This oil painting been sitting on my easel for a few weeks, waiting for shadows, waiting for the right colors and values. I've been wishing some magical force will transform the trees into more believable things. I brush away at the sky, hoping that some combination of strokes will convey the light on that fall afternoon. Painting is a funny thing. I can't decide if I want things to look realistic or not. The trouble is . . . . my best efforts at impressionism head into the land of hyper-realism. Because I am an inexperienced painter these pictures take on a strangeness. They're "real" looking but not particularly realistic
My friend Brad always jokes, "Hey Dave, What time is it in your painting?"
As I look over this effort, made from a photo taken about an hour before sunset on top Westlake Blvd., I know what time it is in the sky and distant mountains. I almost know what time it is in the trees. But what time is it in the foreground?
This is my dilemma. I think my weakness begins in the early block-in when I don't really lay down the proper cast shadows. And I often sacrifice value for shape.
So there it sits, catching my eye every day as I pass it on the easel. I like the painting, but it reminds me of how far and difficult the journey.
