Fighting the Ugly Stage

It's the damndest thing . . . the ugly stage of a painting. After a careful drawing of the essential shapes followed by the setting up of the value plan, most every painting of mine seems to say "Don't Paint Me."

Sometimes it's just pathetic. I'll move away from the easel to my big "viewing" chair. It starts out with my mind asking the essential question, "What the hell do I do now?" Often I will leap from my chair, grab a brush, attack a puddle of paint and suddenly the brush has a mind of its own and demands to be put down. "Wait a minute, Buster," the brush commands. In an instant I'm back in the chair. Is it procrastination, self-doubt, or am I really trying to devise a logical plan of attack?

Sure, there are moments when that leap from the chair yields some magic. Strangely, the ugly stage is instantly transformed into . . ."Hey wait minute, this painting ain't bad!" 

However, after jumping that hurdle and feeling much better, Cathy, my muse usually ambles over to offer a quick review ranging from pointing out a severe design flaw to commenting on "do, do do, do doop doop do do."

 Roughly translated, it means stupid brushwork. Of course she's almost always right.

The fire is out. Another comment from the Peanut Gallery made it better. My buddy Dustin White made me take the value of this rear windows down several notches. I think I'm happy now.

We did get into it over this painting. It was not about design or brushwork. It was "What are you Doing?" 

In its Ugly Stage the broken down cabin looked like it was in the middle of a forest fire, not fall foliage. It was awful. But I had a plan when I leapt from the chair. As I was about to mix some cools for color contrast, Cathy just stands there shaking her head. "Why are you painting a forest fire?" she asks slyly. Now my self-doubt is at full tilt. She tells me to text it to my son Jake who never minces words.

"Yes" is his one word answer about the forest fire.
Within seconds I'm back in the chair ready to fling this 6x6 into the dumpster across the street. This ugly stage is really getting ugly.

I started out with such high expectations. I could feel this place. I could smell it. I've been there. This was a painting which people like to say "Painted itself."
But no . . .  I was floundering in the woods. I needed an existential fire truck right then and there. I dialed 911 in my brain. 

Definition, I needed definition. And isn't that at the essence of the Ugly Stage? I keep trying to tell myself to be patient. Why am I always in a rush? Ah, that's another chapter.

Look Out! Palette Knife Adventures

I never knew what to do with palette knives except scrape paint and, of course, clean the palette. I'd see some painters I admire doing a few palette knife tricks, but I stayed away from it. But one day I was fooling around and found that the knife was able to make crisp clean colors. But still, I was afraid to actually use it in a painting. Then I took a workshop with Dan Young who showed me the ropes. He'd furtively pull out his little knife like it was some sort of contraband. Tweak Tweak here and a tweak tweak there..... And thus began my journey. But to be honest, I used it a few times and put it away . . . . until this week. My friend Doris O'Hara, a painter in Point Dume took a look at one of my paintings and said, "David, you need to get out your palette knife. Your brushwork is too tight. Push some paint around!"

I took her advice to heart and and did 4 paintings with my knives. I now think that I'm addicted. I've got a long way to go. I need to get more thick juicy strokes but I gotta start somewhere.

I have always been intimidated by Sage and Rabbit Brush yet somehow the palette knife turned it all around.

This painting of the Owens River outside Bishop truly sucked before I took out the Big Knife and slapped some real paint
up there.

This was good fun although it endured a long ugly period as the painting developed. Felt hopeless at one point but mushed on.

This is the one Doris said to attack with the knife. Not as loose as I want to be, but I guess this is my style.

Making Progress

Painting is driving me crazy. I mean, really crazy! I know that things have spun out of control when I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep and painting takes center stage. Instead of counting sheep, I'm mixing imaginary colors on my palette. When I wake up in the morning I've been taking a quick peek at whatever is on the easel in my studio before my coffee. Cathy has always maintained that I'm very compulsive. I'm sure she's right

Lately I've been living the dream . . . painting something every day, some days in the studio, some days outdoors. Have I made progress? Hmmmm, maybe!

The excellent painter Jill Carver summed it all up for me perfectly a few months back . . . . artistic progression runs like the upward movement of concentric circles. You make progress but then you double back on yourself. It's a smoother version of "2 steps forward, one step back."

Sometimes changing up the canvas size and configuration can be a great motivator. I only spent about 90 minutes on this one as the 8x16 format made new goals.

The painting (above) of the West Mitten in Monument Valley has helped me go forward. It hangs in my studio as a reminder that no matter how down I get about my ability, there is always something in a painting that reminds me of my potential. In this one, I'm drawn to the mesa in the background. It is where I truly want to go.

Big spurt at the beginning of August when I was out in North San Diego County with Ray, Mark, Byron and Dustin. Whenever I paint with those guys I feel like I'm in a dream. Confidence was at a high. It was a time for studies, not complete paintings. But being the maniac I am . . . I had to make paintings!

It's a funny thing about painting outdoors. Quite often comfort speaks loudest. This scene would never have been painted if I hadn't found a massive area of shade right here at Batiquitos Lagoon.

Shade made this one happen too!

Finally the Water looks like Water

Water, like skies, seems so easy. But water, particularly the ocean, is the quintessential "paint what you see" not what you think you see. When I started out I just reached for cobalt blue or ultramarine and mooshed it around. While the rest of the painting looked OK, the water sucked . . . really sucked. Because it just ain't blue. I could never understand how to use purple, green and red properly.

This week I painted a spot on Santa Cruz Island and I think I finally started to capture the water. My little Leo, age 5, gave me the best review ever. "Papa . . . I really like the water!" I asked him if he recognized the spot. Yes he said, it was the place where we hiked on Cathy's birthday. Ah, victory is sweet.

Never Give Up

I drove by this scene outside Dolores, Colorado the other day but I was too late for the fireworks. The Cottonwoods along the river were glowing as I headed toward town, but by the time I got here it was gone. I snapped a photo any way. Fresh from the Jill Carver workshop I figured I’d give it a try. I'm in pursuit of vibrant clean color and this was another opportunity. I did my due diligence: notan study-check, value plan-check, motif-check. So I happily painted away and came up with a real piece of crap. The composition was OK but I was trapped by the photo. It just didn’t work. The tree looked lame. It was one of those moments of “Why paint . . . why torture myself.”

I had the day all to myself. No distractions. Hit the studio at 8:00 am to finish last night’s effort. Started on the Cottonwood at 10:30 and hit the wall at noon. Some chicken tacos at El Pollo Loco sounded like a plan. I washed my hands but returned to the big chair in the studio to see if I could figure it out. The words of Matt Smith and the lessons of Ray Roberts rang in my head,

“Scrape it dude.”

But there was something about the composition I liked. I got my hands dirty scraping the tree down to white (Love those double oil primed canvas boards!). I cleaned up again and off I went. While I waited for my chicken I channeled Paul Bingham . . . What did Maynard do?

Right then and there I googled his stuff and wham! Found a Maynard cottonwood that was sensational. I got inspiration from the master, I wouldn’t copy his tree but he gave me several ideas.

Maynard's Cottonwood lifted me out of the doldrums.

Returning to the garage I sat in the big chair contemplating. I got a crazy idea. Forget the photo . . . make the light come from the opposite direction! Then self-doubt crept in. How could I do that. Everything would be screwed up. It’s impossible . . . just wipe the whole 11x14.  But hang on . . . I had no obligation to the photo. I'm in control, not some digital image. I need to make a PAINTING. And yeah Dave . . . you got nothing to do the rest of the day . . .  time to experiment. Maynard had some cool tricks. It was all about the edges and transitions and proper placement of the lightest light.

Well holy shit, I sit here back at my desk with many lessons learned. Don’t give up! Control self-doubt. Seek inspiration from the masters and, most importantly, follow your vision. If you can dream it, you can do it.

And, oh yeah, that damned photo.

No Pain - No Gain

Last week sitting in my studio I went through dozens of my busted paintings. Cathy said it was time to make better use of all those panels -- Sand 'em down, slap on some gesso and move on. The Jill Carver workshop was just ahead and I was hoping for a quantum leap. All those busted paintings brought back memories, some sweet, some frustrating. There were desert scenes which looked great outside but really lacked color and proper values in the end. A bunch of seascapes where almost every value was a mid-tone, the colors dull and chalky; full of tentative brush strokes and stupid dabs of paint. Some were so bad that I just wanted to snap them over my knee.

Then there were those I knew I could fix. But what the hell was I doing? It was time to move on. Get rid of those things. Sure, my studio wall had some decent work but as I looked up from the bone pile it was clearly time to hit the reset button.

I always laugh when friends of mine tell me that "painting must be so relaxing." Yeah, if making yourself euphoric and insane at the same time is relaxing. No, painting is a passionate endeavor requiring a full commitment of your mind and soul. I know I can be good.  I have the knowledge and desire to reach a higher level. I just need a big kick in the ass. I need some tough love.

I desperately needed to return to a world of big shapes and abstraction. I was in the zone on this one. It hangs on the wall in my studio as a reminder that, yes, I CAN do it.

My main mentor Ray Roberts can usually turn me upside down in a 4 day workshop and set me down the proper path. Ray gives me the tough love. He knows I don't appreciate it when he plays nice-nice. He doesn't often pull out the sledgehammer . . .   it's mostly quick jabs to the chin.

Ray can just look at me; run his hand through his hair, turn his head sideways and whisper . . . .“You can do better than that. You know, ah . . . um, well, your drawing doesn't work. Your values aren't right. I'd wipe it and start over."

Or, he'll look at a mesa or mountain I've overworked and ask for my brush. Then, like the alchemist he is, he mixes some insanely perfect color and slams a giant stroke through the mountain . . .handing me the brush and walking off to someone else . . . and oh, yeah, he gives a backward glance with a crooked smile.

The bad habits have a way of returning. I’m like a drunk going to AA who falls off the wagon on a regular basis.

Ray always maintains that color gets the credit but values do the work. I understand the concepts but my hand won’t cooperate. I get in that horrible habit of dipping into the puddle of white before I stop and think about what I’m doing.

“Hey Dave,” Ray admonishes, “pull out that red acetate in the MVP and figure out the real values.”

And if that wasn’t enough, he would just stand there, reach into his pocket and pull out a 1-10 Gray Scale card. He’ll just shake it at me. I was dumb enough to avoid such a technical tool. Besides, I probably didn’t know what the hell to look for. I was scared to use it.

This is where I left off last November. I was just beginning to make proper shapes and values after a week with Ray.

Ray is a visceral painter. He’s a mad scientist of paint. His brush hovers, pauses and dips in a ballet on the palette. His colors are sensational. His values are sublime.

“Hey Ray, how did you make that color?”

“Damned if I know,” is usually his answer.

I have maintained that he teaches Quantum Physics when I’m just getting a passing grade in elementary chemistry. I desperately need discipline. But, oh yeah, those times when I get on that Ray Train I feel like Superman at the easel. Last November in Laguna I felt that I was starting to get it. The visceral thing was rubbing off. I did some coherent studies. But I still lacked discipline over the long haul.

There are times when no matter how much white I use in a mixture, I can’t get a stroke to pop. When I do succeed, there is no chroma and pretty soon my painting looks chalky. Far too often I’m chasing values like you would chase shadows in late afternoon. My darks start out good but about an hour into an outdoor session I’m handcuffed in the mid-range. Perfect . . . chalky colors and muddy darks.

I KNOW I can paint well but frustration often takes the wheel especially when I can't paint on a regular basis

Then a big project at work derailed my painting. My garage-based studio stood silent. A seascape from Ray’s workshop sat on my easel for 7 months.

But I’m getting too far afield. Last April when I saw that Jill Carver was a doing a workshop in her hometown of Rico, Colorado, I jumped on it. A master painter, I had heard that she was an excellent teacher. In fact, Dan Young (my guide to my last giant leap) told me that Jill would straighten me out and set me on the proper path.

An 8 month layoff was awful. Painting isn’t like riding a bike. You need the daily reps, Painting is evolutionary, not something that works with long layoffs and brief returns. While I would put myself to sleep dreaming about color mixing, there was no substitute for the real thing.

Crazily enough, Jill had to jury you into the workshop. I figured “Uh Oh.”

But sweet Jill wrote back offering me a seat but more importantly she said she could help get me on the right path. I desperately wanted to be more abstract. It was time to put my quest for realism in the rear view mirror.

“You’re an Object man,” she said, “I’ve got to convert you to a Shape man. And while we’re at it, you need value discipline.”

Music to my ears.

I first met her in 2009 when we were both “Guest Artists” at Maynard Dixon Country. She got in on merit. I got in because Paul Bingham, the guy who ran the show talked me into doing a crazy symposium about why TV and painting are similar. She had a slew of Red Dots. I had none.

I remember Jill’s stuff was stunning. She was an original. Her wild impressionist style was complimented by her amazing colors. But it was her kindness and grace that made the biggest impression. She has that uncanny ability to make you think that anything is possible.

I arrived in Rico with all the insecurity and trepidation that accompanies a workshop for me. I was just so rusty. 

I figure the only way to learn at a workshop is to completely give myself over to the teacher. Stay in the instructor’s zone; use their palette; take copious notes; ask good questions; follow the directions exactly . . . then just shut up and paint.

I did my Notan sketch, made a value plan and kept the damn brush out of the white. Finally some colors emerged. I even moved a barn.

This was not your normal workshop filled with Winton paints and eager amateurs with gigantic heavy duty easels and stupid questions. No, these were hardcore artists out to fine tune their game. Unlike other workshops there was nothing resembling a competitive atmosphere. Everybody was taken out of their comfort zones. Yet the vibe was amazing. Everybody shined. No whiners, complainers or trouble makers.

The discipline I craved was provided right from Day 1. It all began with Notan sketches. Then we were trained to make a very specific value plan, analyze the values, use the gray scale and write it all down. Make a three value painting and keep the puddles separate. While you’re at it, create a coherent motif and analyze your motivation . . . . and really work toward clean, high chroma color. The clear goal was to make real studies with proper values and color notes. Don’t paint objects: paint form. Forget what you think you know . .  . climb aboard and ride to parts unknown.

Jill has amazing easel-side manner. She can say more with a dip of her chin and a flash of her eyes than she can with mere words. When I was cruising I could feel her positive energy flow through me. When I was crashing she spoke volumes with her demeanor. When she did speak it was with incredible respect . . . "Have you thought about this . . . .?" Criticism came in the center of a Praise Sandwich. But my favorite Jill moments occurred when she would come over to my easel and just smile . . . an inscrutable smile. I'm thinking,"What does she mean by that?" Soon the truth emerged, good and bad. Yet that brief moment of pure smile always brought anticipation and mystery.

I starting seeing things on my easel that I had never seen before. Actual, true values emerged. Clean color appeared. At times it was so exhilarating that I thought I was on some drug.

But, yes, there was also pain. The old habits would sometimes creep in. The clash between the fresh philosophy and the old ways was a struggle. Once I scanned the area for the nearest trash can to deposit my panel (Didn’t pitch it).

Yeah, no pain . . . . no gain.

It’s a funny thing about that workshop. I came away feeling like a giant killer.

Did I paint a masterpiece? No.

Did I come home with a keeper? No

Did I come home with confidence, full of knowledge?  Hell YES!

Revelation in the Desert

With my confidence at full throttle thanks to Dan Young's workshop, I stopped at the side of the road in the Superstitions and immediately made a drawing of this scene. My pulse actually quickened. When I got home expanded it into an 11x14.

Again, confidence can make things happen. Moving elements to enhance composition is liberating. After the workshop I fell into a virtual painting frenzy. Inspiration was in plain view. Painting became exhilarating again.

Painting with confidence was always one of those impossible goals to which I paid lip service but seemed too difficult to achieve. Ever since I started slapping paint on a canvas I struggled with the same fundamentals every time. My drawing was poor, my values needed constant adjustment and my colors looked like they should be in a cartoon. If I got something right I was scared to touch it. I painted tight. I painted light. I was always so tentative. I had teachers who would come to my easel, watch me gingerly dab some paint and they would all say the same thing. Put some paint up there. A strong brush stroke is a powerful message. Tentative swabs with thinned out color was not.

Dan Young summed it all up on Day 1 of our Arizona workshop.

“Let’s be clear today,” he admonished, “this is a painting workshop, not a staining workshop.”

As I write this, some weeks later, I am a changed painter . . . at least for now. Some very powerful messages came forward out in the Arizona desert. These were not totally new concepts. In fact, I had heard it all many times before. Maybe I never really listened. Maybe I never really understood. Maybe it was the fact that Dan is not only a master painter, he's a master teacher.

I remember back in my first days of oil painting around 2005 when Karl Dempwolf would stress that a painting without a thumbnail is like a building without a blueprint. Being a terrible draftsman, I tried to do these thumbnails but became increasingly frustrated. Besides, I had such a lack of knowledge about composition and value that I’m not sure I could execute a proper drawing. I would constantly get bogged down, stuck in the weeds with too many lines and too many indefinite shapes. I understood perspective but couldn’t execute properly. I was hung up drawing form not shape.

In many other workshops the instructors swore off thumbnails and advised doing an oil sketch directly on the canvas. As I look back on that period, which may have lasted until a few weeks ago, I think of how many busted paintings I made because I had no roadmap. One teacher, Jim Wodark, was a thumbnail guy. But he had a sixth sense about the simplicity of a scene. He could easily reduce any scene to 5 lines and 3 values without blinking. That kind of drawing intimidated me. Jim helped me to see but I needed a more strict taskmaster to get me to the next level.

So I stumbled down this path realizing quite often that my lack of design was killing my paintings. Ray Roberts always stressed design. Ray taught me to paint. To really paint. He taught me  much about composition, design, value and color. But with Ray I often felt that he was teaching Calculus while I struggled with Algebra. And he left all options open. Thumbnail . . . cool. Oil sketch on canvas . . . cool. Too much freedom for me. 

Dan Young had a different approach. Basically, if you didn’t do a simple and coherent thumbnail, you couldn’t paint that scene! Now, he’s too humble a guy to actually dictate those terms but I believed he meant business. The workshop began unlike any workshop I had ever attended. He wanted 10 or 15 sketches in 30 minutes. I don’t know what happened but that simple exercise opened me up. After 10 or 12 sketches I felt a little confident. I was starting to distill a scene to its essence.

Then he evaluated those sketches and “corrected” some elements even simplifying some elements.

For years I’ve been listening to my painter buddies constantly blabber on about finding shapes. It got to the point where I felt inadequate. "Damn, I don’t really see those shapes." Then the painter would come over to my easel and show me. It was like magic. “Oh, yeah” I’d say, feeling like a dimwit.

Well suddenly out in a parking lot in Peralta Canyon, Arizona I began to really see. This was a huge step. Confidence started to ooze out of me. Then Dan hopped over and offered another liberating concept. Make the rock wall in a shape that works for you. Change the shape. Move the road.  Leave out that big cactus. Make your thumbnail work. Move the little cactus. It’s a painting. Make your thumbnail a true roadmap.

OK, OK. I have heard this all before. But I never believed it. I was stuck in the old school thought that I must render the scene as it appeared before me. Now it was an entirely new idea. Painting from life you can capture the essence of a Palo Verde. You can play with the shadows and sunlight on a rock wall. You can put arms anywhere you want on a Saguaro. You can make foreground and shadows work for you. It's not a photograph. I started to really get in touch with my feelings about the scene. Many times in the past I was too worried about making an exact rendition.

Dan said if the composition isn’t strong enough, change the large shapes. Suddenly I was free. This was the path to the impressionism I sought. This workshop was a game-changer for me.  Now if I can only work on my brushwork . . . .!!!!!!!!

Creating a painting, not making a photograph on canvas is a different perspective for me. This  "On the Spotter" wasn't an exact rendition.

Going Bolder

Bigger shapes, stronger color and better design are my keywords for the new year. I've made some strides in 2015. The most important is embracing the flat brush over the round. After a few years of screwing around with Rounds, I decided that Flats were my new direction. The first success happened this past October on the June Lake Loop. The Aspen trees were done with real Flat brush strokes.

Shapes are crucial too. It is essential for me to not get caught up the details. On that same trip I fought strong winds and tried to capture the sage and Rabbit Brush.

Light and shadow are now essential elements in any painting I start. In the old days I might ignore shadows. I guess it was easier that way. I always have to remember how Ray Roberts makes the shadows the chief elements of his design. My cabins in Bodie seem to be a step in the right direction.

OK . . . what about color? After so many workshops where the stress was on gray I felt like I was falling into a trap. I needed bolder colors. Cathy came to the rescue on this one from the Dominican Republic. "More color," she admonished, "Don't be afraid . . . more color!"

It's a Funny Thing

One of the more amusing situations for an artist center on comments from the "peanut gallery" about your work. Nearly everyone starts with the same question: "How long did it take to paint that?" That one is funny because the answer for me, at this point in my journey is: "Oh, about 12 years!" After that the line of questioning usually goes toward subject matter. Some of my non-painter friends love to point out a scene and exclaim, "wow, now THERE'S a painting." I usually agree and that's the end of it.

However, last summer my friend Todd Harris was captivated by a wheat field in France. He especially loved the one tree in the distance which looked like a lollipop. To a painter, a lollipop tree is a big no-no. We are always trying to vary the shape of any tree. But this damn tree was a lollipop and Todd loved it. When we arrived at the wheat field that morning he told me that I needed to paint that field with the lollipop tree. I nodded politely.

We were parked there as it was the finish line for that day's stage of the Tour de France which were televising. We were there for 7 hours. Todd must have asked me 5 times if I was going to paint that scene. "That's really an impressionist painting" he exclaimed, "and we are in France."

I told him that the lollipop tree bothered me and that if I painted it I would change the shape. He urged me not to change it. That's what he loved about it. So here it is, in all it's lollipop glory.



Another comment from the Peanut Gallery which usually gets me stirred up is, "wow, that looks like a photograph." I find that particularly perplexing because it assumes that the photograph is the standard. But part of my problem is that I try too hard to make the painting "realistic." Often, I will start an impressionistic painting only to find that I have over-rendered the subject. This is my biggest struggle these days. I want to, as my friend Ray Roberts says, "paint form, not objects." Ray, a true impressionist often jokes that people say his paintings "lie." I want to lie! I did do a big painting a while back which almost walks that line. It's a little "photographic" but it heads in the right direction.



But no matter how hard I try, my "realistic" nature jumps back in. Back in August I saw these trees in Barracks Canyon, Utah and loved the play of light. I almost got it . . . The beat goes on!

Photos Lie

What is it about photos which make them difficult as sources for paintings? It seems like everything is flattened, the shadows are lifeless and the drama falls short. Lately I've been trying to work from photographs if I have done a study on site. The true values and color notes provide accurate guidelines for a proper painting. Photographs lie and distort, but not in a good way.

Last summer I was painting in Capitol Reef National Park when this mesa was suddenly lit up in a magical way. I snapped away for a few minutes with my Canon but the rendition wasn't what I was feeling. There wasn't time to set up my rig and paint as I had just scraped my palette clean and packed up.

Ray saw me standing there with my mouth open. He stopped and said, "Just make sure that big shadow isn't a black hole in your painting. Remember that blue on the horizon just above the mesas and keep it simple."

Several months went by before I finally got to the painting. As I looked at the photo the memory of that moment came back to me. For the first time I ignored much of the color and value information in the photo and painted from a different mental place.

Batting Practice with the New York Yankees

Sometimes I find myself painting in a dream. I'm in the wilds of Utah and my ultimate Painting Heroes are within earshot. This is no workshop, these are true masters at work. And there I am, taking batting practice with the Yankees. Only this is no dream. It's real. I'm a lucky man as somehow I get to paint with the masters on occasion.

I learned a few years back not to get intimidated. When these people are seriously working, my easel is seldom worth more than a cursory glance. It's a magical time punctuated with relaxed conversations, bad jokes and great old stories of past sessions. This is not a session for a "Study." They are making finished work for the Wet Paint Sale at Maynard Dixon Country. It's pretty serious business.

I do have to pinch myself .... Jeremy Lipking is on my right and Randy Sexton is on my left. Charles Muench is next to Randy talking to himself as his brush races over a 6x9. Up on the hill behind us, Glenn Dean is seeing something no else is. He looks like one of those old photos of Edgar Payne.....white hat, perfect posture holding his brush as far from the ferrule as possible. Ray Roberts is over in the trees going for the rich morning shadows in Barracks Canyon. John Budicin was here first and he paints atop a virtual throne overlooking the creek. John paints like he's in trance. My regular painting buddy Mark Fehlman is down in the canyon below.

This truly is a dream. I lay out my design and nod to myself. At my level this painting will be a victory. Charles offers a critique . . . "Nice little painting," he says. Now I'm Walking on Air. This has been a long journey for me. I never thought I would be here!

I feel like by just being there I was a better painter. The conversation takes odd turns. The talk is not about Art. Jeremy starts chatting about real estate in our neighborhood back in California while he sketches out a simple, yet elegant composition. Charles stops talking to himself long enough to give Randy some ribbing.

"Hey Sexton, how can you paint here when there isn't a broken down vehicle or a cabin falling apart?"

Randy laughs. He's working 11x14 with giant brushes in his hand.

Glenn and Ray have painted pair of gems. John is still intense under his umbrella. His painting is spectacular. I had to buy it. It now hangs next to my desk as I write this.

After a few hours the palettes are scraped clean and the paintings disappear into panel carriers. The cars and trucks are loaded and the caravan heads back to Mt Carmel. Each artist kicks up a dust cloud in the late morning as they race down the dirt road.

Going Big at Malibu Creek State Park

It always seems daunting with oils to go big. The initial block-in (16x20) is fun and and provides a special element of freedom which doesn't happen in my 9x12 world. This one at Malibu Creek State Park was done from a small study which was drawn from a funky iPhone photo. These bigger studio paintings demand time. This took 5 solid days of work.

In Search of Impressionism

Had a strong growth spurt in Sedona at the Jim Wodark workshop. Jim is a true impressionist and somewhat of a colorist. I learned a lot about color mixing and its relationship to proper values. This workshop was truly hard work. The group was an advanced bunch. Everyone helped each other up their game. Jim was truly honest and an extremely good teacher.

Inspiration from Jake - Part 2

Continuing to channel Hopper, Jake keeps coming up with the lonely men of the 21st Century. This one struck a cord with the stark shadows and reflected sunlight. These scenes are so natural to dive in and starting pushing paint.

Inspiration from Jake

Sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest corners. After the very taxing and difficult workshop with Camille Przewodek in Scottsdale, I wanted to move forward with geometric shapes, transposing them to urban landscapes. I had to show what was in sunlight and what was in shade. This was truly a case of searching for the right color. This was not about values.

Jake had been taking many amazing photos of people. This one from Nashville of a guy checking his text messages struck a big chord. Six months ago I would not have even attempted such a thing. And if I did, I wouldn't have put the man in the painting. But Camille told me that I could paint anything. "Don't be afraid" she said. Jake's photo was so lyrical that I simply had to try.

Ray Roberts La Jolla Workshop

Just painting with Ray Roberts raises your game infinitely. He's the mad professor of dark and light . . . the crazy maker of mud which is transformed into incredible color . . . the King of Ocean Composition. The workshop came at the end of one of my great growth spurts. The perfect time to work with the Master. He helps you see the extraordinary from the ordinary. He teaches you to see.

 Study Number 2 from Day 2 was a major victory in composition and brushwork.

 The finished "studio" painting . . . 12x16. Truly "felt" this one as it emerged.

My first effort on the beach on Day 1. Ray liked my colors.