summer

01 CHASING FRAGILE DREAMS David Grossmann

06 THE ART OF SELECTION Dot Bunn

12 CHALLENGED BY MOTHER NATURE Marc Hanson

17 Painting home Matthew Cornell

22 a world of ideas Martin Wittfooth

28 a peek inside an itinerant artist's toolbox Lynn Sanguedolce

34 the road not taken Daniel Robbins

39 my apology for not doing workshops John Cook

42 product of process Ben Bauer

47 Protecting studio time Sadie Valeri

1Come walk with me as I remember one of my dreams and how I chased it. It is a dream that led me, along with my painting gear, all the way to

the southern tip of South America.

DAVID GROSSMAN

CHASING FRAGILE DREAMS

It was a web of fragile dreams that led me here. In this place now I am the one who feels fragile, thrown and battered. Imagine the sound of ice cascading thousands of feet down rock walls. Imagine gusts of wind too strong to walk against, so strong that you have to sit down to keep from being blown over. Imagine torrential rain that comes and goes, and comes and stays, and stays. Imagine too the beauty of it, of condors catching the morning drafts of air, their shadows darting across cliffs turned gold by sunrise. Imagine the turquoise lakes, colored by glacial milk, swept with the endless currents of wind.

The dreams began when I was a boy. On the walls of my room were posters of things I thought were beautiful and places I dreamed of goingposters of wolves, of deer, of Mt. Everest and, my favorite, a poster of Torres del Paine National Park. The rock faces of the mountains glowed with the light of sunrise, reflected by the wind-swept lakes beneath them. The image epitomized beauty to me, the beauty of wild and

solitary places, a tangible beauty that helped shape my love for mountains.

These are the iconic and remote mountains of Chilean Patagonia, now a UNESCO World Heritage site, and, despite their remoteness, a magnet for avid hikers from all over the globe. I remember well the photos of these peaks that I would pore over when I was youngerthe sunrise so bright on the cliffs, and the guanacos (similar to wild llamas) posing so gracefully across the hilltops. I remember too the paintings that I did based on those photos, some of them when I was first learning to paint. And I remember the wistful, faraway dream that maybe some day I would stand there in person.

Twenty years later, I stand here in person. As I pause to catch my breath, my back aches from the extraordinarily large pack I am carrying. It was the biggest pack I could find, and in it I have my painting gear plus my supplies for eleven days of

Cathedral Peak Sunrise, 20 x 34 inches, Oil on panel

2Sunrise on the Towers, 16 x 12 inches, Oil on panel

3backpacking. It weighs more than 60 pounds, and I wobble a bit as I recommence the long upward climb toward my next painting stop.

On the slopes across the valley from me rise the strange forms of hanging glaciers. They cling to the slopes of the mountain in impossibly steep layers, massive and deep all the way up to the summit. The steepness of the terrain reveals the blue-green of the glaciers deep recesses. Now and then the valley is filled with a sound almost like a jet plane flying overheada piercing, deep rumble. It is the hanging glaciers breaking off in chunks and flooding down the rock walls.

By now I have lost track of days. It seems that I exist in a place without time of day or days of week. It is just me, the views, my paintings, the weather, hunger, and how long before I can sleep

Aleta del Tiburon (Sharks Fin), 6 x 8 inches, Oil on panel

again. It seems that I am praying constantly, maybe since there is no one else to talk to, and especially during the long hours when I am holed up in my tent as I wait for the rain to stop.

A few days before Again I awake at 3:25 a.m. (I was dreaming something about flowersI was painting an arrangement of them indoors and someone was scolding me for being inside when there were such beautiful things to paint outside.) I am determined to paint the sunrise from the base of the towers today. The cold hits me as soon as I roll out of my sleeping bag, and it spurs me quickly up the winding trail. Above me a few stars linger through the misty cloud layer. There is a fresh dusting of snow on the mountains; at first light they look like a black and white image. I have the sense that I am climbing up into a perfectly exposed Ansel Adams photo.

4Soon I am walking through a crusty layer of new snow. The towers are clear, so my hopes remain high for a good sunrise. I set up my equipment and begin to paint. A few brushstrokes, and it starts to snow. The wind spews flurries of freezing pellets across the landscape and into my paint. Quickly I gather my things and scurry down to the shelter of a large boulder next to the lake. The rock mostly blocks the wind, so I am secure enough to complete the painting. I remind myself, as I have over and over again during this trip, that at this point some things are not optional. That thought helps to keep me going.

The sunrise is mostly blocked by falling snow, but that in itself is stunning. At a glance the clouds are deep cobalt here and warm ochre there. Once I have finished the painting I am too cold to stay any longer and the towers are covered completely in clouds. On the way back down the steep, icy trail, I walk slowly, soaking in the beauty of the snow-capped peaks and giving thanks for being here and for being alive on such a day as this.

Epilogue A few days after my return from Torres del Paine, I see another image that is almost identical to my childhood poster. It is a news photo of the same mountains, from nearly the same vantage point, but my mountains

The Cuernos, 10 x 17 inches, Oil on panel

Cold Morning, 8 x 6 inches, Oil on panel

5are obstructed by thick columns of smoke. Other images follow: firefighters rushing in to contain windswept flames, helicopters hovering over the alpine lakes, wild animals fleeing. In the end, the massive forest firethought to have been started by a negligent hikerconsumed over 40,000 acres of the parks pristine landscape.

As I ponder these images, I gather my memories, my sketchbook, along with the many plein air pieces I painted in Torres del Paine, and begin to paint again.

The finished product is a series of paintings that are a commemoration of the beauty and vulnerability of the Patagonian wilderness. Several of these paintings are inspired by the sun rising on the steep rock formations. There is something poignant to me about sunrises and sunsets because they remind me of how fleeting time is and how quickly everything changes. The sunrise makes for an interesting parallel with the permanence of the mountains, casting its light on the vulnerable beauty of dreams and of wild places.

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Cold Morning, 8 x 6 inches, Oil on panel

Yellow Towers, 12 x 12 inches,

Oil on panel

Learn more about David Grossman at: www.davidgrossmann.com

6DOT BUNN

THE ART OF SELECTIONAyn Rand wrote, Art is a selective recreation of reality. These are words that I paint by. Nature is an endless source of inspiration but it always comes with too much information. My challenge is to distill an image from the complexity of nature while eliminating what is not essential. The recreation of reality doesnt happen by simply copying what you see, and the poetry of light does not reflect off a photograph. You need to make intelligent choices.

Thinking it throughThrough the deliberate selection of composition, color, calligraphy of hand and final presentation, the work becomes individual. I strive to paint a mirror of my sense of life. If I am confused about what I want to communicate or too clichd in the imagery, the work will have nothing worth contemplating. Every year our lives become richer with experience and through that filter art is created. When someone views a work of art

there needs to be a connection between their understanding of

life and the artists expression of life.

Balance and Control

Painting completes me and satisfies a persistent need to create,

but the drama of uncertainty in developing a painting does

not appeal to me. My nature wants balance and control in my

Calves In The FIeld, 24 x 46 inches, Oil on linen panel

7WHEN SOMEONE VIEWS A WORK OF ART THERE NEEDS TO BE A CONNECTION BETWEEN THEIR UNDERSTANDING OF LIFE AND THE ARTISTS EXPRESSION OF LIFE.

work. Everything about the process of making a painting is a seductive challenge, but it needs to be built on a foundation of rules and guidelines. Although I believe that rules in art are routinely broken with success, there are certain canons of good design and color that form the foundation for great work.

Learning from the PastMy compositions are based on the Golden Mean and the Rectangles of the Masters. Many of the great works of the past conform to these proportions, which were first identified

by the ancient Greeks. After studying and copying works of

eighteenth and nineteenth century English portrait painters

I found that consistent measurements were used to ensure a

pleasing result. These gifted painters did not act simply out of

random enthusiasm. It is through acquired skill that we have the

ability to bring forward what we visualize in our imagination.

Acquiring skill takes time and work. One of the wonderful

aspects of being an artist is that the learning never stops.

Interpreting Reality

It is not the subject itself that is interesting but the way in which the artist

chooses to interpret it. With very few exceptions, all of my paintings

are of places and things that I have actually experienced. During the

process of creating a work of art the unexpected happens in color and

design possibilities. From these suggestions I choose what will or will not

complement my intent. Art is a science of mathematics, aesthetics and

psychology all rolled into one. To be successful, both the mind and heart of

the artist need to be engaged.

Getting Started

I start with what I call a scribble drawing. This is a very loose sketch that

helps me find the internal movement and dominant angles in the work. This

drawing needs to be refined with additional drawings. If the initial design

is not good, no amount of color or bravado brushwork will fix it later. The

act of drawing also establishes an intimacy with the subject that will guide

me throughout the painting. The better you know your subject the easier

it will be to interpret it in paint. Sometimes I do a simple thumbnail value

study to aid in the transfer from line to mass. Then I start painting with a

monotone wipeout image to secure the light mass.

9Opposite top: Drawing and grisalle stages, Opposite bottom: Mirror Lake, 24 x 24 inches, Oil on panel

Circling Monhegan Island, 40 x 30 inches, Oil on linen panel

Limiting the Palette

Once the composition is established a limited palette of colors

is selected. Often there will be three main colors with one hue

dominating the work. Some additional hues will be added

during the painting to enrich the three main colors. My love of

color has resulted in drawers full of hues, but I select a limited

number for each painting. I work on a circular glass palette

with a neutral gray tone under it. The colors are arranged

according to the spectrum of light, which helps me keep my

colors clean and makes mixing more consistent.

Teaching students color management with this palette

arrangement has proven to be very successful for me. A poetic

sense of reality can be achieved by limiting your palette to just

a few colors, as has been proven by such artists as Velazquez,

Whistler and Vermeer.

Balancing Skill with Soul

My method of painting is indirect. Working in layers, I gradually

allow the saturation and value range to strengthen. Once into

the painting all line needs to be destroyed. It is light over form

that becomes my subject. The balance between technical skill

and a poetic approach to the work becomes critical. Too much

presence of either can destroy the moment of contemplation

for the viewer.

When you attend a great theatrical performance you are captivated by the overall experience. You should not be distracted by a single actors efforts to be noticed. A great book is as much about the success of sentence structure as it is about the authors unique way of communicating the story. There is always the need to balance skill with soul. A great work of art stops you in your tracks and pulls you in. You breathe the same air and somehow feel connected to the artist.

Glass palette

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Concept drawing for Cool Waters

Monochrome underpainting of Cool Waters

Early stage of Cool Waters

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Uniqueness of VisionIn the end it seems to me that the challenge is to recognize the uniqueness of ones own vision and then to apply that sense of who you are through intelligent selection in all stages of the work. Too often we accept quirky or different as being somehow better than beauty and poetic presence. Students want to skip the planning stage to get to color only to be disappointed with the results. Paintings that display great technical skill but lack a human quality never really touch the soul. Likewise paintings lacking harmony or good composition cannot stand on the artists enthusiasm alone. I strive to paint reality poetically reinterpreted through acquired skill and the memories left by experience.

The amateurs and those who dabble in poetry, philosophy, or painting think that these arts are clever games, played with bits and fragments of experience. But to the artist and the poet the games are life itself. Their palettes and brushes, their majors and minors are part of a harness which their souls have somehow slipped into and by means of which their lives and experiences are mysteriously transmuted into poetry, plays, music, pictures and so on. R.H. Ives Gammell

2Learn more about Dot Bunn at: www.dotbunn.com

Cool Waters, 18 x 36 inches, Oil on panel

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MARC HANSON

CHALLENGED BY MOTHER NATURE

Given this chance to write for Artists on Art was like dropping me off in a candy store at age five and saying, Pick one piece of candy, Marc! There are so many things to talk about in this art life that picking one was incredibly hard to do. Ive decided to relate a story about a very challenging painting endeavor that I assigned to myself a few years back. There is so much more to this story, but within the limitations we have here, Ill just give you a taste of what was involved.

We must teach ourselves to see the beauty of the ugly, to see the beauty of the commonplace. It is so much greater to make much out of little than

to make little out of muchbetter to make a big thing out of a little subject than to make a little thing out of a big one.

- Charles Hawthorne

Dancing Reeds, 5 x 7 inches, Oil on Museum board

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In March of 2009, on a cold spring day in Taylors Falls, MN, I

felt that I needed to get out of the snowbound studio, and into

Mother Nature with my paints and brushes and put a check on

the winter studio blues. Id spent most of the winter inside,

with only an occasional venture out for a plein air session. I

knew that once the brutal winter weather had eased up, Id

want to be back outside painting most of the time because

thats where I feel most at home as a painter. Simply put, I felt

the need to shake off the metaphoric cobwebs that form from

being in the studio, for what seemed like a very long winter,

to get out and enjoy the spring weather, and move some paint

around.

In thinking about it, I decided to give myself a serious

challengeas if being an artist isnt enough of a challenge

already. None the less, I found one. I called it my April

Painting Marathonfour plein air paintings a day for 30

days! I would photograph/edit them, write a description for

each one, post them to my website, to my blog . . . and . . . send

out a newsletter every day after I returned home!

They would need to be small paintings, small enough so that

I could make a statement and get them all done during the

shortened days of April. The word DAUNTING began

flashing like a migraine-induced kaleidoscopic image in my

head. Committing to 120 paintings in 30 days is A LOT of commitment! To be sure that I didnt backpedal on this idea,

I announced it on my blog and in a newsletter two days prior

to beginning it. No turning back after that! (The thought

occurred to me that I must have a serious case of cabin fever at

this point!)

At the same time I was eagerly anticipating how much this would

teach me about painting the subject matter that surrounded

me, past which I walked or drove daily without noticing. The

project would give me the opportunity to pay closer attention

to my world. I suspected that the experience would also build

a pretty good mental catalogue on the subject of atmospheric

mood, and be an interesting documentary about the seasonal

color change in the volatile early spring landscape.

Cliff Hugger, 7 x 5 inches, Oil on Museum board

Thicket, 5 x 7 inches, Oil on Museum board

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Ice Shelf, 5 x 7 inches, Oil on Museum board

Efficient use of my time may have been the biggest lesson of all, in hindsight. The first objective was to gather together everything that Id need for the month so that I wouldnt have to slow my pace to resupply in the middle of the project. Most of my surfaces were eight-ply, one hundred percent museum rag board, which I cut to size and then sealed with two coats of shellac. Cheap and simple. To give me some options, I glued a fine linen to some of the boards. But where would I store these while they dried? I found wire CD racks, which when stood upright, would hold about 35 paintings eachperfect! I bought three of them. I also ordered in enough paint, OMS, and other supplies.

I was fired up and ready to go the morning of April 1, 2009. The night before, it snoweda precursor as it turned out to

one of the coldest, wettest, windiest Aprils Id seen in a long time. The challenge had begun!

Just so that it doesnt sound like I think painting four small paintings a day is a big deal, its really not. I know many painters out there who work hard and are at least that prolific when on trips or just out for a day to paint. But consider this: prior to beginning this marathon, I didnt paint four paintings a day, every day for 30 days. Imagine going home every day beaten up from the chill of the day, photographing and editing the paintings, uploading them to your website, adding them to your blog with written descriptions, writing an email newsletter with uploaded paintings, and then waiting for the intent to purchase emails to arrive, replying to and recording the sales information for the day. Thats Day 1 . . . 29 more to go.

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Ice Shelf, 5 x 7 inches, Oil on Museum board

Fluff, 7 x 5 inches, Oil on Museum board

16 Fatigue, 48 x 60 inches, Oil on linen

I was lucky not to catch a cold all month long, lucky that my car didnt die, that no one in my family had an emergency, that the plumbing didnt spring a leak, that I live alone. Everything, strangely enough, worked in my favor to allow me 30 days of completely uninterrupted time to complete the goal that I set for myself with this painting marathon. I had a pre-scheduled three-day weekend workshop to teach right in the middle of the month and tried to make up the paintings (12 in all) from those three days. I made up all but four, by painting six one day, and five on a couple of other days.

How often does one have that much time to devote to one singular effort without interruption? Not often, I would suggest, unless youre a cloistered monk. I tried a similar effort in March 2010, and a nocturne painting month in September 2011. Both of those were interrupted and I was unable to complete them due to unavoidable events . . . one being a collision with a white-tailed deer on my way to paint, which took my truck out of commission.

A big fringe benefit of my marathon was that I developed a large following, including bids to purchase every painting, and every one of the paintings that I put up for sale, sold. In the end, collectors were sending me emails to purchase a painting as soon as the images were uploaded on my website, before I could even type in the information about the painting!

My discipline to continue held steady, despite not wanting to put on cold, damp clothing and boots every morning, or face the howling chilly spring winds or rain. I made it through the month and lived to write about it! No it wasnt war, but it was a battle with paint and the elements that I felt in my bones out there every single day of the month. I found that I could see paintings in areas that I previously would have only passed on the way to somewhere else. It did build a huge library of visual memories and it reinforced what I already knewCharles Hawthorne was correct when he said that there is something worthy of our artistic efforts anywhere we look in our own corner of the world.

More images and the details of each day of the adventure can be read on my blog marchanson.blogspot.com.

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Backlit Bugs, 5 x 7 inches, Oil on Museum board

Tranquil Little Lake, 5 x 7 inches, Oil on Museum board

Learn more about Marc Hanson at: www.marchansonart.com

17Fatigue, 48 x 60 inches, Oil on linen

Niagara, 20 x 24 inches, Oil on canvas

MATTHEW CORNELL

PAINTING HOME

For the longest time I have struggled with what I am doing. Not

in a material sense, although that has its own issues, but why

I am painting and its real purpose. Its not an unusual struggle

or unique to me, but a struggle of identity and meaning as an

artist. Sometimes it seems so ridiculous to put paint on a flat

surface and convince people that this is some sort of reality and

that they should buy it and hang on their walls, when in fact,

it is an illusion of reality.

So I ask myself: What am I doing and why am I doing it? For

a number of years, I did just pure landscapesa celebration of

our American landscape. But eventually it was not enough. I

needed to evolve. I needed to paint a more personal experience

and I wanted the canvas to say something about who I am and

the world I inhabit. I needed to paint my life and my search

with the hope that this would reveal a deeper meaning to me.

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We traveled so much when I was a child. Some were vacations, but most were out of necessity to get from one place to the next. We would all pile into the family station wagon and hit the road. Towns such as Gallup, NM and Amarillo, TX became ingrained in my memory. The mileage signs along the road are as clear to me now as anything. I spent so much time staring out of that car. My father was in the Air Force and we moved around a lot, which has had a big impact on my restlessness. My older sister was in 12 different schools during her 12 years of grade school. Every summer was spent going by car back to California, where my mothers family was, or to Kentucky,

where my father grew up and his family still lived. I knew this country backwards and forwards by the time I was 12. Every city and every little town became familiar. But the result of all of this, the result of all this travel and moving, I believe, was a sense that I belonged everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It was a rootless existence. Stuckeys was more familiar than any childhood backyard. I have never had a sense that I belonged where I was. I have now spent the last 20 years of my life looking for home.

I pretty much do everything by car now. This mode of travel is obviously influenced by my childhood. I spend so much time

The Visitor, 8.5 x 11 inches, Oil on canvas

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getting off the main highway and exploring towns and neighborhoods that I dont often use a map. The new discoveryand there always seems to be oneis the thing that really excites me when I am out on the road.

I have bothered many a real estate agent to show me a home for sale. All of this looking is nostalgia for a childhood that really never existed. I wonder what it would be like to grow up in a single place, to have all of your childhood memories in just one home and to call just one place your home, and to have, what I perceive, is the foundation that is provided by that experience. The sense that you know where you are from and thus, know where you are going.

This search became the change in my paintings. From benign and deliberately beautiful, idealized landscapes, where there is no trace of human presence, to paintings of homes and neighborhoods with activity.

I began by painting a small home in our neighborhood near my studio. I passed by it nearly every day and never saw anyone, but there was always subtle evidence of activity, toys in the yard, laundry on the line, every day. In the evening, a small light was on in the back room. I wondered who was working or sitting back there every evening and night. What was their story? That became the painting.

The Studio, 9.5 x 11 inches, Oil on wood

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As I drive around the country, I often wonder about the lives that people lead inside these homes. How did they get there? How long have they been there? What is the history of the house? I know life can be complicated and difficult, but when I look into the warm glow of light emanating from a kitchen of a small country house, I see dignity and simplicity. But there is a longing, a longing that cannot be fulfilled. I sense that I have been away for so long and that the world has moved on without me and that all the memories created in each and every home are created without me. I so often feel it is time to come home, but I just dont know where home is.

My father grew up on a farm outside a small town in Kentucky. So much of my fathers character, his work ethic, how he sees the world, was formed on that land. My painting Middle America was really an image, a story, about him. A portrait of a working man, who rises early, represented by the light in the window on the left. It is a kind of simple stubbornness, finding meaning and purpose and identity, in that work, formed by life in one home, in one small town in America. He has always known who he is, regardless of the many places life has taken him. Just a small-town boy who has worked hard all his life.

My wife grew up in Michigan and her childhood was spent in only one home. It has given her a solid foundation of who she is and where she is from. My father-in-law has lived in that same house in Michigan for 56 years. When they speak of home, it is clear what they are talking about. Sacred depicts this home and the house next door that has been occupied by the same woman for 50 years. It is about the bond created by longtime friends and how in America we can be very different and yet still create a neighborhood of harmony. It can be a precious thing, a sacred thing, to live your life in just one place for so long.

Almost all of the paintings are at night or dusk. I love that time of day. It is mysterious and secretive. It can change an ordinary object that is shrouded in darkness into something beautiful and undefinable, as heavy snow will do in winter. Sometimes when driving, you get a brief glimpse, a momentary glance at a place and it allows your imagination to fill in the blanks of an unfinished story and create a whole new narrative that is only known to you. The radiance of a window imbues these paintings with an undeniable and irresistible sense of life. Who are these people and what are their stories?

Sacred, 8 x 10 inches, Oil on wood

Middle America, 13 x 15.5 inches, Oil on wood

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Dusk, 21 x 25 inches, Oil on canvas

Inheritance, 35 x 40 inches, Oil on canvas

So as I travel the back roads of this country, can the exploration and curiosity lead me to where I want to go? Will this search for home in miles and paint ultimately lead me to a place where my soul can finally rest? Where I can say this is where I belong? Or will I forever be relegated to a feeling of limbo, floating between what I long for and what I am?

2Matthew Cornell is represented by Arcadia Fine Arts in NYC

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MARTIN WITTFOOTH

A WORLD OF IDEASYou are an explorer, and you represent our species, and the greatest

good you can do is to bring back a new idea, because our world is endangered by the absence of good ideas. Our world is in crisis because

of the absence of consciousness.- Terence McKenna

Some time ago I sat down for a conversation with a handful of fellow painters and a question came up that we were all called on to answer in turn: What is humanismwhat does it mean to you, how would you personally define it? Ive had some time to think on that question, and here is where Im at, more or less. What makes our species fundamentally uniquewhat seems to set human consciousness apart from that of our animal brethrenis our concern with ideas. In almost all places in the world where you find our species loitering about, youd be hard pressed (or very nearsighted) to look in any direction and not see a physical representation or manifestation of a human idea.

Take the entire innards of my Brooklyn studio, for instance, and what you find is a somewhat disorganized cornucopia of ideas in virtually every corner of the spacethe human imagination realized in the physical, in objects intended to serve some purpose that might allow or aid my own myriad ideas to take shape.

Were unique in that we build our lives on the scaffolding of countless human ideasand these are what allow our own ideas to be realized. Furthermore, intentionally or not we produce a legacy; we document our presence and passing by

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INTENTIONALLY OR NOT WE PRODUCE A LEGACY: WE DOCUMENT OUR PRESENCE AND PASSING BY WORD AND DEED.

word and deed. We can see our own history looking back at us from practically every nook and cranny of the world that we inhabitwhere choice comes in is how we allow it to inform and inspire our decisions in the present, and what we hope to leave behind in our wake for the future.

Theres that old Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times. I feel like were poised at a strange moment in history as I write this. The momentum of human ideas has been building up centuries immemorial at a rather steady pace, like a train slowly riding up a shallow incline on the side of a mountain. A very short time ago we crested the ridge, and found a nearly vertical slope on the other side, along which were now charging at a breakneck speed. The problem is that the engineer bailed somewhere along the line, and theres nobody onboard who has any real idea of how to either stop the acceleration, or to navigate the rails to lead us to safe passage. Were living through a time in which the real mothers of all inventionideashave

gotten an immense dose of pharmaceutical grade speed. On one hand, this acceleration heralds the advent of an incredible time of discovery, of understanding, of the flourishing of individual and collective ambitions, and of global, collective connection. On the other hand, many ideas that perhaps set great things in motion didnt take into account their time-tested consequences, and we might be on the verge of seeing the fallout of this short-sightedness in many areas of our lives Many other ideas are simply bad, and when allowed to run unchecked can, and do, wreak havoc. Bigotry, religious dogma, despotism, global warming denial and on and onthese are all what I would call bad ideas. That said, I believeor think I believethat were well armed to face many of these challenges. But to do so, as McKenna eloquently points out in the passage above, well need to wake up to where were at, and start thinking up some good ideas, and sharing them with those who care to listen.

Capitoline, 50 x 74 inches, oil on linen, 2012

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Nocturne, 72 x 48 inches,

oil on linen, 2013

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Something that a white canvas, a block of marble, an empty page, an open stage, a microphone, and any other tool of creative expression share in common is that each is a blank slate for an idea. To freeze an idea into art is to give it a voice to communicate with, and for an idea to take wing it needs to be witnessed, experienced, contemplated upon, reacted to: communicated. Were all vectors for what we believe in, and I hold that its a worthwhile pursuit to express these ideas so as to contribute to a dialogue, or to hold up a mirror of critique to those ideas that we may disagree with. In fact, I believe we owe it to ourselvesthe us that makes up our species: our ancestors, our contemporaries, our childrento make a stand on something that we believe in.

Art is the means by which we have always resisted compliance, chipped away at the foundations of bad ideas, and shaken society when it threatens to fall into drone-like slumber. This is not to say that artwork primarily focused on the expression of the artists concept of beautysay a still-life, a landscape, or nude figureor art that explores a deeply personal domain, as another example, isnt contributing to this conversationthe conversation of good ideas. Quite the contrary. I believe that any art that moves the observer toward some elevated state, whether emotional, philosophical, or cerebral, can only help us along our course of figuring out this mess were finding ourselves in. However I think we ought to resist escapism, to simply bury our heads in the sand.

Occupy, 73 x 100 inches, oil on linen, 2012

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Art really may yet have a say in how things turn out, in raising consciousness. I would argue that sacrificing yourself into your art requires courage, and the more honest your message, the stronger servings of it youll have to stomach. William Blake once said, Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed. I believe that theres truth to this statement. In admiring a great works of art I have always believed that I sense the artists within them. They managed to trap a part of themselves inside their creations, some true part of their being, some idea they genuinely believed in. Honing our craft with the aim that it might one day match up with and do justice to our inner ramblings is an ambition I hold to be sacred. I realize thats a loaded term to throw around but to me it means, simply, truththe pursuit of it, the expression of it, the love of it. This essence can be captured in just a single brushstroke, or perhaps in the invisible thread that ties together the entire body of work created in an artists lifetime. We inevitably come to the table with our own baggage, our own tastes, and our own experiences, so the wealth of variety in the potential of interaction with a work is limited only by the size of its audience. That is exactly why art holds such an importance for me, and especially the instances of it which aspire to express genuine, idiosyncratic ideas. Art reminds me that we tread in two worlds: that of the majestically individual, unique and autonomous, and that of the collective experience, and our desire to contribute to and connect with it. Our ideas are inevitably borne as a result of this connection: no ideano artis made in a vacuum, no matter how lonely your studio might feel sometimes. Made manifest in whatever we choose to create, our own ideas can help to inspire and give shape to the ideas of others, and that is a beautiful notion that often brings me to the easel.

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Nocturne II, 46 x 57 inches, oil on canvas, 2013

Learn more about Martin Wittfooth at: www.martinwittfooth.com

27The Spoils, 39 x 33 inches, oil on linen, 2012

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LYNN SANGUEDOLCE

A PEEK INSIDE AN ITINERANT ARTIST'S TOOLBOX

When I think of the various opportunities for students today on their paths to learn about painting, they contrast sharply with the artistic road less traveled that I have been on. I know I am not alone in this feeling. Sometimes lifes circumstances prevent us from following what we think is our hearts desire. I was unable to commit to a long period of study at an art school, atelier or with a specific teacher/mentor. I moved frequently all over the country (12 homes in 25 years, up and down both coasts with a stint living in the desert) and I was immersed in my role as a mom. To top it off, I think I suffer from a form of AADD (Art Attention Deficit Disorder). Therefore, my art education, career and growth, progressed in fits and starts as my circumstances and stamina allowed. This probably accounts for the broad range of subject matter, style and different mediums I have enjoyed using. Not a good thing for branding perhaps, but a great thing for acquiring skills or tools for my toolbox.

My artistic roots are found on the East Coast where I was born into a family of artists. My dads art studio was a wonderful playground to me. I knew I was different from the other kids in my neighborhood. Instead of toy kitchens, I had quill pens, India ink, and tempera paints. My parents also encouraged a love affair with nature. These were my first tools . . .

My formal art education began after high school at the School of Visual Arts, where I studied life drawing and illustration for several years. It was here, under the guidance of my teacher Sam Martine, that I became enamored with composition, shapes, and gesture. I picked watercolor as my medium of choice. (This felt like a natural transition from my tempera paints.) Later, when I became an illustrator, making frequent contributions to periodicals such as Readers Digest, I had the opportunity to

continue refining composition and selection skills and to learn good work habits. More to add to my toolbox.

I, along with my toolbox, might have remained this way forever if it wasnt for that fateful day in 1989 when Sam recommended that I check out an exhibit of the work of a Spanish painter I had never heard of, at the IBM Galleries in New York City. His name was Joaquin Sorolla.

Sophie Sleeping, 8 x 10 inches, Oil on canvas

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Old Man Reading, 12 x 16 inches, Oil on paper

Seated Nude, Side View

My reaction was immediate. My heart pounded and my pulse quickened. The color relationships in those Sorolla paintings were so luscious I wanted to eat them. In the days and weeks that followed, a nagging and persistent voice taunted, dared and eventually lured me to purchase oil painting supplies and venture outside of the studio door.

Enter Impressionism (yes, I removed black from my palette) and wow!the paintings of Willard Metcalf. When I worked with the thickness and sensuousness of the oil paint texture, it was fantastic! I grew to love the scent of unwrapping a fresh roll of primed canvas and the process of stretching it. The color relationships out in nature made me deliriously happy. My hands (and brain) were clumsy and awkward in the presence of the new tools and materials. It was an incredibly humbling and daunting experience to, in effect, start over and learn a completely new way of working. What kept me going was all

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the joy in the process, and I was on an absolute mission to capture nature. It was during this time that I put a great deal of focus into developing my color vocabulary. I learned about how to mix colors in this incredible outdoor laboratory. More tools.

I remember this as one of the very happiest and most fulfilling times of my life, but there came a point when I had to admit to myself that my paintings did not meet my expectations. I couldnt come close to painting the beauty I saw. Figuring out that there was much more to learn than what I could possibly teach myself, I reached out to some great instructors.

I found John Phillip Osborne, at the Ridgewood Art Institute in New Jersey. John taught direct painting methods, introduced me to the work of George Inness, and reconfirmed the importance of painting from life. Fifteen years, and many miles of canvas later, I took a Tonalist landscape painting workshop with Dennis Sheehan, who graciously shared his knowledge of indirect painting methods and adding mood to paintings. More great tools.

And again, things might have gone on just like this for the rest of my life, if it hadnt been for the moment in Dennis studio when I happened to notice some incredibly soulful head studies he had painted that were leaning against the wall. I can clearly remember thinking, Oh no. After devoting over 15 years to

the study of landscape, I glimpsed something that my mind

could not erase. The question of whether I was an Impressionist

or Tonalist faded as a stronger current pulled and drew me back

to painting figures.

This process, again and again, of dismantling preconceived

perceptions of what I thought defined me really cut to the quick,

but I kept going. I was very lucky to have the opportunity to

study with John Frederick Murray in Tucson, who showed me

the benefit of making Master copies, and helped me to develop

THE IMPORTANT THING IS THIS: TO BE ABLE AT ANY MOMENT TO SACRIFICE WHAT WE ARE FOR WHAT WE COULD BECOME.

- Charles Dubois

A SELF-TAUGHT MAN USUALLY HAS A POOR TEACHER AND A WORSE STUDENT. - Henny Youngman

Alexandria Lighthouse, 16 x 20 inches, Oil on canvas

31Bruce at the Coffeehouse, 40 x 30 inches, Oil on canvas

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an understanding of many important painting principles. I continued on with other instructors and am so grateful for my time with Glen Orbik at the California Art Institute, who taught me so much about the structure of the head. I feel very indebted to Jeremy Lipking as well.

Each new exciting discovery further eroded the walls of false security I had built around my identity as an artist. It was important to shed those skins, put my ego on a shelfhowever painful and humbling the processand open up to what else I might learn.

Although I didnt have the benefit of an established curriculum at a particular school, through this unlikely path I gained the ability to cultivate an inner dialogue and recognize the clues that art, life and my own work provided to me. It took time to tie it all together, create order, and make sense of it.

As I continue today to shed those self-imposed limitations, I am free to let my intuition and inspiration be my compass and guide me in the right direction. And that compass has proven to be my best tool of all.

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Afterglow, 12 x 9 inches, Oil on canvas

Tom Poynor, 21 x 16 inches, Oil on canvasLearn more about Lynn Sanguedolce at: www.lrsanguedolce.com

IN THE GREAT CATHEDRALS OF ART EDUCATION, THE IDEA IS TO GRAB WHAT YOU CAN FROM THE PRIESTS BEFORE THEY GET TO YOU, AND THEN GO IT ALONE WITH COURAGE, OPTIMISM AND FULL-ON INDIVIDUAL CHARACTER.

- Robert Genn

33Tom Poynor in the Studio, 68 x 50 inches, Oil on canvas

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DANIEL ROBBINS

THE ROAD NOT TAKENReflections on the evolution of one artists style

I used to think that it would be great to know exactly what I wanted to paint and know how to paint it well. What I didnt realize was that art wouldnt be as interesting for the artist if all the questions were answered. I once asked veteran artist Robert Cottingham how he started his paintings. He told me that when he started a painting it always felt like the first time he had ever painted, and he would work until he started to remember. His answer left me with only one conclusion: if he

wasnt comfortable with painting after 70 years of doing it, I

certainly wasnt going to be comfortable either.

My college art department was focused primarily on

illustration/commercial art, and I had all the classic golden

age of illustration influences: N.C. Wyeth, Howard Pyle,

Norman Rockwell, etc. I also spent a lot of time experimenting

with different drawing, painting, and collage materials, but I

3:45pm, 28 x 36 inches, Oil on canvas

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didnt realize I wanted to continue with paint (I had always been primarily a draftsman) until I took a school trip to the Brandywine Museum. I still remember the giddy yet flattened feeling I got the moment I walked into the N.C. Wyeth room at the museum. Dang those illustrations were huge! Not only was he an extremely skilled painter, but the impact of the compositions, color palettes, and the sizes of the paintings left me in awe. After that trip I had at least figured out one thing: I wanted to use oil paint to facilitate my vision.

It took another year and a half for me to realize I didnt want to be an illustrator. I had glamorized the golden age of illustration, and I found the modern illustration world fast-paced and frustrating. In school I was able to paint large, complex compositions for assignments, but the tight deadlines of the professional world made that type of work impractical, especially when the paintings also needed to be photographed, edited in Photoshop, and then e-mailed. I knew there were a few illustrators who still worked that way, but it didnt seem right for me. I also felt increasingly discouraged with the assignments I was given because I longed to create my own images.

My years of transition into the world of fine art have been rough, and I began them the only way I knew howI created narrative figure paintings. The storybook quality of the illustrations I admired permeated my work so completely that the work I created for art galleries looked like glamorized illustrations. I used experiences from my life as the story because they were the only things I understood well enough to create a body of work, and the paintings were large (compared to the work I had done previously), narrative, and romantic. Though none of these qualities were inherently wrongeven in a postmodern art worldI had missed something, and it wasnt until a few years later that I started to figure out what it was.

The first time I started to notice a difference between fine art and illustration was when I took a weekend trip to both the Brandywine and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The first day

N. C. Wyeth (1882-1945) For all the world, I was led like a dancing bear, 1911 47 1/4 x 38 1/4 inches, Oil on canvas

Russell, 40 x 42 inches, Oil on canvas

was spent at the Brandywine (this was the third time I had seen it) and the following day in Philadelphia. I was still marveling at the Wyeths, Pyles, and Cornwells I had seen the previous day, when I stumbled upon an N.C. Wyeth in the Philadelphia Museum. It seemed oddly diminished on those walls. The Van Goghs, Cezannes, and Monets all held their own space, but the Wyeth painting seemed flat and insubstantial. The same thing went for the Rockwell I saw a few minutes later. The paintings of sunflowers, women, and other completely ordinary

things somehow had more gravity than the action-packed and dramatic illustrations I was in love with. A few minutes prior I had seen Van Goghs painting Two Cut Sunflowers and had responded so viscerally to it. The painting was vivid and intense despite its small size; the radiant blue background and yellow orange of the flowers pulsed and seemed to breathe. The painting didnt simply describe the form of the sunflowers; it captured their weight. The auras of the paintings were different from the painted illustrations, though I didnt understand why.

THE PAINTING DIDNT SIMPLY DESCRIBE THE FORM OF THE SUNFLOWERS; IT CAPTURED THEIR WEIGHT.

Vincent van Gogh, Two Cut SunflowersOil on Canvas, The Metropolitan Museum of Art

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I felt restless after my first exhibition. The personal narrative that inspired me had come to an end and I found myself out of ideas. I had created a few plein air studies as process work for the figure paintings, so I turned to the landscape for inspiration. This allowed me to work more from life and to get out of the studio. I had previously worked in the studio from photographic references because that was the way I was taught andlike many studentsI didnt question it. Painting from life gave me the ability to respond to my subject in a way that felt much more natural. I could now breathe, hear, and feel my subject, which was a completely different experience. This, however, hadnt entirely changed my idea of art itself, and the focus of my work was still to put an image on canvas. Though I was painting much more from life than I ever had, I still used photographs in the studio to finish the images. At that time I felt frustrated with the lack of response from the photographits static quality that differs so much from real lifebut I still used it out of convenience so I wouldnt have to continuously work from life to finish the paintings. I had at least figured out something: I needed to work from life.

It wasnt until I started to focus on my methodthe process

undergone to create an imagethat my work really started

to change. I had always been primarily concerned with the

appearance of the final image so I was unable to understand

what painting was all about: Process. I stopped seeing the act

of painting as a means to an end, and started seeing it as the

end itself. Two Cut Sunflowers wasnt a great painting because

of the subject matter; it was great because of the content in

the paint and the honesty in which it was created. My work

was no longer about putting an image on canvas, but about

the exploration of paint and the subject I was painting. This

had been the intention of paintersfrom Rembrandt to

Vermeer to Rothkothat I was never able to see because I was

too focused on the final image. The early figurative paintings

I created didnt fail because they were narrative or romantic;

they failed because I didnt understand the point of painting.

At least, that is what Ive concluded thus far.

Bark and Brick, 33 x 45 inches, Oil on canvas

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I found it necessary to dissect the differences of fine art and illustration because my education had been deeply rooted in the latter. After much deliberation and study, I concluded the primary difference is intent. The purpose of an illustration is to be reproduced alongside the text (or other material) that accompanies it. The aura of the illustration is in the printed (or reproduced) material, not in the original piece. The aura of the fine artists work is in the original piece. This is also why scalethe size of the paintingis so important to works of fine art. The artist knows that the size of the painting affects the way it is viewed, so the fine artist takes this element into account when creating the work. The client determines the illustrators image size, so the illustrator can create the piece at almost any size he wants as long as it is proportionally correct. The issue of scale of the original artwork does not affect the illustrator as much as the fine artist because the aura of the illustration is in the reproduced image. That is why the N.C. Wyeth and Norman Rockwell pieces looked so frail on the walls of the Philadelphia Museumthey were surrounded by paintings that are meant to be seen in person, not in print. I would also argue that this relationship works conversely, and the aura of the fine artists work is greatly lost in the reproduction.

These observations are not meant to demean illustration or to champion fine art, but to illuminate the path I have taken to create my own work. The path of any artist isnt just about creating the art, but about tirelessly evaluating, critiquing, and pushing the idea of art. These analyses have changed my method, and the appearance of my finished work has changed as a result. This self-education was not about learning how

to become a better craftsman, but about understanding the purpose and intent of my own work.

Every artist develops his own idea of what art is, and every artist must discover the purpose of his art. However, these discoveries dont happen unless the artist is willing to question the validity of his work and his influences. My hope is that this evaluation of my own work and method will help people analyze, and then realize, their own.

2Learn more about Daniel Robbins at: www.danielkrobbins.com

Evolution of a Kitchen, 36 x 45 inches, Oil on canvas

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JOHN COOK

MY APOLOGY FOR NOT DOING WORKSHOPSIve been asked repeatedly to do them. Regretfully I do not oblige.

My approach to producing a painting is with a direct stroke, with brush or painting knife, and with minimal blending gradation. Sometimes my canvas will lean more to a brush effect, and often with a prevailing knife effect. I concentrate a lot on the effect of edgeslost ones for movement or softness of mood, and cleanly defined ones for stark contrast and structure.

I concentrate on planes in the form of the subject, to capture the light, and define the image. When painting a persons face,

I do not spend multiple hours or sessions refining the features. Instead, I find myself painting a face relatively quickly, applying the paint almost at an arms length, and not lingering on detail. If it doesnt work for me I will scrape the area down, leaving the underpainting and rework it, correcting any drawing or proportion issues, generally painting it again, and again, and as many times as it takes to satisfy me. Sometimes this is an exasperating procedure, and takes its toll on me emotionally. A recent example would be the portrait of the Indian girl titled

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Red Dress. I painted the face multiple times (six or seven) until I pulled off the last version in 30-40 minutes.

I say this to benefit other artists who might try to follow my approachits not easy to explain. Im sure I would be self-conscious if others watched me during the processthey might wonder if the painting is ever going to happen!

I often put aside failed canvases to use the unfinished piece as an under-painting for a totally new subject. Usually I invert the canvas and begin drawing the new image with a brush. A good example of this is White Cat (shown in progression). Additional pieces like Stogie and Braids resulted from the same process. It should be noted that both of these paintings happened much easier for me without the repetitive repainting. Braids happened to come together very quickly, and I was finished. I would love to have this occur much more often! They both happened to sell quickly as well, thankfully. Incidentally, so did Red Dress.

Braids, 20 x 16 inches, Oil on linen

Stogie, 16 x 20 inches, Oil on linen

Red Dress, 24 x 18 inches, Oil on linen

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Progression 1

Progression 3

Progression 5

Progression 2

Progression 4

Final: White Cat, 24 x 30 inches, Oil on linen

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Im thinking this approach would confuse folks if I should present it in a workshop as a way to paint. Personally it is a mystery to me that I can carve out these images from such a distracting background, but some of my personal favorites come from this exact process. Go figure!

I should confess here I probably would also be distracted in a group setting, because of the intense concentration needed to pull this off. I regret my lack of confidence in this situation. This is the reason I show my progressions of a canvas sometimes. A great friend and portrait painter James Tennison, after seeing some progression shots, commented, I still dont know how the heck you do this!

I love to paint still life pieces. Usually they are simple images with one or two elements. Most are 16 x 20 inches, up to 24 x 30. A couple of friends have commented lately about my work. Randy Saffle, a friend from OPS (Outdoor Painters Society) said something like Ive never seen such emotion coming from a still life painting! And Susan Lyon, a true master painter and a Facebook friend, commented that she loves [my] still lifes, and added that she saves them in a folder for inspiration. How sweet is that? Both of these comments are truly appreciated.

Some of the best times in my painting life are my plein air experiences. Painting outside almost anywhere, if the weather is gorgeous, is one of the greatest feelings Ive had as a painter. Truly I thank God for the opportunity to experience this. Yes, indeed, I must add.

Venice Rooftops

Ive included a couple of shots showing the actual paint box set up, and one of my favorite pieces is the plein air piece with a boat in view and the finished panel on the easel in the foreground. I used the knife a bit on this piece. Ive forgotten the name I gave it just now. Ill call it Forgotten. Another great friend bought this as a Christmas gift for her husband.

The pochade box shown holds 6 x 8 inch panels. I made it from a small cigar box. It is extremely light. The panel shown is called Deserted House. It is in my personal collection.

Ive included a plein air piece I painted from the front seat of my truck ( la Trevor Chamberlain), as well as a photo of the scene showing what I saw. Nowlins Farm is what I painted. The right side background structurethe silo tower shapeis a product of my imagination. There is also lots of knife work on this piece. Ive had a lot of comments on Facebook about this piece, with a great response to the actual scene, and my interpretation.

I just dont know if this intuitive approach can be taught to others. I think I see thingsand scenespretty much the same as other artist friends, but when painting with a friend at the same location, Im often asked Were you both at the same place? My take sometimes is, to say the least a bit personalized.

How do I explain that?

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Forgotten, 9 x 12 inches, oil on linen

Deserted House, 6 x 8, oil on linen

Nowlins Farm, Oil on linen

Learn more about John Cook at: www.johncookart.com

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BEN BAUER

PRODUCT OF PROCESSPaintings usually start from an idea that is sparked by just about anything. Once I have a solid mindset of the idea I source my reference materialanything from notes, photos, on-location studies, and research. I find that working an idea from photo and study reference is where it melds into its own creationpushing creativity to a new level each time.

I usually work with a personal standard set of surface sizes and materials: 1618, 1921, 2224, 2426, 3034, 3036. It seems a bit unorthodox but the proportions are more geared to my compositional intuition. For me it has become the appreciated unexplainable sense of how to orchestrate the idea. Composition to me is something that artist contains internally. Its what the artist uses to communicate, their voice. To me for instance its like a guitarist, say, David Gilmour of Pink Floyd (one of my personal favorites). He plays guitar like millions of others but we hear his guitar and instantly know it is he. I look at an Edgar Payne, T Allen Lawson, Len Chmeil painting

and know instantly its their work and that fascinates me. The way they keep that language at all times painting-to-painting, genre-to-genre. I prefer to create ideas that are usually simple, balanced, leads the eye side to side, up and down and back around. I like simple and calming ideas and study those ideas a lot. I admire the simple but powerful context of the landscape. How do these elements next to each other complement each other or juxtapose each other? How can I orchestrate an idea to convince the viewer of those elements? These are all questions I ask myself when developing that idea.

Signs of Life, 10 x 25 inches, oil on linen, Private collection

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Dawn at White Bear Lake, 26 x 32 inches, Oil on linen, Available at Rehs Contemporary Gallery

Dusks Prelude to Evening with Moon, 24 x 29 inches, Oil on linen, Private collection

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Once I am committed and the painting idea is ready I start with a toned surface, usually using a sienna ochre or raw umber. For me mark-making for compositional elements is the hardest and most fun part of the paintingultimately the most crucial, it sets the parameters of the original concept. I usually handle the paint pretty straightforward with a thinner drying medium at first, nailing down values and overall color temperature. I usually start things with thicker paint and establish the overall scene. Once this is done, I then use a painting knife/spatula to scrape all excess paint off, thus leaving the paint stain and a base for the next session. Once this is tacky (usually the next day) I go over the first base with a fresher eye and direction. This is where relationships start, and the painting starts to embark on its own journeyto me the most intriguing part. This is where the painting starts talking to me, where and when things happen, where the next level begins. This is ultimately where a painting can take off and work itself to the almost finished stage. To me this is a point where it marinates (as I call it) for a while unseen. As I have progressed in my career I find things working out on their own and moving forward to a meaningful end, BUT not always, as all other artists knowits part of the process. I never get discouraged by occasional setbacks; its where I grow the most.

A newer-found element of painting I am interested in is letting oil paint and its predictable/unpredictable nature or temperament guide me. Questions that I ask myself when working are: Thin or how thick? Do I allow the canvas to show? Do I leave edges broken? Do I add or subtract from the original idea? How do I create a sense of place with style, technique and overall mood or tone? Once I have exceeded my original expectations and the painting works on a formal element level and is visually appealing, I end it and the curiosities and challenges are solved.

Most of all these images are part of me, they are who I am. I am longingly trying to define my mantra, but its hard to define and strangely enough I like it undefined. I feel that if I define my artistic directions or what ultimately drives me I fear I will defeat its purpose. I have an incurable curiosity of ideas and instinct to paint, thus letting the paint and ideas work themselves out. I honestly believe this part of my life lets me be aware of a more beautiful world.

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Early Spring in Montana, 24 x 26 inches, Oil on linen, Private collection

Soft in Wilernie, 19 x 21 inches, Oil on linen, Private collection

Learn more about Ben Bauer at: www.benbauerfineart.com

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SADIE VALERI

PROTECTING STUDIO TIMELike many artists, I am in a continual search for balance between

painting, making an income, and fitting in the rest of what I want to do and need to do.

Before becoming a full-time fine artist I was a graphic designer, and I thought full-time artists spent all their time leisurely painting exactly what they wanted to paint, and then handing it off to galleries to sell while they painted some more.

Now that I am a full-time artist and have become friends with other full-time artists, I have found very few live this life. Instead many spend a significant portion of their time doing something for extra income, whether teaching, accepting commissions, doing freelance commercial art, or traveling to do demos and workshops.

Even artists who do manage to make their income solely from gallery sales might find themselves devoting at least a portion of their painting time to creating what they know (or hope) will sell. So they still have a limit on the hours they can work on more personal or experimental work.

Artists also spend significant time managing their gallery careers outside of actual painting time: planning which shows and contests to enter, researching new galleries and communicating with current galleries, keeping track of bookkeeping and taxes, not to mention photographing, framing and shipping artwork.

Silver Globe Pitcher, 16 x 20 inches, oil on panel

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The business side of being a fine artist takes many hours each month.

In addition to doing work that brings in extra income, we must also balance our time with family and friends and keep up with the errands and demands of regular life. We might even want some time each day to exercise, or even just relax. Since painting hours are amorphous and malleable, these normal demands of life can easily encroach on them. I have long known that I have a limit on how many hours per day I can maintain the focus and attention I need to paint or teach effectively. I work seven days a week, but the period of deeply focused concentration, whether teaching or painting, is only possible for part of each day. I only paint by daylight, which also limits my productive hours. So I have to plan those hours carefully if I dont want the painting time to get swallowed up by other things.

I spend half my productive hours each week painting and the other half of those hours teaching. I feel lucky that I love teaching. Teaching is an ideal side job for me because it doesnt take my mind away from my primary goals of artmaking: slowing down, looking carefully, and learning to be present in the moment. My students bring energy and enthusiasm

with them to my studio. Teaching has also been a valuable continuation of my own art education, as it solidifies my command of the fundamentals.

Between teaching and the rest of lifes demands, I could easily fill most my days with necessary, important people and tasks, and never get to paint at all. The only way I can fit in the easel time I do is because my husband also runs the atelier with me and handles the bulk of the administration of classes and students, bookkeeping, while also managing our home. If he were not doing all of that, I would have zero hours per week to paint.

Finally, I find that not only the hours, but my mental attention must be guarded. During day-to-day life we are flooded with imagery and ideas, opinions of friends and family, advice from gallerists, comments from fellow artists. All of this can reverberate in my head as I work on a painting and can disrupt my focus. Holding onto an idea long enough to paint it takes setting up a mental and emotional line of defense.

Anchor in the Gale, 7.75 x 7.75 inches, Oil on panel

Crumpled wave with seashell, 14 x 13 inches, Graphite and white chalk on paper

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Showing and selling in galleries can also put pressure on the artistic process. Sometimes its good pressure, giving artists the deadline they need to stay at the easel. But other times, showing publicly can adversely affect the painting process. I find I can be easily distracted by what I imagine the gallerist wants, and choosing what to paint becomes a choice along the spectrum between compliance and rebellion. In order to stay focused on my vision for a painting I have to keep my process unencumbered by unwanted influences.

I am learning more and more all the time about protecting my painting hours, and protecting the painting space inside my own mind. I am careful what influences I let in. I guard my time fiercely. I have had to learn to say no, to only spend time with people and activities that support and refuel my energy for painting.

Self-portrait at 41 in the studio with dog, 31 x 41 inches, Oil on canvas

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I lived through an almost decade-long artists block when I did not paint at all. I worked very hard to dig myself out of the block, and so I feel the threat urgently. I know how easy it is to let every other part of life feel more important than painting. I know how easy it is to be distracted by everything that is already difficult and fascinating about life. I also know how excruciating it is for a painter to stop painting, for an artist to not make art.

So now I do everything I can to be sure I can keep painting forever. I plan to be a living master at age 100. The only way to achieve that is to guard the hours, defend my mental borders, and hold studio time sacred.

2Learn more about Sadie Valeri at: www.sadievaleri.com



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