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Author: Carol L. Douglas

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Monday Morning Art School: which painting should I choose?

Sea Street, 24X30, oil on canvas, private collection.

I started writing this in the shade at the Camden Public Library, in the short interstice between delivering paintings and the start of this year’s Camden on Canvas auction. By the time you read this it will be all over but the shouting, but at this moment I don’t know whether I made the right choice.

My two paintings are both indirect views of Camden Harbor. On Friday, I rowed out to Curtis Island, intending to paint Colin Page’s dinghy, but I was sidetracked by kids playing in the surf. On Saturday, I painted on Sea Street from the bed of my pickup truck. Only one painting is allowed in this auction. Although I was inclined to choose Sea Street, I brought both paintings to the amphitheater so I could pother until the last possible minute.

Björn Runquist simplified matters by doing only one piece in the 2.5 days we had to paint. Ken DeWaard made it extremely difficult on himself by painting four. Two or three is more typical, and then the artist has to narrow it down to one.

Throwing rocks, 24X30, $2782 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

This weekend I introduced Ken to the word dithering, about which I wrote on Friday. “So, it’s just like complaining, right?” he countered. No, it’s when the general confusion in your mind starts bubbling out your mouth, I said. In fact, it means to vacillate indecisively. And it’s so easy to do when you choose a painting for an auction, online jurying, or any other situation where the stakes are high.

There is a difference in how artists and non-artists see paintings

Artists make judgments about color, composition and draftsmanship (and we all have our own hobby-horses). We don’t necessarily care as much about subject as our buyers do. For collectors, sentiment, color and the painting’s place in their home are real considerations.

Why don’t you just ask a lot of non-painters then?

It’s tempting to start polling people, and they can give you insights into your work. However, the more people you ask, the less consensus you’ll have. And whatever the last person said, is what will stick in your mind. That’s no way to decide.

Painting from the back of my pickup truck on Sea Street. Sometimes I just have too much fun. (Photo courtesy Camden Public Library)

The one on which you worked the hardest isn’t always the best

I’m always enamored of the tough ones, because I have the greatest investment of time, thought and emotion in them. But these, paradoxically, can move the audience the least. And it’s simply not true that the ones you whip off are worth less; they’re the sum of all the work in every painting that’s gone before.

We’re not always the best judges of our own work

I can analyze my own work using formal criticism, but that doesn’t take into account the audience’s emotional response to my work, or my own emotional blind spots.

There is no right answer

In the end, neither of my paintings were ‘bad.’ I can speculate on what the other painting might have netted at auction, but nobody ever really knows. The auction is now over; I was satisfied with the price my painting netted, and I’ll put the other one in my own gallery as soon as I get a frame on it.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Daylilies and lace-cap hydrangea

Daylilies and lace-cap hydrangea, 11X14, $869 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

When Colin Page asked me if I’d paint for the 76th annual Camden Garden Tour, I said, “sure, why not?” Don’t ever tell him I said this, but Colin is such a nice guy that he makes one want to do nice things too.

I’m not a painter of gardens. They’re one of the few landscape subjects I avoid. The painter can’t generally improve on what the skilled gardener hath wrought. Great gardens (as Merryspring Nature Center’s are) are beautiful, but they’re also neat. My natural inclination in landscape paintings is toward the scruffy, like me.

The contrast between the intense color in the foreground and the airy lightness of the great daylily bed at Merryspring appealed to me, even as I realized it would be a compositional bear and equally difficult to paint.

“Never proceed to paint until you have a drawing you love,” I tell my students. My problem was, I kept jabbering with passers-by. It’s a small town and I’m blessed with many wonderful friends. I didn’t finish my sketch until noon. Since I had to leave at 3 PM to get ready for the Camden Art Walk, it was time to fish or cut bait.

The featured artist for this year’s Garden Tour is Cassie Sano, who has studied landscape painting with me on and off for several years now. My students are passing me left and right in their Cadillacs.

This canvas is certainly not overworked, since I finished it at warp speed. It was a good warm up for Camden on Canvas, which starts this morning.

I wonder where I could find some musicians to play for the Camden Art Walk?

As we do every year, Björn Runquist, Ken DeWaard, Eric Jacobsen and I started a last-minute text string debating where we should paint. Dithering is an important part of the plein air landscape painting process; after all, there might be something brilliant right around the corner.

But here in Camden there’s not a single intersection or overlook that wouldn’t make the bones of a good painting. I know what I’m doing, and I suspect the Three Musketeers do too. The good lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I’m rowing out to Curtis Island on Friday and painting on Sea Street on Saturday. But double-check at the information kiosk on Atlantic Avenue just to make sure.

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Things that are real

American Eagle, painted from the deck during one of my schooner watercolor workshops.

For a certified geriatric, I’m pretty good at the internet, but it is demanding. There’s a constant encroachment of synthetic experience, in the form of AI and enhanced photographs. There are scammers. Moreover, I feel obliged to read the news, which has become yet another virtual experience. Meanwhile, the sun is shining and the soft ocean breezes are blowing, but too many of us are in our air-conditioned rooms experiencing life vicariously.

I see a steady shrinking of real, physical, authentic experiences. Sometimes I worry that reality is downright endangered.

A painting student from an Adirondack workshop, with her perspective drawing carefully at hand. She’s coming to my Schoodic workshop next month.

Some of the things you can’t get from AI

Paintings They’re tangible, tactile, dimensional, handmade objects, which is why they don’t lend themselves to being made into NFTs.

Nature. My photos have been viewed on Google more than 66,000 times. I think 90% of them were taken on Beech Hill. As many pictures as I take, I know my plein air workshop students experience it in a way no photo can recreate. It is never the same two days running.

The ocean. Penobscot Bay is a constantly-changing sensory delight, with cool breezes, the tang of saltwater, and a smattering of offshore islands that sparkle in the sun. Even the best photo can only capture the visual, and then incompletely. Those other sensations are not reproducible.

You can see the beauty in this photo, but you can’t experience the moment except by being there.

This boat, which has been sailing the Gulf of Maine for close to a century. It’s ecotourism at its best, and you don’t experience the ocean as fully in any other vessel. For one thing, it’s quiet.

Little villages. Yes, Maine villages are photogenic, but they’re also communities. Painting them from a picture is one thing; painting them in real life means you learn about the place. For example, on Thursday, Jeanne-Marie and I learned who owned that magnificent yellow house she was painting and the likelihood it would go on the market. We also learned who’s doing what at the Camden Garden Club Tour tomorrow. Then she walked downtown and got coffee at Zoot, which is almost next door to where my paintings are hanging at Lone Pine Realty. You feel the difference in a small town.

Students in my watercolor workshop aboard schooner American Eagle.

Real time. That’s sometimes fast, and sometimes slow, but it’s dictated by reality, not video. Plein air painting can challenge you to work quickly and decisively or it can allow you to relax into the place. It’s simply less structured than virtual reality.

A sense of place. Every time I say goodbye to a plein air workshop group, I find myself telling them to move to midcoast Maine. We’ve developed deep relationships in the week we’ve painted together, and I want them all to be my neighbors.

Myriad viewpoints. There’s never just one view; there are multiple compositions at almost every place. That and the constantly-changing light are inspiring in a way that AI or photographs can never be. They force you to think in a way that copying a photo never can.

We were painting at Owl’s Head and suddenly the fog dropped and everything in the world changed.

Know what’s real? Plein air workshops.

I love teaching on Zoom for many reasons, but the most important is that my Zoom students make very fast progress. However, I also need to teach plein air workshops too; that’s a soul call, not a financial one.

Even though I have very close friendships in cyberspace, the human connection in a workshop is different. I saw Sharon of right-angle fame yesterday. We had a brief, warm and charming conversation that made me smile all day.

A note: I have a few openings for Sea & Sky at Acadia National Park, but if you want to take that workshop and stay at the Schoodic Institute, the drop-dead deadline is this coming Monday. I have a little more flexibility for commuters, but I don’t know how likely it is that you’ll find a rental this late in the season.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Keeping my cool

Bonnie watercoloring on Pearl Street in Camden.

I’ve been teaching a plein air workshop this week, and the air is unusually hot and heavy for Maine. Being a lifelong resident of the northeast, I don’t like heat and humidity. In addition, I promised my students from Virginia that it would be cool here, and Mother Nature made a liar out of me. (To be fair, it’s still cooler than Virginia.)

Years ago, my friend S— moved to Maine from California with the assistance of her mother. She loved her new house until the first really hot day. She flipped the switch on her thermostat to ‘cool’ and waited. And waited. “Mom,” she wailed, “the air conditioning is broken!”

Beth and Libby painting on Beauchamp Point.

“Welcome to the real world,” her mom said. “You don’t have air conditioning.” My California born-and-bred friend had no idea that there were houses in America without it.

Yves painting a house in Camden.

Our old New England farmhouse doesn’t have it, and I generally don’t care. It’s insulated, which helps a lot. We use fans, we cross ventilate, and shower in cool water. That works great for in the house. But outdoors is a different story.

Outdoors, hydration is key, but I couldn’t keep ahead of it this week, as hard as I tried.

Jeanne-Marie achieving perfect balance on a rock.

Student show, Friday July 12, from 5-7 PM

Today will be warm but breezy, so it should be perfect weather to come by my gallery for a show of my students’ work from this week.

We are located at 394 Commercial Street, Rockport. If you’ve ever wondered what kind of  painting gets done in a workshop, this is an excellent opportunity to find out.

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What to wear to an art show

Prom Shoes 1, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435.

I own one skirt and one dress, but I must combine painting and public events over the next ten days. I Googled what to wear to an art show to give myself ideas. The consensus was:

Men should wear a blazer or sport coat, dress shirt, nice trousers or dark jeans, and polished shoes. For contemporary work, they should wear trendy shirts, slim-fit pants or jeans, and stylish sneakers or shoes.

Women should wear a chic dress, skirt or stylish pantsuit, paired with heels or fashionable flats. For contemporary work, they should wear fashion-forward dresses or outfits, statement accessories, and stylish shoes. I don’t own any stylish shoes.

Libby and Sharon discussing the Neolithic stone circle at Beech Hill (okay, I made that up).

This all reminds me of Chelsea back in the day. My goddaughter and I had gone to Brad Marshall’s and Cornelia Foss’ openings, and were catching our breath on the street. We started to count how many people were wearing those heavy black plastic glasses that were then so cutting-edge. We stopped at a hundred. These people were deeply concerned with what to wear to an art show. Being seen is some people’s raison d’etre.

In Maine, people are not such slaves to fashion. This is a state where we have flannel and Sunday-go-to-meetin’ flannel. At any rate, I don’t care what you wear, just mark these three dates on your calendar, and come out and support us.

I am very grateful to Coastal Mountain Land Trust for being so welcoming to my students.

Friday, July 12, 2024: Painting in Paradise student show, 5-7 PM

I’m teaching my first of this season’s workshops this week. Since my gallerage (my own coinage, and I like it) is now open, I will be showing their work on Friday evening from 5-7 PM.

The gallerage is located at 394 Commercial Street, Rockport, and we’d love to see you.

This group is keeping me alert, as they’re all very able. I go home every afternoon wondering how I’ll organize the next day’s material to keep them interested. (I never want anyone to go home feeling bored, or worse, ignored.)

If you’ve ever wondered what kind of painting gets done in a workshop, this is an excellent opportunity to find out.

Frequent hydration breaks are a must.

July 18, 2024: Camden Art Walk

Galleries and shops are open all through town. I’ll be at Lone Pine Realty, 19 Elm Street (next to Zoot Coffee). Last month’s Art Walk was rained out, and I went home with cookies, wine, and lemonade, none of which are on my diet. This month, don’t make me drink alone!

Tired painters heading down the hill.

July 19-21, 2024: Camden on Canvas

“Twenty-one notable New England landscape artists will paint en plein air.” I like repeating that, because I am one of those painters. We’ll be at sites in Camden and Rockport from Friday morning, July 19, to noon on Sunday, July 21. I haven’t decided exactly where I’ll paint, but I’ve narrowed it down to either Curtis Island (bring your dinghy) or Fernald’s Neck, unless I change my mind. You can find out exactly where I and the other artists are by visiting the Camden on Canvas Information Tent outside the library’s Atlantic Avenue entrance. Or check my Facebook or Instagram feeds.

The wet paintings exhibit will be open to the public at the historic Camden Amphitheatre, Sunday, July 21, from 1-3 PM. After that, there’s a reception and live auction from 4-6 PM. Tickets can be purchased online for $75 each or by calling 207-236-3440. Proceeds are shared equally between the Library’s Campaign for the Future and the artists.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Monday Morning Art School: what is a fine art print?

Early Spring on Beech Hill, oil on canvasboard, Carol L. Douglas, 12X16, $1449 framed includes shipping in continental US.

This past weekend, I sat down with a pencil and a template and signed and numbered 75 prints of Early Spring on Beech Hill for Coastal Mountains Land Trust. I’m happy to do this little thing; I’m on their properties almost daily. If I’m not up Beech Hill, I’m on Ragged or Bald Mountains. If you look at a list of their preserves, you realize how much they shape everyday life here in midcoast Maine.

Back in the day, I sold a lot of prints. They are a great way for people of modest means to start collecting art, and they can introduce young people to your work.

Signing work with a template. If you think you can’t misspell your own name, try writing it over and over again.

What is a fine art print?

A fine art print is a high-quality reproduction of an original artwork. There’s overlap between fine art prints and the art of printmaking. For example, until the turn of the last century, etching was both an artform and a way to reproduce other artwork for publication.

The gap between fine art prints and what you can get from your ink-jet printer has narrowed. Even the cheapest art book published in this century has better illustrations than an old Janson’s History of Art, which was once the preferred text for art history classes.

The goal being to handle the paper as little as possible, I used a paint stirrer to push the pieces in place inside their acrylic sleeve.

Fine art prints are made with an eye to durability, color accuracy, and aesthetic integrity. They are often produced in limited editions and signed and numbered by the artist. The main printing methods for fine art prints include:

  • GiclĂ©e Printing: This is the most common method of making small-run art prints. GiclĂ©e printers have higher resolution than standard inkjet printers, and use a 12-color printing system instead of the standard 4-color CMYK system. They use high-quality inks that can last a lifetime, and the prints are resistant to damage from smudging, sun, and humidity.
  • Commercial Lithography: That’s the traditional printing process used in bookmaking and periodicals, and is done on an offset press. It’s suitable for mass runs, so if you were to buy a print of, say, Constable’s The Hay Wain from the National Gallery it would be made in this manner.
  • Screen printing, where ink is pushed through a mesh screen onto paper or canvas. This is how you’d reproduce your paintings on textiles, pens, coffee mugs, or huge signs, if you were so inclined.
Seventy-five prints signed and ready to rumble.

Limited edition prints

Collectors often seek out limited edition prints due to their rarity and because they might appreciate in value. There is no difference in quality between the limited edition print and its open-run cousin; the value rests in the artist’s signature. For example, I can never make another limited-edition run of Early Spring on Beech Hill, because I’ve already done a set run of 75 copies.

The quality question

My color laser printer does a fine job of printing, and with the proper paper its output would be highly durable, but I wouldn’t use it for high-end prints; it’s too small and there are visible differences in quality. There are many sources online for archival-quality giclĂ©e prints at a reasonable price.

Most of the quality of your print rests in the photography, not the printing. In the past, I’ve had my paintings shot by a service, but I now have a high-end camera. If you go that route, however, you need to understand color correction, compression, and other issues that affect output.

Should you sell prints?

That’s a question only you can answer. Prints can increase your market reach and give you a more consistent revenue stream. If your print becomes popular, it can generate revenue over time.

However, there’s still the initial investment of time and money to consider. And you never get away from marketing. Prints are an already-saturated market, although a much larger one than the market for original paintings.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Our Banner in the Sky

Our Banner in the Sky, 1861, Frederic Church, private collection

Normally on Fridays I introduce readers to one of my own paintings, but all day yesterday I was thinking of Frederic Church’s Our Banner in the Sky. It’s tiny compared to much of Church’s work: just 7.5X11 inches and done on paper. This is the same painter whose show-stopping The Heart of the Andes is a whopping 5.5X10 feet. Our Banner in the Sky is from the heart, and The Heart of the Andes was for the pocketbook. Both are wonderful, but they’re very different.

Church painted Our Banner in the Sky just weeks after the fall of Fort Sumter in 1861. The nation was electrified by the story of our flag being removed by rebel forces. At the time, nobody had any idea how the Civil War would play out.

Church was inspired by a sunset that glowed red, white, and blue. He took that as a sign that “the heavens indicated their support for the United States by reflecting the nation’s colors in the setting sun.” Whether or not you share his theology, it certainly points to a faith in the enduring nature of our country. That’s why I think it’s such an important painting for today.

Although I’m a lifelong reader of news, even I feel overwhelmed by politics these days—in Britain, which had a government-changing national election yesterday; in France, where Marine Le Pen’s National Rally has upended the status quo; and of course here, where last Thursday’s presidential debate suddenly shifted everything.

In my travels in England in May, strangers talked to me about their fears for American democracy. These are sentiments I’ve heard here as well.

In two years, we’ll be celebrating our national semiquincentennial. (That amazes me, since I vividly remember our bicentennial in 1976.) In the 248 years since our founding, we’ve suffered small rebellions, a full-blown Civil War, multiple economic depressions, two world wars, and 9/11. None of these were pleasant, but our nation endured. Our social compact is stronger than we credit. As long as we continue to love our fellow citizens, that will continue.

Frederic Church did not know the flag would be returned to Fort Sumter a week after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox; his painting was an act of faith. I pray we continue in that.

The Veteran in a New Field, 1865, Winslow Homer, courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art

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Monday Morning Art School: how to learn painting (from the very beginning)

Heavy Weather (Ketch Angelique), 24X36, oil on canvas, framed, $3985 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

“I’ve done a lot of drawing in pencil and charcoal, and anime and computer art, but I don’t know how to paint,” a young man told me. He wanted to know how to learn painting starting from the very beginning.

I checked his drawing portfolio (because if you can’t draw, you can’t paint) and he has good chops, including work from real life. He is ready to start working in color. But since he can’t break free to take one of my workshops this summer, what can he do?

Skylarking II, 18×24, oil on linen, $1855, includes shipping in the continental US.

First, I signed him up for Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters, my self-directed how-to-paint class. I’d rather people took the first section before they ever bought a single tube of paint, because Step 1: the Perfect Palette, explains in detail why I recommend paired primaries to my students. Then I gave him a mini-kit of QoR watercolors in quinacridone magenta, nickel azo yellow and ultramarine blue, a Pentel water brush, two bound Strathmore watercolor pads, a soft flannel rag and a small bottle to hold water. Even though he’s interested in oils, that is a cost-effective first introduction to color. (And, no, I can’t afford to send you all starter kits; he just caught me on a good day.)

But here’s a step-by-step guide on how to learn painting for the absolute beginner:

Gather Supplies

If you’re unsure whether you want to pursue painting, go with the kit I outlined above. If you know you want to paint, here are my supply lists for oils, watercolors, pastels and acrylics. These are based not only on my own usage, but on decades of students’ comments.

Breaking Storm, oil on linen, 30X48, $5579 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Learn the basics

You’ll need to understand color theory, how to mix colors, basic brush techniques and fundamental rules of composition. In addition, you need to understand the basic steps from drawing to value study to final painting. You can get that from my classes and workshops, or from the self-directed Seven Protocols, above. If you prefer to read, I recommend Kevin MacPherson’s Landscape Painting Inside and Out for oils and Gordon MacKenzie’s The Complete Watercolorist’s Essential Notebook for Watercolors. However, there are many good books out there. (And I’d love your recommendations in the comments if you have favorites. I’m not that ‘booky.’)

Find a group of fellow enthusiasts and practice regularly.

“Iron sharpens iron,” and you’ll learn from your fellows at least as much as you do from your teacher. Investigate plein air groups, figure painting groups and urban sketchers for opportunities to paint from life. Plein air painting with a group isn’t just about becoming a better painter; it changes how you see your home turf. I’ve learned about many great parks, museums and gardens from my fellow painters.

Study art

Read about art history and visit galleries and museums. There are many ways to put down paint, and art history gives you a capsule lesson in all of them. You will also start to understand why modern artists paint the way we do, and where you fit in on the great continuum of art.

Sunset sail, 14X18, oil on linen, $1594 framed includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

Seek intelligent feedback

I’m a little nervous about social media groups or local art clubs for critiques, because some feedback is worse than none. Sometimes people repeat untrue cliches about painting. Others have axes to grind.

However, there are some very smart people out there, and they’re worth cultivating. My best feedback comes from my students (who aren’t afraid to tell me when I go off the rails) and my family. And I apply the same rules of formal criticism to my own work that I teach.

Speaking of my students, this is Rachel Houlihan from Camden:

Keep plugging

Learning to paint takes time and practice. Don’t be discouraged by initial challenges. If you focus on the product, you’ll never be satisfied, but the process of learning is sublime.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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How to paint a lighthouse

Marshall Point, oil on archival canvasboard, 9X12, $696, includes shipping and handling in continental US.

If you paint at the Marshall Point Light, someone is bound to ask, “Did you know this lighthouse was in the movie Forrest Gump?” It’s a lovely lighthouse and deserves its status as an American icon. I’ve painted it and its approaches many times. There is nothing wrong with painting lighthouses (despite what art snobs say). However, that doesn’t mean you have to be obvious about it. Spend enough time with any lighthouse and you start seeing other things that interest you—the ubiquitous brick oil house, or the porch, or the surf spraying onto the rocky headlands.

Marshall Point Light stands on a bedrock outcropping that can be completely awash depending on the weather and the tide. It’s connected to the land and the keeper’s house by a long wooden walkway. Visitors usually walk out to the white brick tower, stop at the steel door, and turn around and walk back. There’s really nothing to see out there—unless you lean over the railing and examine the bedrock.

A basalt dike.

Most of what is exposed is metamorphic rock that has been highly deformed by geologic pressures. Interlayered quartzite and gray mica schist are wildly contorted. Dikes of younger black basalt crosscut this metamorphic rock. Even though I don’t want to paint those formations in detail, I’m still fascinated by them every time I’m in Port Clyde.

On this day, Poppy Balser was visiting. We didn’t have a lot of time before the tide turned, so we set out to do quick sketches. I’m happy that I focused on the rocks.

How to paint a lighthouse

If I were visiting Maine I’d want to paint a lighthouse. They’re iconic, beautiful, and historic. As with any new subject, I’d start with a view of the scene in its entirety. Some lighthouses, like Pemaquid Point, or the Portland Head Light, have keepers’ houses attached. These create a very pretty roofline rhythm. Others, like Owls Head or Marshall Point, have separated keepers’ houses. After I did one overall scenic painting, I’d start looking for details that interest me.

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In the age of AI, lean into wabi-sabi art

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

“I want AI to do my laundry and dishes, so I can do art and writing, not for AI to do my art and writing so I can do laundry and dishes,” wrote Joanna Maciejewska, in what is probably the most apt comment of our times. I’m inundated with AI images. Their funny imperfections are offset by internal biases that are downright scary, especially when casual observers can’t tell them from reality.

Deadwood, oil on linen, 30X40, $5072.00 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Wabi-sabi art says that the maker is human

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese aesthetic that embraces the imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. It is trending right now in interior design and in the preciousness of Meghan Markle’s American Orchard Riviera, but there’s a legitimate heart call there. If you’ve ever attended a wedding in a barn or had a drink in a Mason jar, you’ve lived wabi-sabi art, American-style.

Wabi-sabi occupies the same position in the Japanese aesthetic as the Greek ideals of beauty and perfection have occupied in western art for more than 2000 years. It’s the perfect antidote to the increasingly slick imitation of reality that AI represents.

The Logging Truck, oil on archival canvasboard, 16X20, $2029.00 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Most of us, if we think about wabi-sabi art at all, think of it in terms of kintsugi, or the art of repairing broken things that makes them better than they were when perfect. That’s cool, but it’s only one aspect of wabi-sabi. How can thinking about the imperfect, impermanent and incomplete improve our art?

Nothing lasts

I’ve written about how art is not eternal. If it’s not destroyed in a spasm of iconoclasm, it is left to rot or simply forgotten. The Greeks were arguably the greatest sculptors of the human form, and yet fewer than 30 substantially intact, large-scale bronze statues survive from classical and Hellenistic Greece. In fact, most of all artwork ever made no longer survives.

That’s a real bummer if you’re painting in the hope that your fame will outlive you, but that goal is a trap. It stops us from focusing on communicating with our fellow men in the here-and-now. “Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift,” as they say.

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

Nothing is finished

“How do I tell if my painting is finished?” is one of the most common questions I’m asked.

Art history is replete with examples of paintings that never seemed to get done. Leonardo da Vinci picked away at his Mona Lisa for sixteen years; he only quit working on it when his hand became paralyzed. That is less painting than obsession.

‘Finished’ presumes that all the questions are answered. That sounds boring to me, but luckily I can’t say I’ve ever gotten there. I just get sick of working on things.

Nothing is perfect

The more technology gives us perfection, the more we embrace imperfection.

This is hardly my idea; it’s been the general thrust of painting since the advent of photography. Photography explains tangible reality faster and better than paintings do. What we do far better than AI and photography is reveal the hand (and therefore the psyche) of the maker.

Is this an excuse for half-hearted work?

Of course not! You still are being held to high standards; you’re just not required to be perfect. And as we all know, perfect is the enemy of good, which is why I’m ending this essay on a clichĂ©.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025: