The excruciating pain of choosing

What paintings make the final cut? How about choosing by committee?

El camino hacia el pueblo, by Carol L. Douglas

Keith Linwood Stover once asked me why artists seek criticism in the first place. “We’re not the best judges of our own work,” I told him. (This is why gallerists and curators are such important players in the art process.) That’s especially true when you’ve just painted for a week in an alien environment. Whatever judgment you have goes to pieces.

I’m not alone in finding this difficult. Last night I sat around the table at Jane Chapin’s house with a group of artists, debating what we’ll submit. Richard Abraham and I are in the same position: our strongest works are in a sense, redundant. They’re each of the same subject. This makes us both a little nervous.

Dry wash, by Carol L. Douglas

I looked at his three top contenders and gave an opinion; he looked at my three and gave an opinion, and it was unsettling, because he counted back in a painting (Dry Wash) that I’d already eliminated. Men and women approach paintings differently, and understanding how the male mind works might be helpful in jurying.

My opinion is that any of Richard’s three contenders will win him a prize. His options are all good. That makes me wonder if I’m dithering over equally inconsequential differences. Still, the choice of submissions is the most difficult job of the week, and it behooves us to take it seriously.

La casa de los abuelitos, by Carol L. Douglas

A painting should be—as the old saw goes—compelling at 300 feet, 30 feet, and three feet.  The first question, then, is what will draw someone from the other side of the room. To answer that definitively, I’d have to be inside the head of the juror (Stephen Day) and I’m not. Looking at his work only tells me so much. I can’t know what his goals are, how his day is going, or any of the other myriad thoughts that go into his decision.

Hoodoos in training, by Carol L. Douglas

Why do I distrust my judgment? I’m always most intrigued by the paintings that are terrifically difficult to master. That’s why I love Jonathan Submarining, from Castine 2016. The viewer may just see a Castine Class sailing school bobbing around on the waves, but I see a tough painting done knee deep in the surf and executed well.

This is true too with Dry Wash. The only reason I might change my mind at the last minute is that the dappled light and rocks are well-executed. But the other two better meet the 300-feet challenge.

Castigando del caballo muerto, by Carol L. Douglas

That puts me in a quandary. I’ve written before about who I trust to critique my work. I messaged images to two people yesterday: my husband and Bobbi Heath. Their opinion was consistent (and it matched, for the record, Jane Chapin’s).

But in the end the decision rests with me, and it’s no fun.

The one that got away

The best paintings are sometimes the ones you never got around to doing.

Hoodoos in training, by Carol L. Douglas

This morning I have five paintings in various stages of completion. I’m showing them to you, but each of them needs work before they’re finished. Like it or not, I will spend today working on them, after which I will choose which ones to enter.  We’re delivering from 10-1 tomorrow, and then the die is cast. That’s both a good thing and a bad thing. It takes the pressure off, but we know that whatever we paint Thursday afternoon is going to be our masterpiece.

                                                               

There’s an apple tree down the road. It hangs over a modest adobe doorway and is opening up into all its glory. It calls to me each time I drive down the road, but either the light is wrong or I am fighting it out on a different line. I really want to get that tree on canvas before I leave, but I don’t have time to start something else.

Near Currington, ND, by Carol L. Douglas (watercolor)

I have driven through Saskatchewan and Manitoba twice, looking for the iconic lonely farm to paint. When I was driving through South Dakota at 75 mph in a sketchbook on my lap, I was able to catch a few. When I had the luxury of stopping and setting up an easel and painting methodically, I managed to get through two provinces without ever finding the subject I was looking for.

Blame it on the luxury of time to squander, the wind, rain, or the light. It doesn’t matter; it happens to everyone.

Dry wash, not finished, by Carol L. Douglas

There’s always one that gets away. Today there’s a paint-out at Diablo Canyon. It’s a basalt formation, but it’s a 2.2-mile hike to the money shot. I can’t do that hike on these recently-surgerized feet, and it’s killing me.

Plein air events are mercilessly leveling. “He makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust alike.” When the wind knocked my easel down three times, as it did yesterday, I reminded myself that every one of us fights the same obstacles.

“My umbrella has been kind of useless this week,” said Richard Abraham, who had to chase his hat across the desert. “It’s made for some great Buster Keaton moments.”

We have no access to bathrooms, we worry about pulling over, we’re tired from traveling. Watercolorists have the worst of it. It’s impossible to drop color into a wet sheet when the wind is blowing. Susan De'Armond tells me she’s tried wetting the whole sheet but it dried in moments.

Unfinished, by Carol L. Douglas. That foreground is a mess.

Our host, Jane Chapin, understands all this. She’s an accomplished plein air painter herself, so she understands the ways we can get locked into battle on site. She’s given her Crock-Pot a real workout this week, making us meals that will keep until we stumble in. We protest that it’s not necessary (and it’s definitely not what she signed up for) but it’s greatly appreciated.

Monday Morning Art School: your first big event

You’re nervous, wondering how on earth you got into this show in the first place. What now?

Brush Creek, by Jeanne Echternach, courtesy of the artist.

I’m holed up on a ranch east of the Pecos with six superlative painters here for Santa Fe Plein Air Fiesta. “What advice would you give the emerging plein air artist before his or her first big event?” I asked them.

“Find something that grabs you and not the thing you think is the most important thing to paint. If I don't have that connection, then I don't have that edge,” said William Rogers of Antigonish, Nova Scotia.

Sonoran Preserve, by Richard Abraham, courtesy of the artist.

In other words, don’t focus on the picture postcard view. Sponsors often arrange paint outs for participating artists, and they’re very helpful to those who don’t know the area. But if it doesn’t move you, move on.

“When I was starting out, the worst thing was wasting time driving around looking for the best subject. Once you see something that would make a good painting, stop driving and start painting it,” said Deborah McAllister of Lakewood, CO. “Don’t worry about the other painters in the event or whether you’re going to win an award or not.”

First Snows, First Light, by Karen Ann Hitt, courtesy of the artist.

It’s easy to be unnerved in what is, essentially, a competition. “Find the joy and don't let the event get in your head,” cautioned Jane Chapin of Santa Fe.

Remember that you were invited to this event because the jurors liked how you paint, so stop comparing yourself to others. That’s an insidious way to mess up your own excellent style. That doesn’t mean you can’t learn from others, but It’s best to put that in a tiny corner and ignore it for the duration of the event.

Ricardo and his horses, by William Rogers, courtesy of the artist.

I put the question to Karen Ann Hitt, of Venice, FL, as she drove away merrily in her big truck. “Less talk and more wine,” I thought she said. Later, she told me she’d actually said, “Red wine and dark chocolate, main food groups!” I'll take that to mean: remember to bring snacks and plenty of water.

Later, she talked about the first painting of the event. “Start small, keep it simple, and get your first one under your belt. Don't sweat the details,” she said. It’s a trap to try to do your masterwork on the first run.

Vendor, by Jane Chapin, courtesy of the artist.

“Paint something you're familiar with. Play to your strengths,” added Jeanne Echternach, of Colorado.

Richard Abraham of Minneapolis knocked it out of the park with his first painting of this event. “Make sure you do your best painting the first day. Then you can relax,” he joked. But there’s some truth there. If your first painting is good, it builds confidence.

Still, you must leave room to be experimental. “Don't chase your successes,” said Karen Hitt. By that, she meant, don’t fall into a formula. Take time to experiment, enjoy the place and the event, and challenge yourself.

Cottonwoods on the LaPoudre River, Deborah McAllister, courtesy of the artist.

“You can’t learn any younger,” said Jane Chapin.

Your painting will be better if you’re having fun. Take time to socialize. “Make friends with some new artists,” said Deborah McAllister.