New Angel Oak paintings

     While working on the first Angel Oak painting I started in the fall, I knew I had to do more. This one was started towards the end of October:

     My usual process is to work out the composition with a drawing first, but here, I jumped right in with the paint. I chose this angle because it shows the branches gracefully arching up and out to the left. While working, I've realized that the painting is not only about the trunk and it's branches, but also the space between me and the tree. Another thing I noticed, is that each time I would return to paint, the tree would sometimes be covered with small ferns. Somebody pointed out to me that this was the 'resurrection' fern, an air plant not actually attached to the tree. When there's moisture out, the leaves open up, and when it's dry, they curl up and remain dormant....very cool.

     As I continued, I began to see so much that I was editing out, both with the tips of the branches as they moved to my left and the canopy above. I also wanted to include this tiny patch of unobstructed sky, and this would have occurred in the upper left hand corner of the canvas (had I used a larger canvas.)

     As I continued to look at it back in my studio, I realized that the painting needed some more space. After doing some measurements on site with the painting in front of me, I figured out a plan to add on. There would be a panel attached to the left side and another on the top, and I would attach them with bolts through the frames from behind:

     I worked on it like this for awhile, but wasn't really satisfied with the way the different panels were fitting together. The seams were slightly off, with some irregularity and problems with the alignment, and I wasn't really sure how the different panels were functioning with the concept of the piece as a whole. The painting being pieced together seemed arbitrary and haphazard. What I wanted to paint was a cohesive depiction of a clearly defined space, and the new format wasn't working. It was a tough call to start over after so much had been done, but I knew it was necessary.

     After some careful measuring, I re-cropped the overall image again, dismantled what I had started, made a new frame, and stretched a new piece of linen. I stapled the three different panels to a large piece of plywood and then gridded it out using string. From this, I could transfer what I had started, reproducing the entire image on the larger canvas in my studio.

     Not wanting to ditch the original canvas I started with, I decided to re-stretch that one again and work on both simultaneously. The smaller one I work on during overcast days, which is how I originally envisioned the light, and the second, larger one, is the one I work on during clear days. The two pieces now become a tandem piece, functioning not only as the same image seen in differing light, but also as a window that zooms out of the scene:

in progress - 21" x 28"

in progress - 25" x 37"

Shem Creek Park

10" x 15"

     My most recent series of paintings depict a newly opened park near my home. As I watched the progress of it's construction through the summer, I knew it was a spot I wanted to paint. It's located right next the famous Shem Creek in Mt. Pleasant, a small inlet off the Charleston Harbor. Consisting of a series of docks for shrimping and fishing boats, along with about a dozen seafood restaurants and bars, it becomes quite the scene in summer.  The light over the harbor is stunning, with dramatic cloud formations and sunsets continuely on display. All of these paintings where done in the morning, which is usually when I have the time to work, but someday I vow to make some paintings of those sunsets.
    
     The park consists of a series of boardwalks that zigzag back through the marsh and sea grass, with various shelters and connections to Shem Creek along the way as it empties into the harbor. Hovering over oyster beds and channels, the boardwalks penetrate this large expanse of space that would otherwise be off limits. Again, I was drawn to this idea of a man-made structure in contrast to the fluidity and changeability of Nature.

     Most of these paintings were preceded by pencil drawings in my sketchbook. I use these to determine the composition and how the space will function. Back in my studio, I can finalize the image and transfer it to a toned canvas. I'll re-draw with black paint and a liner brush, duplicating what was done with pencil and paper. Not only does this save me some time before I get on site, but it allows me to familiarize myself with the subject; drawing and re-drawing as a way of learning.

sketchbook drawing - 10" x 13.25"

oil on linen - 10" x 15"

      All of these are fairly small (10" x 15"), done in about 2 sessions on site. Usually if I put in 4-5 hours on site, I can wrap things up either from memory or the drawing. Because the tide becomes a factor, I had to do these on consecutive days, to ensure that the water and light levels remained fairly consistent.

sketch book drawing - 10" x 13.25"

oil on linen - 10" x 15"

      I did this whole series over a few months, with a big break over Christmas. I was amazed that when I resumed, there was this dramatic shift in the color of the sea grass. It had gone from green in the summer, to a golden orange in the fall, to a bleached out brown in the winter. I love getting to know a new area, with all the specific changes that occur throughout the seasons.

sketchbook drawing - 10" x 13.25"

oil on linen - 14" x 21"

     This last one (above), is the largest in the series, and was done over the longest period of time. The sea grass color had changed drastically over the month break. I took some photos to work on in my studio, because the weather had gotten colder and I wasn't able to work outside. I find it hard to switch back and forth between photos and painting from life. A photo is good to record the light, but the descrepency between the color of the photo and the color from life becomes a hinderance. For this one, it was probably equal parts site painting/drawing, photographic reference, and painting from memory. The last one in the series is still in progress, but I'm waiting for the weather to warm up in order to finish it:

(in progress) oil on linen - 12" x 18"

 
 

The Angel Oak...continued

     After stumbling upon the Angel Oak tree this summer, and doing some initial charcoal drawings, I decided that I needed to do a few paintings of it. There's obviously something very magnetic about this tree, and being that I periodically have done paintings and drawings of trees in the past, it seemed like a logical next step. There doesn't seem anything less quintessentially Southern than an old Live Oak tree at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by Spanish moss and dappled with sunlight. I'm trying to investigate ways to embrace this dramatic shift in my location, to seek out scenes and spaces that contain a specificity of place. It would seem like complete denial of my circumstances to try and recreate what I had painted in Brooklyn...urban street scenes, old warehouses, or port scenes. Not that those kind of things aren't down here...I guess I want to break free of being "the industrial landscape guy". I was talking to a local artist the other day, and he was saying that I might have a certain advantage depicting the landscape here. He was relating how, having lived here his whole life, the typical Low-country scene is burned in his mind...visions of herons and pelicans silhouetted by sunsets, Spanish Moss covered trees, and marshes with rickety old boats bobbing around. For him, it's hard to 'see' how it actually is anymore; imagery becomes clouded over by cliches. I found that an interesting observation, and also a challenge.
   The Angel Oak is this massive, hulking, beast of a tree. Legend has it that it might be up to 1500 years old, and as you drive down that dirt road, you feel as if you're entering another time and place. There's usually a pack of albino squirrels scampering across the road as I approach, to further heighten the sense of other-worldliness. It's quite a far drive from my house, usually about 30 minutes, which I do after the kids are dropped off at school. The tourists have slowly tapered off as we get later into the season here, and there are sometimes long stretches of time when it's just me and the tree. I actually have gotten used to the people who visit, mostly enjoying the sense of wonder and awe that they display when seeing it for the first time.  The usual pictures are taken, with similar poses, and the people are so polite here that they actually ask to look at my painting.  Of course I don't mind, and sometimes chat it up for a little bit with people...I usually say jokingly, that I'm participating in the Angel Oak Artist in Residency Program.

charcoal on paper, 22" x 30"

   This first one I based off a drawing I did over the summer. I decided to keep the trunk of the tree right around the center point of the painting; dead on and symmetrical. I scaled the size of the painting off the drawing and transferred it at home with black paint on an earth-toned canvas. This was the progress after about 3 sessions, each for about 2.5-3 hours:

21" x 28"

     This is the state it's in now, tightened up a bit, but with the light changing quickly as we approach the winter solstice:

     This one is the clear day picture, which is really tricky to paint because of the shifting light. Dappled light is always so hard to paint from life, so I have to work in different zones of the painting at different times. I can anticipate when the light will shift from branch to branch, so I end up working in a specific order around the canvas. I usually have only a few hours before fatigue or light conditions force me to stop.  The position of the earth has shifted so much over the few months I've been working on it, it's almost a different painting. Today while I was painting, I noticed a crop of ferns had sprouted all over a large part of the tree since my last painting session. It's amazing that something so seemly static, upon further inspection, contains so much flux.

   I decided to start this one for working on overcast days, which in theory should be a little easier, because the light and shadows aren't constantly shifting. This one was done from about 20 feet to the left of the first one, because I liked how it showed the tree's canopy shifted to one side. Most of the branches splay out toward the road and are reaching in the same direction. With this overcast one, I'm thinking that I might add some other panels to the top and sides of the canvas to incorporate the full extent of the branches and the overhead canopy. As I start this one, I feel as if I'm stepping into a long commitment with the painting and the tree...it feels crazy and stupid and complex and beautiful all at the same time. After each painting session, there is always something lacking, something that keeps evading me, which brings me back. When I look from the canvas to the tree and compare the two, there is this massive gap which I'm trying to close. It's impossible and maddening, yet each time I work, it seems to just barely slip away, so that the next time, I'm sure I can pin it down. I want these paintings to have a very specific, over-all clarity; a way to describe each individual branch as it extends into space and how the light fills the gaps in between.
     Fortunately, the Live Oak doesn't drop it's leaves in winter, so it's overall appearance won't change too much. I might be forced to stop painting for awhile due to the cold, in which case I'll have to resume the work next spring.

Wood and Water...some new Charleston Paintings

I've got a bunch of new paintings in the works. I'm so happy that I'm able to paint this late in the year down here. Up north, I'd usually stop painting outside around the 1st week in November, when the temps usually dip below 50 degrees. It's still around 65 or 70 degrees here, so I'll see how long this lasts. I'm loving the light that Fall brings...long shadows tinged with blue and violet.

21" x 14"

   This is the 3rd one I've done of the four posted marker near the Pitt Street bridge. I decided to switch the orientation of the canvas to a vertical, to emphasis the upward thrust of the scaffolding. This painting went through many incarnations...the tide and the cloud cover fluctuating ever time I went. I've noticed that the tide varies significantly in relation to the equinox (I guess this is something that seems obvious when you think about it).  When I started the painting at the end of September, it was a much lower, 'low tide' than the recent painting sessions I had last week...one of the many things I'm getting acquainted with in this new landscape. One day while working on this one I realized my attraction to the structure; it reminded me of the support scaffolding for the 'Kentile Floors' sign across from my old studio in Brooklyn, the one that I did so many paintings of.

13" x 19.5"

   Started this one of a boat launch, which I thought would be an interesting subject matter. I liked the way the posts formed a small cove in the mid-ground, with the strong verticals and horizontals playing off each other.  I'm drawn to finding these instances of structure amidst the flux of nature; places like this where man-made things are used as a guide or a way to navigate through the elements...docks, posts, or beacons in the water.

15" x 22.75"

   This one is of our backyard, and was done in the early morning, between 8-11 when the light was low and raking through the trees. This angle caught my eye because it had both the tree house and part of our house in it, with a valley of shadow between them, silhouetting this wonderful array of greenery in the background. 

   I'm working on a large painting of the Angel Oak, which is going to be a 'slow' painting...perhaps I'll post an 'in progress' version here soon. I've made a bunch more canvases and have been scoping out numerous spots to paint in the coming months. Check back soon for more updates...

The old Pitt Street Bridge

   I've begun to settle into a groove again with my work. Our routine of getting the kids off to school is getting more familiar, and it usually leaves me with most of the morning to draw or paint. I'm starting to gravitate to certain motifs since I've been here...wood (the oak trees), stone (the patio drawings), and these paintings with water. I did these at a spot about 5 minutes from our house, at the old Pitt Street bridge.  It's a long causeway that used to connect Mt. Pleasant (where we live) to Sullivan's Island (the beach), via a train, long ago. The train no longer operates, and it no longer connects the two land masses, but it is a really beautiful spot, where I like to go fishing, crabbing and watch the sunset.

11" x 16.5"

   I knew I wanted to do some paintings here, but I wanted to avoid the typical, sentimental maritime scene. The landscape here is so different from New York; it's flat, atmospheric, and well,...beachy. This four-posted marker caught my attention. I guess I need some structure to ground me, and I found it in this platform rising over the water. I like the fact that it continues with some of the previous motifs I had been working with, like the wood pile paintings from Asheville and the drawings of the pavers in our backyard. There's something about this ladder rising out of murky water that resonates with me...perhaps it's the religious implications.  Also, one night while watching the sun set behind downtown Charleston, I enjoyed seeing a large group of kids climb to the top of this platform (the bolder ones to the top of the tower, about 20 feet above the water) and jumping off into the water. The parents were there egging them on from a nearby boat, and being that it was high tide, they had enough water below them to keep from hitting bottom. It was such a joyous site, seeing those kids having so much fun...it's the kind of thing you can only do as a child, with an equal mix of fear and rapture.

13" x 19.5"

   I like the patterns that the posts and reflections make in the water; a cat's cradle of positive and negative forms. There's also something quite garish, yet beautiful, about the color of the treated wood sitting in that murky water...it brought back memories of the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn.
   The one thing I was reminded of while doing these, is how tricky water is to paint. Not only is the appearance subject to the shifting light and wind, but the tide becomes a factor, too. Over the course of a painting session, the water level would either ascend or descend those posts.  I had to rework the water level every time I painted, which was over 3 or 4 different days...it basically forces the issue of keeping the painting loose and fresh.

Angel Oak

charcoal on paper, 22" x 30"

About a month ago, as my family and I were returning from a day at the beach on Kiawah Island, we passed a small sign pointing down a dirt road. "The Angel Oak" it said, with an arrow. As we passed by, my wife said that she'd heard of it before, that it's a giant Oak tree (Live Oak). So...we turn the car around and head about a half mile down the dirt road.

The kids are beat and whiney, too tired to get out of the car. Faith and I go, to see probably one of the most amazing living trees in the world. It's estimated to be about 300-400 years old; quite an awesome site, with branches drooping down through the ground and back out again. I knew I had found a new muse...

The first time I went back, I haul all my gear out and bring it over to the base of the tree. While checking out different angles to draw from, the lady who runs the gift shop comes out and says I have to set up my equipment outside the canopy's perimeter. This threw me off, because I was planning on doing some drawings up close to the tree, cropping the limbs as they splayed out from the trunk. Sometimes it's better to work under certain limitations though, so I stepped back further away, using the trunk as the focal point.

charcoal on paper, 22" x 30

One of my favorite angles depict the limbs being propped up at various spots by metal jacks. I was attracted to the un-naturalness of it; how 'artificial' this made the tree seem. The supported limbs are meant to preserve the tree from collapsing, along with various limbs being held up with cables. Part of this is meant to preserve it from storm, but it's also prolonging the tree's lifespan. It made me think that without our help, this tree probably would have started crumbling and breaking long ago...it keeps on growing and living in exchange for our use as a 'shrine'.

charcoal on paper, 22" x30"

I plan to go back and start a painting soon, but for now I'll leave you with this very wise, beautiful, and witty story, from the 3rd century BC:

    A woodworker named Stone traveled to Ch'i. When he got to Ch'u-yuan, he saw a great chestnut tree that served as a village shrine. Large enough to shade thousands of oxen, it was a hundred spans around and rose high as a mountain, it's lowest branches some eighty feet above the ground. More than a dozen of these lower branches were large enough to be hollowed out into boats. Sightseers were packed together like at the marketplace. Woodworker Stone barely gave it a glance, continuing along his way without looking back. But his apprentices couldn't keep from gawking, then had to run to catch up. One said, "Since we took up our axes to follow you, Master, we've never seen such beautiful material. But you didn't give it it a second look! You went right on by. How can this be?"
   "Enough!" Stone cried. "Don't talk about it. That wood is trash. Make a boat from it and the boat will sink. For coffins, it rots too fast. For utensils, it's too brittle. It keeps too much sap to use for a gate or door. Make a pillar, and it will attract worms. It's not good timber for anything. It can't be used. That's how it got so old."
   After the woodworker returned home, the great tree appeared to him in a dream, saying, "You compare me to cultivated trees, the hawthorne, the pear, the orange, all the shrubs and trees that bear fruit? When their fruit is ripe they're stripped, peeled, and generally abused, big branches broken off, little ones dripping sap from wounds. They have a wonderful ability to make a miserable life of usefulness. The string of their days and years cut off, they are beaten and torn by unruly saps. So it is for all things in the world. That's why I strive to master the arts of uselessness. Although it nearly killed me, I've got it now. It's really useful to me. If I were of any use, do you suppose there'd be any chance for me to have grown so large? You and I are both things. Why pass judgement? You're a man born to die. Are you mere trash? Why call me trash?
   When the woodworker Stone awakened, he told his apprentices about his dream.
   "It it's trying so hard to be useless, why has it become a shrine?" they wanted to know.
   "That's a secret," Stone replied. "Don't mention it to anyone. It's just pretending. This way it can also be protected from people who don't appreciate uselessness. It it weren't portraying a shrine, it might still be cut down and cut up. It hides its difference from others. You might honor it for the nobility of its intentions, but that might be going a bit too far."

* from the Essential Chuang Tzu, translated by Sam Hamill and J.P. Seaton, Shambala publications 1998

Asheville

11" x 16.5"

I just got back from our yearly visit to Cloud Nine Farm, in Asheville, NC. We spent 10 days there, enjoying the cooler weather and relaxing with family and friends. I brought my paints and a few canvases, and was able to finish these two. I decided to work early in the morning, from about 6:30 to 8:30 am, because the light was less harsh, and it wouldn't take away from any of the family activities we had planned later in the day. There's something wonderful about getting up at dawn; a certain quietness that is only broken by the sounds of the birds and cows. 

These paintings depict the timber at the entrance to the farm; stacked logs and various wood debris in different piles. Most of the timber was from another spot on the farm where I did a painting the previous year. I went back to that spot and saw the cavity where those trees once stood. I probably could have spent the entire summer here, painting variations on this same theme. Surprisingly, I found it to be a continuation of the drawings I did of our patio before we left; building materials in different states of completion and 'finish'. Both of them I did over consecutive days, each one taking about 4 hours in total.  I love how I was able to capture the full moon in the distance on this one, and how it echoes the circle shape of the log ends:

12" x 18"