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!