the proportions and relationships right. Anyone interested in abstracting the landscape had better have top-notch drawing skills.

Even a line drawing conveys volume, but shading is that much more expressive.

Basic Shapes and Forms

Almost every complex shape is a combination of basic shapes like cones, boxes, spheres and columns. For example, the spinet piano next to me is fundamentally a tall box with another boxlike structure (the keyboard) attached to the front and supported by two columnar legs. Get the size relationships of those big shapes right, and the fluting and scrolls are almost extraneous.

In their 2D form that means circles, squares, triangles, and ellipses. That doesn’t mean, however, that you get to ignore dimensionality, which leads us to…

Perspective

Everyone should learn how 1-, 2-, and 3-point perspectives work, and then never use them again. They’re a theoretical construct that shows you how to avoid errors, but they’re not ‘true’. The vanishing points in the real world are infinitely distant, and that’s hard to achieve on paper. However, understanding perspective will save you from lots of mistakes.

The more you draw, the more fluid your painting will be.

Volume and shading

Yes, one can imply volume with line drawing alone, but shifts in value tell a broader story. They will also form the basis of painting composition.

Expressive mark-making

This is where drawing suddenly gets fun. Expressive mark-making takes time to develop, but experimenting with different line weights and styles is the first step in that exploration.

Work up from simple objects and nothing will be too difficult for you. (Drawing by me.)

So how do you start?

Drawing is the cheapest and most liberating of all media. All you need is a sketchbook (this is the one I use, and I go through them like candy), a mechanical pencil, and some kind of straight-edge.

Then start drawing every day. It’s that simple. This is the text I recommend to those who like learning from books, but you can also find a lot of free instruction on this blog.

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Silly, sweet Christmas

Santa Claus, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Usually, I write about one painting on Friday, but this week I’m stretching my rule. Here are four small still-lives with a common theme.

I’m indifferent to the aesthetics of Christmas, but I do love seeing my decorations come out each year and remembering the people who made them or gave them to me.

Santa Claus was a gift from my dear friend Judie. She’d gotten him from a German exchange student, and he has a luxurious platinum blonde beard, which was jarring to her sensibilities.

“He’s a very old man,” I told her. After all, Father Christmas was born in the 16th century. “Unlike my grandmother, he never knew about blue rinses for white hair.”

Judie wasn’t convinced, which is how he came to live with me.

I was raised by forward-thinking parents who didn’t believe in Santa. He may not be ‘real’ in the way literal-thinkers put it, but he’s a symbol for generosity, love, and kindness. We can always use more of that.

Burlap Angel, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, private collection.

The second painting is long gone from my inventory. It’s a burlap-covered, plastic-headed, cardboard angel that I made in 4H about 55 years ago. My pals Diane, Beth and Sue have similar ones in different colors. My mother gave me an exquisite porcelain-and-satin angel to replace her; I promptly gave that to my oldest daughter and kept my happy, handmade angel for my tree. She’s worn in places, but so am I.

Toy Reindeer with double rainbow, oil on archival canvasboard, 6X8, $435 framed, includes shipping in continental US.

The black velour and pink boa reindeer buck has pride of place in my creche set year after year. This was a gift from my sister-in-law Kathy. As different as we are in almost every way, we both love that deer.

In recent years, he’s been joined by a glittery red doe with a white boa. And this year, I bought a sparkling coral fawn for a gift exchange. “Would it be wrong for me to take home the same ornament I brought?” I asked my daughter Mary.

“No, but there might be something even better,” she said. That’s hard to imagine.

When I painted Papa deer (or Papa Dear), I decided he’d be happiest out-of-doors, so I put him by the birch tree in my front yard. I gave him a double rainbow because that’s the kind of fella he is.

Toy Monkey and Candy, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

The toy monkey belonged to my friend Marilyn’s son. My kids had a similar one. It was passed from oldest to youngest, and I thought for a while that it was lost. But, no, it lives in the toy-clutter under our front stairs, and my grandkids dig it out when they visit.

Painting these was pure happiness, for they blurred the lines between fantasy and reality. That’s just how kids see Christmas. If you feel that joy and want one of these paintings, use the code THANKYOUPAINTING10 to get 10% off your order. And don’t worry about it being something you can only bring out at Christmas. The angel painting lives 365 days a year on a wall in its forever home.

(By the way, my holiday discount codes are all at the end of this post. They come to you via my daughter Laura. This week she figured out how to make drop-down menus that give a choice to pay a deposit or full fee for a workshop. It’s particularly slick on Sea & Sky at Schoodic, where the buying options are complicated. I’ve been having so much fun toggling the options that I’ll probably accidentally buy one of my own workshops.)

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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How did I do at my first virtual opening?

Marshes along the Ottawa River, Plaisance, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $522 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Last Friday I did my first virtual art opening. Later, I was talking to a clothing designer friend about whether that would work for her. After all, clothing was one of the first things we started buying online.

“I’ve always been wary of returns,” she said. “Clothing is such a particular and personal thing.”

She’s right, of course. We are used to buying on what my friend Gwendolyn called the ‘American Plan,’ or taking it all home and returning what we don’t like. That’s built into the cost of doing business for large corporations, but could easily undo a small couturier.

No Northern Lights Tonight, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $348 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

At one time, we didn’t like making significant purchases online, but today people buy $3000 handbags without ever seeing them in person. In 2021, we saw a surge of people buying homes remotely, sight unseen. Roughly half of car buyers buy online; moreover, online buyers tend to be more satisfied with the transactions than those who go to a dealership and haggle. COVID accelerated the trend away from bricks-and-mortar shopping and it doesn’t seem like there’s any going back.

For the artist, there are specific difficulties. Paintings are tricky to photograph. Images look different on different screens. While Toyota has unlimited resources to tweak their digital imaging, artists don’t.

Pensive, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $522 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Openings are events, not just an opportunity to buy paintings. Going to a gallery on a dark winter evening, drinking a glass of wine, eating stale crackers and chatting with your friends is an experience I can’t replicate on the small screen. We tried to work around that by having me speak about individual paintings and answer questions. We sent out suggested wine pairings as well as a mocktail recipe. Most of the participants said they’d like to do it again, so I’ve tentatively penciled in another for January 19.

One of the advantages of a virtual art opening is the ability to reach a global audience. We had people from around the US and Canada represented. However, I can’t figure out how to include my British collectors. 6 PM in Maine is 11 PM in London, and that seems like an unbridgeable gap.

Many galleries and studios are not handicapped-accessible. Online openings seem perfect for people with mobility issues. As we enter flu season and continue to trudge wearily along with COVID, that’s also true for those with compromised immune systems.

Cypresses and Shadows, 11X14, $869 includes shipping and handling.

Laura created a virtual gallery where people could peruse the paintings at their leisure. How could I make this gallery more accessible, effective or easier to navigate? (While you’re pondering that, remember that you can have 10% off a painting with the discount code THANKYOUPAINTING10. Or if you buy two or more, I’ll frame them for you at no charge. That’s good until the end of the year.)

The hard part of looking at paintings online is not understanding their scale in relation to your own space. I don’t think I’m capable of creating virtual reality or interactive 3D models, but I am looking into visualizer apps.

A big believer in the hive, I invite your ideas and/or comments about how the virtual opening experience can be improved. You can either leave me a comment below or email me here.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Monday Morning Art School: why you should draw

I draw every week in church, riffing off the sermon. Today’s was about persistence and hard work.

Nobody can master painting until they master drawing. That’s true for both abstractionists and realists, because drawing is how you express depth and dynamism. Painting is really nothing more than drawing with a brush. To build facility in paint, you first must draw.

Tens of thousands of years before there was written language, there was art on cave walls and cliffs. When words started being written down (around 3000 BC) they were first written in the form of pictographs. That tells us something about the importance of drawing to humankind.

I can draw things out of my head because I know how to draw from life.

Drawing is liberating

Drawing allows us to express ideas, emotions, and narratives non-verbally. For painters seeking to escape being literal, that’s critical. I can’t think of a single great painter who couldn’t draw. Vincent van Gogh famously taught himself, and his early drawings are bad enough that they should give us all hope that we too can do better. “Drawing is the root of everything, and the time spent on that is actually all profit,” he wrote.

It’s not just about putting pretty things down on paper. Drawing tightens up our observational skill. We develop a keen eye for details, shapes, proportions, and visual relationships. That helps us analyze and map both the world around us and our inner world.

All I need is a sketchbook and a #2 mechanical pencil. Anything else is just a refinement.

Much of drawing is about translating a three-dimensional reality onto a two-dimensional surface. That teaches us about structure and spatial relationships. If you don’t see the value in representing depth and space in a painting, take a deep dive into the work of Edgar Degas.

A lot of us stopped working on hand-eye coordination when we mastered cursive writing. Then we let it go when we started relying on computers, which is why so many of us have terrible handwriting. We need that hand-eye coordination for painting, and we develop it through drawing.

This is partly from my imagination, but the window is high up in our church building.

A study showed that drawing helps memory in young and old alike. Researchers speculated that it was because drawing draws on varied brain paths simultaneously. I think it’s because in drawing we must attend much more intensely. That reaps benefits not just in art but in life overall.

There is a gap between what we draw or paint and what is ‘really’ there. We like to think of that gap as a shortcoming, and to some degree it is. But it’s in that gap that we develop style, and where we do a lot of non-verbal creative thinking. Tracing from photographs will never allow for the soul to creep in like drawing does.

This was drawn when I had to sit in the foyer because there were no seats. I amused myself by imagining what was going on inside.

So why don’t we do it? The sad answer for many of us is that we’ve never been taught, so we’re frustrated and afraid to try again. We don’t grant ourselves the grace and patience to persist.

I’ve butted my head against this since I started teaching. Drawing and painting are closely related but I can only teach one at a time. That’s why I’m breaking a promise to myself to not work six days a week and offering a Saturday class on Fundamentals of Drawing, starting January 6. By Ash Wednesday, you’ll be well on your way to good draftsmanship. That in turn will lead to better painting.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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No roadmaps

Athabasca Glacier, 14X18, oil on linen, $1275 includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

I’ve spent a lot of time this year working on projects without roadmaps. Such is the case with today’s Virtual First Friday. Not only have I never done one of these, I’ve never attended one. (You can preview the paintings here.)

My daughter Mary (the soapmaker) is riding shotgun for this. That’s a funny coincidence, since she is the kid who crossed Alaska and Canada with me. We didn’t follow a map then, either. She and her younger brother love geology; when she was feeling well, she spouted Rock Facts on the dating app Tinder, to the frustration of many young Canadian men. They didn’t understand that to some of us, geology is sexy.

The Whole Enchilada, 12X16, oil on archival canvas. The red-roofed building is Hosteria el Pilar. I just realized none of my Patagonian paintings are on my website; I’ll get right on that.

Mary tells me that the American Cordillera is that chain of mountain ranges that forms the ‘backbone’ of the Americas (and also the volcanic arc that’s our half of the Pacific Ring of Fire). It runs from Alaska’s Brooks Range, through Central America, along the Andes, and all the way to the very tip of Antarctica.

I’ve painted at both ends, in Alaska and Canada, and in Patagonia. While preparing for North to Southwest: A Plein Air Perspective, we considered the relationship between those trips. In one way, they were both defined by illness. Mary spiked a fever as we reached the Arctic Circle. It was mononucleosis, and she didn’t start to recover until we were in Quebec.

Athabasca River Confluence, 9X12, $696 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Our trip to Patagonia started the day of the world’s lockdown for COVID. Instead of hiking and painting in Argentina’s Parque Nacional Los Glaciares before heading out to Ushuaia, we were penned into smaller and smaller places, until we ended up in a hotel with an armed soldier at the door. Somehow, we all managed to get giardiasis. I don’t recommend it.

At six to ten million years old, the Andes are just babies; the mountains of Alaska and Northern Canada predate them by fifty million years, but both ranges are wild and fantastic.

Los Glaciares is located within the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, and I was able to paint the edges of several glaciers from the hostel grounds before we were sent to our rooms. On our trip across Canada, we brushed past the Kluane/Wrangell-St. Elias/Glacier Bay/Tatshenshini-Alsek Ice Field (that’s a mouthful) and stopped to visit the Columbia Ice Field, where I failed to paint the Athabasca Glacier. Conditions were just too miserable, so I did it later, in my studio.

Mary and I have had a great time reminiscing about our drive. Despite our fantastic adventures, it’s the people who stand out: Heidie and Jerry Godfrey, who let us couch surf in Eagle River, AK; Gabriel-from-Quebec on Tinder, who told us about the feudal ÃŽle d’Orléans; Gordon Kish, the last resident of a Saskatchewan ghost town; and Kyle-from-Newfoundland, who told us the best place to get fish and chips in St. John’s.

Me in Patagonia, before I was sent to my room with a fever. The common element of both trips was the cold. (Photo courtesy Douglas Perot)

Then there were Cristina and Guillermo, the innkeepers at Hosteria el Pilar outside of El Chaltén. When it was clear that they would be stuck with us, they extended their season and stayed with us in the Andes, where it was starting to snow. They had to scrape together meals for us and get us enough gasoline to make a break to Río Gallegos. And Jane Chapin. When the airline’s computer system crashed and threatened to strand us, she stood in the gate, not moving, until Doug and I were ticketed. Have I mentioned that I don’t speak any Spanish?

Mary and I are already scheming about another Great Adventure. Hopefully we’ll encounter new geology, new friends and no new illnesses. It’s not too late to attend tonight’s virtual opening of North to Southwest: A Plein Air Perspective. And if you’re interested in a Great Adventure of your own where you’ll meet awesome people and do beautiful paintings, registration is currently open for my 2024 workshops. (Use the code EARLYBIRD to get $25 off any workshop except Sedona.)

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025: