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Author: Carol L. Douglas

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What do you think plein air painting is?

Midsummer, 24X36, oil on canvas, $3,188 includes shipping and handling in continental US. This painting was completed on site over several days.

“Do you have a good source for the definition of plein air painting?” a reader asked. “Can the painting be finished in the studio? Can it span a couple days in execution?”

More useless pontification has been done on this subject than almost any other. I’ll start by pointing Tim to this essay by John Morra examining the nature of plein air painting. It stands alone, but let me add a few of my own thoughts.

Main Street, Owl’s Head, oil on archival canvasboard, $1623 includes shipping and handling in continental US. This was done on site on one long day.

Many of us have been in a competitive plein air event and seen something passed off as outdoor painting that was clearly not painted from life. How do we know this? Because we were there. The atmospherics were wrong, that person was never in that spot, or—mirabile dictu—the oil paint has already set up hours after completion.

But mostly, we know because there’s a sort of studied perfection to a studio painting that is never there in plein air. A painting done on site is never quite as innovative as a studio landscape. Plein air can often seem labored or overworked because the artist is trying so hard. This is not necessarily a bad thing; it’s destructive when plein air events reward stylishness over content and design, as they so often do.

Lobster pound, 14X18, oil on canvas, $1594 framed includes shipping and handling within the continental US. I’ve occasionally thought about brightening this up in the studio, but I think that would ruin its genuine moodiness.

Plein air or alla prima?

Plein air means it was done outside. Alla prima means it was done ‘on the first strike’. Plein air is a description of where a painting was done; alla prima is a technique. There is no such thing as plein air style, nor is something that’s painterly more authentically plein air than something that’s linear. Can we all stop apologizing for liking realism?

Vincent Van Gogh is the personification of painterliness. Rackstraw Downes is the personification of linearity. They’re both also definitive plein air painters, even though their work looks nothing alike.

Waiting to play (Boathouse), oil on archival canvasboard, 14X18, $1275 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US. This is a painting that’s experimental and observational rather than stylish.

Can the painting be finished in the studio?

This is where the arbitrary rules of plein air events start to influence the actual practice of plein air painting. To say that a painting should be ‘substantially’ finished in the field is meaningless; to say it should be done 90% in the field is just as meaningless. What are they measuring? Time? The volume of paint? The area of the canvas?

I almost never finish plein air work in the studio. I invariably end up overpainting what I most loved about being outdoors. But I have friends who touch up their plein air paintings at events. If they feel that gives them a better result, more power to them. As my buddy Brad Marshall once mused, “The clients don’t care how much of it was painted outdoors; why should I?”

Sketch or painting?

Composition is one of the hardest skills in painting. The rules of composition are the same whether the piece is done in studio or in the field, and the smart plein air painter puts as much effort into the set-up of a plein air painting as he or she would for a studio piece. That’s different from the plein air sketch, which is about capturing an impression.

How long can I work on it before it stops being plein air?

“A plein air painting should be painted quickly,” Morra wrote. This is one point on which I disagree. Fast, expressive brushwork is the trope of our age, but it’s by no means the only way to paint.

I’ve done many events where we’re given two or three days to produce one work. Sometimes I paint two paintings, but more typically, I squander all my time on planning and just paint one. I inevitably like my work better than when I churn out fast sketch after fast sketch.

In fact, modern plein air painting is often so fast it sacrifices drawing. A badly drawn house or person is a rookie mistake. My own preference is for fast painting paired with meticulous drawing. Want a great contemporary example? Check out Canadian painter Marc Grandbois.

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Monday Morning Art School: what are your artistic goals for the next twelve months?

Forsythia at Three Chimneys, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 framed includes shipping and handling in continental United States.

As I ask you this series of Big Questions About Art (starting here), I’m trying to answer them myself. This one is hard, because for too long, my main goal has been to finish today’s work and get a start on tomorrow’s. I’m a kinesthetic thinker, meaning I figure things out by doing them. The more physical that is, the happier I am. That’s not bad for a painter, since our work is essentially tactile. However, it doesn’t always lend itself to advance planning.

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

My artistic goals (as of right now)

  1. To develop a broader range of surface-scribing skills. By that I mean more varied brushwork, with the ability to float between ambiguity and detail without overworking the surface. That includes scumbling, impasto and fine line work.
  2. Add more figure and contemporary structures into my landscape paintings. One of the things I most admire about Childe Hassam, George Bellows and other 19th century painters is that they didn’t shy away from their own times. I’m drawn to old things but not everything old is beautiful, and not everything beautiful is old.
  3. I want more time to paint. I love teaching, and I learn a great deal from it, but I need more time with my own brushes.
  4. I must finish building out my new gallery space. I’d hoped to get this done by Memorial Day, but it won’t happen until I get back from Britain in June. What does carpentry have to do with painting? Just about everything.
  5. It’s summer; can I have some time to recharge? I can’t blame this on anyone else; I’m my own worst taskmaster.
Spring Greens, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $652 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

How would you like to develop your artistic goals?

Here are some ideas:

  1. Continuously improve your technical abilities. That could be paint handling, drawing, or composition, to name just a few possibilities.
  2. Push the boundaries of your creativity by experimenting with new ideas, techniques, or mediums. (See last Wednesday’s post.)
  3. Focus on expressing your own values, ideals and emotions instead of producing merely-pleasant art.
  4. Spend some time in museums looking at art that moves you.
  5. Read about art and artists.
  6. Build a coherent portfolio: The best way to mount a cohesive body of work is to do a lot of it, and then look at it as a unit. Objective critique from trusted peers or a teacher sometimes points out themes you’ve never noticed in your own work.
  7. Show your work: Displaying your work in public not only gives you the potential for exposure, it pushes you to work very hard. This doesn’t have to be in a gallery; it could be a coffee shop, library, or a show in your own home.
  8. Take classes—iron sharpens iron.
  9. Enter competitive shows. I hate doing this too, especially when the entry fees are high. But set the goal of applying for a few each year. You might be pleasantly surprised!
  10. Fail gloriously. You aren’t really pushing your boundaries unless you occasionally muck up. Embrace that. Failure is a sign of growth; you were willing to take risks and try new things.
Spring Allee, oil on archival canvasboard, 14X18, $1594.00 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

These goals are just suggestions; none of us can do them all, at least not right away. What can you take from my brainstorming, and how can you make these ideas your own artistic goals for the coming year?

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Help support Trekkers on their 30th anniversary

Seven Paddles on a Paddle by Carol L. Douglas

When I was asked to paint a paddle for Trekkers‘ 30th anniversary fundraising art auction, I said yes because:

  • I believe in the power of outdoor adventure. That’s not just good for youth; it’s good for everyone. However, we’ve created an artificial, media-driven world for our kids, and it’s important for them to learn to navigate real space and controlled risk with confidence.
  • I love paddling.
  • I was a 4Her as a kid, and I learned some of my best skills through that mentoring program, as well as from neighbors and family friends. Those relationships were invaluable when my family was poleaxed by tragedy.
  • I was asked by a friend, famous art conservator Lauren Lewis.
Hiawatha’s Journey by Susan Lewis Baines

I learned to make a paracord-wrapped handle for my paddle, using coxcombing and Turk’s head knots. Sometimes ideas that seem easy in concept prove devilishly difficult in execution. My knots took a lot longer than the painting.

King Fisher by Lily Hamill

What is Trekkers?

For the past 30 years, Trekkers has cultivated the inner strength of young people through long-term mentoring relationships. These are based in outdoor, experiential, and travel-based education.

Trekkers started in 1994 under the aegis of founders Jack Carpenter and Peter Jenks. Together, they appealed to community leaders to provide support. The first trips were by canoe in the spring and fall of 1994. They included 11 kids from Thomaston along with 11 adult mentors.

Otter and Urchin by Lauren Lewis

This year’s art auction fundraiser features wooden canoe paddles as a nod to that adventurous, outdoor spirit. It’s a real community project: paddles were crafted by Maine Correctional Industries, and Dowling-Walsh Gallery will host the event. You can view the paddles from May 8-15 at 365 Main Street, Rockland, Maine. They’re online here, and there’s lots more than the small sample I’ve shared with you.

There will be a reception and final bidding at the gallery on May 15 from 3:00 – 4:30 PM.

Passages by Jon Mort

I hope you spend some time poring over the entries. And be sure to return to the website on May 8, when bidding will open.

Wading Through Wildflowers (detail) by Tara Morin
Island Lines by Colin Page
Wilderness Makes One Aware of Nature’s Miracles (detail) by Karin Strong

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Why do you work in the art medium you do?

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

I have always been just a painter. I figure if I keep up with it, someday I might truly master painting. (That’s not false humility; it’s the only healthy attitude toward art.) I did other things as a student, including clay and printmaking. But painting is devilishly difficult. It consumes all my energy.

Because I have such a narrow focus, I’m sometimes at a loss when people look to me for guidance about art mediums. I never chose my path-it chose me.

Is this strong personal preference for drawing and painting a natural affinity, or am I a product of my times? I imagine it’s a bit of both. For example, when I learned to paint, acrylics were not the excellent product they are today. I understand them, but I’ve never done the deep dive into them that radical painting requires.

Dish of Butter, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 includes shipping in continental US.

We choose art mediums that we feel comfortable with. I had good primary drawing instruction, so I’m comfortable with a pencil. However, I’ve taught enough painters to know that’s hardly universal. (The very first lesson in drawing is, “don’t panic; you can do this.”) On the flip side, I’ve never had any formal instruction in carving or sculpting, and they make me nervous. With the first flying stone chip, I’d probably put someone’s eye out.

In part I became a painter because it was all around me. I could raid my father’s supplies. (Sorry, Dad.) Cost can be a real barrier to artistic expression, something that was made painfully clear when my late friend Helen decided she wanted to try painting. What she could afford was a dime-store watercolor kit and copy paper.

Most of us have limits set by finances. I can’t afford bronze casting at a foundry, so I stay away from clay work. That goes double for casting jewelry, as rewarding as it might be.

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

Different art mediums offer different tactile qualities. Photography engages us through light and color (and, with modern cameras, immediacy). Painting rewards us with an interactive surface. Sculpture appeals through form and the sheer personality of its materials. Monoprinting provides happy accidents that lighten our sometimes-leaden hands

I love painting outdoors, especially when I’m in inaccessible places. My friend Toby would rather do anything other than paint en plein air, including canning tomatoes.

The medium is the message

Sonia Delaunay was a very competent painter in the post-Cubist style called Orphism, every bit as good as her more-famous husband Robert Delaunay. Needing money, she applied her design skills to textiles, pioneering wearable art that included quilting and embroidery. She wasn’t a feminist in the modern sense, but her work is certainly a manifesto. Likewise, there’s no teasing apart the environmentalist from the artist in Andy Goldsworthy.

Stuffed animal in a bowl, with Saran Wrap. 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435.

If you wanted to expand to a different art medium, what would it be?

There’s a press idling in the corner of my studio. I’m thinking a lot right now about the intersection of words and images, perhaps in the form of an artist’s book.

Why do you work in the art medium you do? If you had time to expand your range, what medium would you start experimenting in, and why?

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Monday Morning Art School: What’s your why?

Fog over Whiteface Mountain, 11X14, $1087 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be asking you some big questions. They’re not rhetorical, I am genuinely interested in your answers. My first goal is to grow a community, instead of just an audience. My second is to know how I can better serve you as a teacher.

I recently listened to Start with why by the English motivational speaker Simon Sinek. I’m glad I did, despite my general skepticism about motivational speakers.

Simon Sinek’s Golden Circle, as rendered by me.

The simple image above is Sinek’s Golden Circle. The outer circle represents what a company does (its products or services). The middle circle represents how it does it (its unique selling proposition or process). The inner circle represents why it does it (its purpose, belief, or cause). Sinek argues that truly successful and influential organizations operate from the inside out, starting with why.

This is not a “because there’s a need” question. Rather, it starts with the passion of the founders, which filters down through its employers and ultimately its customers. He cites Apple as an example of a company built on why.

This is equally applicable to people. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. didn’t succeed because he was a southern black American preacher at the start of the civil rights movement; there were lots of fine southern black orators. But King held a deep personal belief about moral law, expressed in his 1963 I Have a Dream speech. It has since resonated with millions of people, black and white alike.

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

Purpose and Inspiration

Our why is our motivation, inspiration, and purpose for creating art. We all have them, deeply felt, but it’s hard to express them, especially when they’re amorphous ideas like beauty and emotion. (That’s why social justice artist statements are so much more accessible. They’re not from those non-verbal nuts in our souls.)

For teachers and arts organizations, there’s an impulse to jump to committee-driven mission statements, complete with buzz terms like diversity and inclusion, emerging artists, or cultural heritage. But the why must punch from the gut.

How does this apply to me?

I generally tell prospective students, “I am going to teach you X,” when I should start by telling them that the serious discipline of art is important to their minds and souls. Our motivation to paint comes not from knowing technique, but from the underlying, deep conviction that drives us.

Articulating my core values poses a unique difficulty, since they are faith-based. Like many modern Christians, I’m sadly leery of sharing them in the public marketplace. But I do believe, like Dr. King, in a moral and natural order created by God. The Bible documents and encourages the expression of this through art. Bezalel the artist was mentioned in Exodus (meaning very early in recorded history). In addition to being the chief artisan of the tabernacle, he was also the first person to be “filled with the Spirit of God.”

I paint because I am in awe of the glory of creation. My paintings are a pale imitation of nature, and they’re also imbued with my feelings. That makes them less a reflection of nature than a reflection on nature.

I teach because I believe creativity is our birthright. We need to get rid of the idea that making art is self-indulgent or the special province of a few lucky people. Adult learners need to shed the idea that it’s too late for them to make great, meaningful art.

I write as a loudspeaker for the above two points.

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

What’s your why?

Why do you make art? Think about art? Read about art? These aren’t simple questions; it took me a long time to define my reasons, above. Please comment below or on the social media channel of your choice, or both. And thank you.

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Seven weeks in a shipyard

American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, $1159 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

In the muck of a muddy Maine spring in 2016, I wandered into the North End Ship Yard, where I met Captain John Foss and the crews of Heritage and American Eagle. I spent the next seven weeks documenting the annual ritual of hauling schooners from the water onto the ways.

Smaller vessels spend the winter months on land, but these big schooners stay in the water. While our harbors do freeze, it’s more a form of thick slush than rigid ice. (And there’s nothing so fascinating as watching ice ripple on a cold winter’s day.) The Atlantic is only marginally colder in winter than in summer, so below decks it is warmer in the water than out. The hulls are better supported in the water, and there’s no risk of the planks drying out.

In the old days they made prisoners pick oakum as a punishment. It still needs to be done, and in the absence of debtors’ prisons, we’re left with crew.

They do come out briefly each spring, however, when they’re readied for the coming season. There’s a device called a marine railway, which is essentially a cradle that’s winched out of the water with the boat aboard. North End Ship Yard has one of these, which is powered by an old quarry engine that’s older than dirt.

The hulls are scraped, caulked and painted, planking is replaced, and the Coast Guard comes by and looks things over. A few days later they slide gently back into the water, where the real business of sanding, scraping, varnishing, mending, tarring, polishing, etc., commences. ‘Fit out’ is much like aging actors slapping on the greasepaint and adjusting their stays for another arduous summer performance.

I love this winch engine almost as much as I love the boats.

For the crew, it’s exhausting work. “I would love to work on a schooner for just one season,” I recently told Candice Kuchinski of the ketch Angelique. At her look of horror, I explained that I wasn’t looking for a job. My back is too darn old for fit out. Hoisting sails is hard enough; fit out is brutally difficult.

“How much does a Maine windjammer cruise cost?” people sometimes ask. That depends on the length of the cruise, its home harborage, and whether there are specialists (musicians, ecologists and, yes, artists) aboard to enhance the trip. But having watched the months of preparation that happen before these behemoths ever take on a passenger, I’d say they’re worth every penny.

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How to start painting (again)

Windsurfers at La Pocatière, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $348 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Sue Leo is a graphic design professor who has been my gallerist, my student, and of course my friend. She recently told me a story that should encourage all of you who’ve dropped your art and aren’t sure how to pick it back up. It’s about music, but it’s applicable to how to start painting again, for all of you who once loved art but lost the thread.

Sue’s always loved music. As a junior in college, she had a part-time job as a choir director. “I was probably the most affordable applicant,” she laughed. “I was just eighteen years old, however, I’d studied piano for thirteen years and had sung in choir my entire life in church.”

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

Fast forward, and life got in the way, as it always does. A rupture in her life made her a wanderer for many years. She moved from job to job, town to town, and church to church. Opportunities to sing or play were few, until she settled at Benedictine College in Atchison, KS. “So many things I missed,” she mused about her years in the wilderness. “However, all these things were waiting in the wings to return to me.”

In Atchison, Sue joined a local church and choir. Her choir is generally conducted by students under the aegis of a professor, who also conducts during breaks and high holidays. Sometimes, however, there are substitute directors.

“I am one of the oldest members and have been silent in comparison to the energy and enthusiasm of the young people. We have many strong voices, and over the last two years have attracted even more excellent singers.”

Quebec Brook, oil on archival canvasboard, $1449 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

One day last September, the choir director didn’t show up for their 8 AM warm up and practice. There was no organist, so the whole service was to be sung a cappella (which is far more challenging than leaning into the organ).

“Somebody asked, ‘has anyone texted her?'” Yes. Any answer? No.

Tick, Tok. Tick, Tok.

Finally, Sue spoke up.

“I volunteered to direct the choir that morning,” she said. “At first, I think, people thought I was kidding.” But, desperate, they took her up on her offer.

“It was kind of like riding a bike. You don’t lose your sense of rhythm and tempo. It felt and sounded great to me, and as I was coming back up to the choir loft, someone whispered to me how beautiful the singing was.”

The punchline? Sue’s now the substitute director of that choir.

Dawn Wind, Twin Lights, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

Do you remember what it felt like to draw when you were a child? You were totally in the moment, unconcerned with whether the world liked your work or not. That child is still within you somewhere. Sue’s experience is a reminder that your love of artistic expression is never completely extinguished. Are you wondering how to start painting again? Just pick up a brush.

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Monday Morning Art School: How do I get more out of social media?

Maynard Dixon Clouds, 11X14, oil on archival canvas board, $869 includes shipping in continental US.

“I’m a 73-year-old artist and I’m having trouble expanding my social media reach. Can you give me any ideas, not just to drive more traffic to my art website, but to make the process less miserable?”

I don’t think consistent social media posting is fun for anyone, but if we predate the internet, we don’t always appreciate the whole parasocial thing. I’m the person who told my kids not to talk to strangers on the internet, and now I do it all the time-and some of those people have become my besties.

Spring Allee, oil on archival canvasboard, 14X18, $1594.00 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

First, the basics:

Post consistently. Regularly share your artwork on platforms like Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Threads, and Pinterest. Consistency is the number one rule of social media. I blog three times a week for a reason.

Engage Interact with your followers by responding to comments, asking questions, and participating in others’ discussions. Build genuine connections.

Hashtags Relevant, trending hashtags make your posts more discoverable. How do you find them? Ask Google “best hashtags for __”

Share your process People like watching the creative process, so share photos or videos of your studio, work in progress, or what inspires you.

Collaborate Collaboration cross-pollinates lists. A great way to do that is to tag fellow artists at events. Or do something interesting together.

Early Light is 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

Giveaways Your freebee doesn’t need to be expensive; it could be as simple as a ‘top ten color pathways for 2024’ handout. (Do I do this? Um, no.) The ‘price’? Their email address.

Guest blogs or interviews There is no such thing as bad publicity, so when someone asks you a question for their own blog or article, be sure to answer in an articulate manner. Or write for others. Just make sure the publisher links back to you; that strong network of links makes you attractive to Google.

SEO Ensure that your website is optimized for search engines by using relevant keywords in your content, image descriptions, and meta tags. If this means nothing to you, start here.

Give readers something meaningful. That’s why I write this blog; it’s my version of ‘exclusive content’ and it brings people to my website.

Cross-promote. Promote your social media profiles on your website and vice versa.

Don’t let AI generate your content If you really don’t have anything to say, say nothing at all. Google has tools to weed out the nonsensical fluff, so it’s a waste of time.

That sounds time-consuming, doesn’t it?

Path to the Lake, ~24X36, watercolor on Yupo, framed in museum-grade plexiglass, $2985 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Let’s make it more fun:

Spill Don’t limit your social media presence solely to promoting your artwork. Share your hobbies, interests, and experiences. If you’re a regular reader of this blog and don’t know everything about me, I’m doing something wrong. (Or you’re not paying attention.)

Be funny Share anecdotes or witty commentary related to art or your daily life. Humor humanizes your brand and makes you more relatable.

Host live streams This is a lot of work, which is why I don’t do it often, but I’m happy to do online demos for art groups. It’s a great way to build a sense of community and connection.

Interactive content I don’t do this enough either, but interactive content like polls, quizzes, or challenges makes social media feed more dynamic and encourages engagement.

Showcase your students or the buyers of your work You can also feature artwork or photos shared by your social media followers. This acknowledges and appreciates their support and fosters a sense of community and collaboration.

Tell stories (I can’t seem to help doing this.) Storytelling engages your audience. Share the inspiration behind your artwork, memorable experiences from your artistic journey, or anecdotes from your daily life.

Celebrate yourself Yeah, that sounds a lot like bragging, but if you don’t tell them about your achievements, who will?

Be you Above all, be authentic and genuine in your interactions on social media. (If you’re never funny, I’m so sorry.) Openly share your thoughts, feelings, and experiences, no matter how introverted you are. Social media is all about bridging the barrier of the screen.

Of course I don’t do all those things; no one person can. Focus on a few that work for you.

That’s all I can think of. Fellow artists, can you add any tips? What works for you?

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Happiest when painting boats

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

Yesterday I talked to someone about taking my watercolor workshop aboard schooner American Eagle. We discussed some critical issues, like whether her husband was allowed to come with us. Snoring, I told her, is not a deal-breaker. (That, by the way, is the second most commonly-expressed concern after the food, which is fantastic. The answer is, nobody cares if you snore.)

She’s been out on the water herself many times. I hardly needed to tell her that Penobscot Bay is a transcendental experience. The ocean’s kaleidoscopic, mercurial change is part of what drags me back to painting boats over and over.

To me, boats represent the human condition-we sail on breezy days, through storms, and through the doldrums. We believe that, as captains of our own ships, we choose our own destiny, but that’s only marginally true. Skylarking II is a happy day; not all of my boat paintings are.

More than fifty years ago, long before the invention of modern weather forecasting and reporting, my dad was caught in a line squall on Lake Ontario. (Those were the bad old days when sailing on the Great Lakes was genuinely risky. With modern weather forecasting, it’s safer today.) That storm nearly swamped him. A year later, my family was caught in a personal tragedy that nearly swamped all of us.

Rainbow over Penobscot Bay. Yes, it rains in life, but that’s a necessary precondition for the rainbow.

On the flip side, I’ve taken personal risks that have worked out wonderfully. And I’ve stood on deck after a thunderstorm and watched the sky blossom with rainbow. The stories of boats and people often intersect.

I’m working on yet another boat picture in my studio, this time of the ketch Angelique. It’s no more based in reality than any of my other boat pictures. As always I’m having a great time working from imagination. The only real reference I have for my current painting is a photo of a nun, and even that has been significantly messed around.

“Why are these boats on different reaches?” an astute sailor once asked me about Skylarking II. The answer is, artistic license, of course. I wanted different sail shapes, although I can see how it would drive a purist crazy. But that’s not the point-the bouncing light, the clear green of the Camden Hills, and the sheer happiness of the day are what mattered to me. If painting boats brings you half the joy it brings me, my work here is complete.

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Let’s talk limited palette

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

Last week I mailed a small sample of paints to a student in South Carolina. She was frustrated with her paints and I was equally frustrated watching her try and fail to hit color notes. What I sent her was a simple, primary-color limited palette: QoR brand Ultramarine Blue, Nickel Azo Yellow, and Quinacridone Magenta. This is what she did with them:

A color chart done with just three pigments: ultramarine blue, nickel-azo yellow, and quinacridone magenta.

There are disadvantages to limited palette-for example D. couldn’t hit a brilliant green because the red tones in her blue and yellow partially cancel out green. (I’ve explained that in greater depth here.) But the range she did hit is amazing.

Quality, please

You’re far better off with a high-pigment-load, professional-quality limited palette than a dozen badly-chosen paints. Yes, I know the lure of the bargain bin at the art store, but those pigments are in there because they’re unnecessary or, worse, useless.

Sometimes you’ll read rapturous nonsense about pigments. For example, cobalt violet is sometimes described as “deep, richly glowing, and unmatchable by mixing.” I like the color but not enough to bypass my desire to avoid metal pigments wherever possible. Cobalt violet has a lovely weightiness in oils, but it’s hardly unmatchable. In fact, D. did it in the second column from the right, with just magenta and blue.

Clary Hill Blueberry Barrens, watercolor on Yupo, ~24X36, $3985 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Tastes differ

I like my paint to be able to hit intensely saturated colors, because you can always kill chroma, but you can never intensify it. A more traditional palette, like my Winsor & Newton field kit, never seems brilliant enough. It has convenience mixes like Sap Green and Payne’s Grey, along with umbers and alizarin crimson. Those colors cannot compete with knockout 20th century pigments. When I weigh the convenience of sliding a palette in my pocket vs. having the colors I want, I invariably come down on the side of more color.

Autumn Farm, Evening Blues, oil on canvasboard, $1449 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

I’ve observed that the more experienced I get, the less stuff I buy. I know what I need, and I’m not tempted to deviate. Having said that, I recently updated my supply lists to replace Prussian blue with phthalo blue. Their color profiles are very similar, but phthalo is just a little clearer than Prussian. The downside is that phthalo is a more heavily-staining pigment. But after dithering for years, I’ve finally decided that clarity outweighs staining. Of course, both are excellent pigments, and can easily substitute for each other (except in acrylic, where Prussian blue is not available).

I make my supply lists for watercolors, oils, pastels, acrylic and gouache freely available to my readers (although this is copyrighted material; you don’t have permission to appropriate them and pass them off as your own). These are paired primary palettes with limited earths added, just because they’re cheap and useful. I have an entire cabinet of samples, gifts and bad purchases myself; I never touch any of them. These pigments are sufficient.

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