Form and Tone

I believe behind every good painting is a foundation of form and basic tone that provide the background for the detail that will lay on the surface when the painting is finished. Like the outward rendition, the form must contain the average color tones inherent in the detail that follows.

If you think about it, as I do, form and tone exist behind every kind of detail in front of the human mind.

The reason we can categorize personality types for instance is because behind them are basic forms of characteristics and tone qualities that lay foundation to the surface manifestation.

I don't think you can argue against that. Likewise, behind good literature is form, and tone sets the quality of the work.

Behind the outward manifestation of a beautiful building is the form rendered by the architect, and his choice of design sets the tone that builders will later accomplish.

I could argue this and list many kinds of samples. but to keep this post short, I'll let you examine these digital renderings of a photograph I recently took. The sequence shows the initial photo, followed by the cropped version, then rendered as basic form and tone, and finally, detailed as a painter might lay it into brush work.

This is my homework, the way in which I take myself toward painting.

I'd love to have your feedback on this concept of form and tone as the foundation for anything complete and pleasant. Do you see what I mean by these examples?

Furthermore, can you see how study in this way brings one closer to applying paint to a canvas? For me, it means that when I get there, I will have some basic idea of where to put the paint and why.

What does it mean for you?

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Salute to Harry Orlyk

Pondering the country-side scenics of Harry Orlyk, whose works I discovered surfing websites of East Coast galleries like Gross McCleaf (Philadelphia) and the Carrie Haddad Gallery in Hudson, New York, I came away with a deeper, richer appreciation of the technique, Plein Air.

For more than 25 years, Harry Orlyk has been possessed with the focus to paint from his van, finishing entire country scenes in one sitting, despite sometimes nearly unbearable weather conditions.

In his own words he describes his devotion, "Sitting in the cold in a traditional way, I paint what is before me, sometimes as still as the Eskimo who earns his family's meal by waiting and watching and thinking. He kills an animal; I make an image. We are linked together by our years of long-studied views across a common land."

He does this year-round.You might think he'd have his van heater on during winter weather but he tells us that he does not as he is leary of the possibility of carbon monoxide poisoning. Still he sits, like the Eskimo, and paints the scene before him. Why does he not use a camera? Well, praise God that he doesn't! He's leaving us a legacy as the painters of European old did, his incredibly accurate renderings of upstate New York in the country at all times of the year--scenes that marvel us all but only the few have the eye to see.

I put you here, Harry Orlyk, because I wonder at your singular dedication to be nothing else than who you are...and that is a blessing to all of us who love the open air, the country and art. Check him out yourself. You'll find an artist with an exceptional sensitivity to the play of light on our natural world, all times of day in all seasons.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Paint Like a Child

I belong to an artist's group, a plein-air virtual group whose majority lives on the East Coast. I live in North Idaho, more or less isolated from the culture of museums and art galleries except those dedicated more or less to Western Art. I envy the fact that on the East Coast, one can drive up to Baltimore or Philadelphia and visit a true art museum.

One of my inspiring friends in this small group wrote recently, "[I] sometimes get heavy handed when I do skies, especially sunsets, and end up scraping off the paint to start again. I think I will do a few sunsets with my new technique to see if I can restrain myself so that my clouds are not actually too heavy to float." She presented, as an example, one of the better renditions of a spring sky I've seen in a small plein-air painting.

Meanwhile I have paints and a white empty canvas sitting on an easel next to my desk. It's ready, but I'm not.

Another thoughtful of our group replied that, "Something that might be helpful, if you worry about flatness, is contrast - variety. Although our work differs greatly, we both, and everyone, can benefit from this manipulation of opposites. It is an aspect I am trying to improve right now to give life to my paintings. From subtle to startling, side-by-side extremes, light/dark, warm/cold, bright, dull, are great depth enhancers."

I'm not sure, by the painted example, that the first member was having the difficulty expressed by the second. I realized that everyone comes at art from their own point of view. If only I could find my point of view. I want to paint, but as yet haven't. Like a writer with writer's block. How did I get past that, so long ago? I have no sense of fear attacking a blank piece of paper with words. Why should I fear the canvas?

I commented how much I like the March sky I saw in the example painting, how she had caught somehow the essence of a mid-March sunset. I could even tell it was a sunset, not a sunrise. It was full of life, see for yourself. This particular painter, because she freely shares her plodding insights and art critic's eye as she visits the museums of my envy, has taught me more about approach than anyone else thus far. I appreciate that; but still my canvas remains empty.

Painter's block, I guess. When will it happen? What will I paint? How do I start?

Three of us banter back and forth over the internet, discussing contrast, scraping, and muddled paint. I feel muddled. Then over the pixel sky comes a virtual message with a mighty hint embedded. Aware that I might be struggling, the first painter writes saying, "I know you're in touch with your inner child [, Dwayne]. You should see my 5 year old great-niece attack a canvas. I try to learn as much as I can when I'm around her. She's worth more than a 1,000 stuffy rule books or boring pedantic formulas."

Suddenly the winter sky of grey opens up to a ray of light. I write back enthusiastically to share the insight handed to me in this child's image, "[the image] of your 5-year old grand-niece is picture perfect for the way in which I should approach my canvas, which is like a map of the North Pole in the middle of a summer storm. I can see myself going about it like this little girl. You're right, a rose may be a rose, but a line is intimidating. Picasso must have been nuts.

"Will I have fun painting? Of course I will. I haven't gone there precisely because I couldn't imagine how to approach the line. I did paint on the canvas, but I primed it...with all white primer! Amazing, huh?

"But you have just shown me how I must go about it. The risk isn't what shall I paint; it is what will become of the paint I put on the canvas? It could be anything. Anything I want it to be! And that's what your grand-niece does. She isn't bound by rules--we must break every rule--free up the spirit like [this woman's] grand-niece!

"That's when we catch the sky which is also free. Who can bind the sky? Who can put rules to the sky and say to this cloud or that cloud, 'you must be like this because all clouds are like this.'?"

Not one cloud is like another except by the fact that they float on currents of air. Ah, applaudir! (we play at French in this group) I am happy...[she has] given me a picture of what I couldn't find in all my desire!

I must approach it like a child.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Once In the Long Days of Night

(Continued from In Search of Others, Feb. 24th Archive)

Many days of fighting had gone by. Not by will, but by happenstance, I picked up a number of stragglers and people without swords, nonfighters who were at best victims of the fight. They trailed along behind me and I did not know where to take them.

The first man I had helped was a fighter; but he had a dagger rather than a sword which puzzled me at first. I thought what can you do with that? But he was trustworthy. I could rely on him. He had a heart for the many others who joined us. Put together as we were, we must have been a motley group to anyone else, bedraggled, frayed and half-afraid.

We walked a great distance across this dark plain. I had no visible landmark by which to tell direction. We may have gone in circles for all I knew. I didn't swing the sword constantly, but at times and now and then, my one brother would take out his dagger and swing it into the air back and forth as if the fight were close to his heart.

Wherever we went, we picked up more stragglers. Finally, in the dark of the long days of night, I saw an outcropping, a large singular block of stone sitting higher on the plain than all the ground around. I led the troop there and by then, we must have numbered close to one hundred men, women and children.

At the base of it, even in the dark, I could make out an inscription on the rock, carved by some ancient knife or tool. In a phrase about one foot long and perhaps four inches in height were the words The Hope Stone. I put my hand to it. I felt the rough cut of the words. The rock was smooth yet peppered by the wind and sand. At it's peak it was no more than chest high to me.

"I think you should get up on it," my younger friend encouraged.

I felt the same. At the lower end, about knee high, he assisted me. I stood up and walked to the high point, thinking that perhaps I'd be able to see something in the distance. I scanned the horizon in all directions, but nothing revealed itself. We were without direction. I looked out over the small crowd of dependent people and said to them in a loud voice the one thing I knew.

"Regardless of our circumstance, we must be thankful. We must express this thanksgiving from inside and let it be heard in the air," I said. They began one by one, my young friend being first until a crescendo had built up. As a chorus, they were praising God and thanking Him for His Goodness, His Grace and Mercy in their lives. They were giving thanks in a most robust way.

I looked up at the dark, heavy sky. I layed the sword at my feet and raised my hands toward the heavens. "O Lord," I said, "I am weary, but can you hear their voices? How sweet is the sound of the feeble and the troubled calling out your Holy Name in praises and thanksgiving! Do you hear it? How long, now, must we be in this fight? How long must we walk about aimlessly, Lord?" But no answer came. I bowed my head, "Nevertheless," I raised my face again, "I join them, Lord. I too give thanks. Holy, Holy, Holy you are and without You we would not have come this far. I praise You and I thank You. Holy is Your Name. " We sang like that for minutes on end, each of us phrasing his or her own song, yet the harmony was incredible, as if we'd been trained to sing in an orchestrated choir.

At that point, a light shown high in the sky but off a little in one direction. I happened to be looking right at it when it appeared. Like a star at first, it grew quickly as if the sun itself were breaking through the cloud. It was very bright and fast-growing, then I saw it reflecting off the clouds around it where it had opened up a hole.

"Keep singing," I cried out to the others, exhuberant over what I saw. "Keep praising Him!" The light grew and great beams of light showered down from the dark sky onto the plain until a hole larger than our sun appeared in the center of which stood a being whose form I could see, but whose details were hidden behind the brightness of His Face and Garments. "Oh God," I cried, sinking to my knees. "We are not worthy to see you. Is this You?"

"I have never left you," his voice was clear and some how kind. "I have given you this trial to test you..."

Oh God, I thought at the sound of His Voice, but I have failed.

"...and your heart shows clearly to me. You must lead these people now. Trust me, I will guide your steps. I will provide for you. Though your walk may be difficult, the journey is not long. Lead these people I have given you and bring them home to me. You must trust me. Shed the rest of the doubt from your heart. I am the Lord Your God. I am Sovereign. Go in the direction I give you and stay the course. The joy I gave you in the sword is now in you. Let it shine. Trust me and it will shine."

After He spoke, the bright light all about Him began to recede. As I watched The One Who'd Spoken disappeared into the night sky in the same way in which He'd come. Only the star remained, and it looked just like a star. I reached to pick up my sword but it was gone.

###

The Play of Light

A friend of a shy painter entered her room and took a small amber-colored jar out of his pocket. He opened it in front of the painter who sat hesitantly by the window looking at the record of flowers she'd painted in Amaryllis, a nice piece.

Without words he poured some of the contents of the jar--less than a megabyte--onto the table near where she sat.

"Here, Carole," he said, "I know how you're feeling, abstract thoughts and all. It's rough, I know. Take two of these pixels every hour. Soon you'll feel more courageous. Each pixel is a measure of 100 kilobytes of web. When you've gone through all of them--I think you'll need most of these--then I expect you'll be able to show us the large abstract of which you wrote--you know, the one you referred to? Maybe even all of that abstract side of you. I've got to go now. Virtual travel doesn't take long, but it's dragging, you know, like a cursor? Glad you're enjoying your sabbatical. Be sure to take these. I know they will help."

He nodded authoritatively, to assure her like a true colleague of the arts then walked toward the screen doorway. But just as he was about to exit, he turned and added, "Oh and a, Carole?"

She looked up through apprehensive eyes somewhat surprised and replied, "Oui?"

"It's just that, well, I hope you get by this condition soon...you know....this hesitation thing? Because all of us, the group I mean, need you. I know I do. I think we need you to be every aspect of the artist you are already showing yourself to be, without any hesitation. So please...take two pixels every hour. They're not bitter. Drink them down with a cup of Chai, or better yet a Yerba Mate. I prefer the Yerba Mate. It's very high in antioxidants, you know, especially the wild variety that comes from a company called Aviva. No, seriously, Aviva. Just write to me and I'll tell you more about it. Both will lift you up, but the Yerba Mate will sustain you through long hours--guaranteed! Have a good day, bonne journee."

With a slight nod of his head, he left through the screen from whence he'd come.

###

The Placement of Color

I've wanted to paint for years, but due in part to the cost of paints, I have not yet done so. Because I have a photographic background however, I can study my way there digitally. This digital makeover is one of my studies for the coming enterprise of painting.

Photography is a study in itself. I've learned many things from it. I've learned to see. I've learned to anticipate the critical moment of an event. It's not just about seeing, but about recognizing the placement of color, the timing of a moment, and the layout of a pictorial thought for the best report on it.

I came off the street as a young photographer. At the age of 30, I had left myself no other hope but to be a photographer. I'd lost everything else, every other dream. Photography was both an escape and a lover, a place of comfort. For a period of years, nothing else mattered, not even food. I slept with it and ate it. I digested every aspect of it and those were the days (in the '80's) when digital was hardly a dream. Photography was EXPENSIVE! To live it every day was to sacrifice things others had. One long summer, I slept outside in the backyard of a friend's house from May until November, using his couch only when it rained. I did that in order to keep the rent paid on my downtown studio, a crack-walled delapidated old place as cheap as I could find. All my money went into film, chemicals, rent, gear, and whatever else it took to maintain the photographic bent.

But the need to eat coupled with that singular desire to succeed (because I left myself no other channel) brought about a growth in my being. I persevered through impossible circumstances until the photographer emerged. My pictures were nothing better than ordinary for a long time, but I studied the photographs of others in magazines and wherever I found them asking myself constantly why was that one bought? Why is that good? How did that photographer know that was going to happen? How did that photographer light the subject?

Then something marvelous happened.

It came on all of a sudden. Il est allumé soudain. J'ai commencé à prévoir le moment de la meilleure photographie. I learned to anticipate the moment. I was seeing so well that I could tell when the best moment for the best photo was going to occur. Suddenly I began to make a living at photography. I was competing with the best of them and without effort. My passion grew stronger. I could write a book on this. Je dois probablement. Along with anticipating the right moment, even in still life scenes such as this where there is no movement, came an understanding of the placement of color.

This is true in writing as well. In writing I can't just pepper a page with splashes of colorful adjectives. Such writing would not make sense! In writing, I learned to place color strategically so that my descriptions would come to life, like a yellow buttercup popping up in the fresh green grass of spring. Isn't this true for the painter as well? It certainly was for the observing photographer in me--the one who preceded the writer in emerging talent.

Again it's all about seeing and how we get there. It starts with the very first stroke of the brush, with the first thoughtful sentence of creative text and with the first tentative click of a camera.

Bonne journee

~Dwayne