I’m into the home stretch.

The hoarfrost forest is pretty much in hand, I am reasonably satisfied with the composition and palette.  The whole painting is about developing a tension between the complex, dare-I-say lacey, land and the simple opacity of the river.  Now I am finding the white ice too flat, however;  it needs dimensionality  if I want to cast  it as a bridge between land and water.  
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And there’s one large tree which insists on being given its due.

Thinking, thinking, thinking.   But the sun is about to come out.

Let’s start with that wise mantra:  location, location, location.

My studio is bombing that test as I write this on a lovely sunny day.

Had I been around in the 1920’s when our house was being built, I would rotated the foundation half a turn.  Well, aren’t we precious, you are thinking, but hear me out.  Remember that business about Parisian ateliers with northern exposures?  As a young reader, I always wondered what was so desirable about north light, which is cold and blue-ish.  I decided that north garretts must have been the cheapest and didn't think about it for half a century.  

Turns out that it’s not so much about wanting north light.  Instead, it's all about avoiding south light.

By now you’re guessing that my studio windows are of the southerly persuasion.  All seven of them.  Oh yes.  The result? A veritable deluge of full-spectrum daylight.  So now you are wondering why I would turn my nose up at great light.  Start by imagining a big area covered with fresh oil paint;  you can do this in the basement -- the only important stipulations are that you use oil so this undercoat is shiny.   Immediately set the canvas in front of a strong full-spectrum bulb.  Take a brush with another oil colour and begin painting.  What happens is that all you will see are the brushstrokes reflecting back.  The availability of colour vision has sailed.  

This situation reigns from November to April in my studio unless I am blessed by an overcast day.

Ironically, the reason I love oil paints above all others, like acrylic or gouache, is that same exquisite slowness to dry.*  I can work it for hours almost like finger-paint because it begs to be blended.  And I must admit that May to October make it easy:   once the canopy opens the room is shielded from direct light.  But when once again the leaves drop, I wait for cloud cover.   Christmas is the worst, of course, when the sun’s arc is lowest and reflected glare blinds me.  

So today I will find something else to do.  As the promise of spring whispers, I have begun to hear the siren call of my other passion:  the garden. The native seeds that I collected last year need to be started and surely some will survive this year!


*Speaking of which, the way a finished oil painting dries is worth mentioning.  It may have an ugly duckling stage when the finish is a bit patchy in terms of shine.  However, practise patience.  In about a year, it will have settled into a velvety glow.  Worth the wait.
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As I painted today, I was privy to a conversation between my right and left hemispheres.


LB:  Well a nice mess you’ve gotten us into this time, Ollie!

RB:  It seemed like a good idea at the time….

LB:  Did it ever occur to you to take a more careful look at reference photos?????

RB:  Well, I’ve looked at it hundreds of times since 2010, when I took it…..

LB:  And what, may I be so bold to ask, did you conclude every bloody time?

RB  It looked like a lot of work.

LB:  And why was that, do you think, in your infinite wisdom??

RB  There is an awful lot going on when you fit it onto a 30 x 40 canvas…..

But I have always wanted to paint a white forest and that was the only picture I have even taken of it.  Besides, the river was so pretty in that winter colour.  I really love that colour, but boy, it was a stinker to mix.

LB:  Focus.  An awful lot of what, exactly?

RB  trees

LB:  And how many trees would you say??

RB:  a lot

LB:  JUST A LOT??????

RB:  Well, an awful lot.  But they are all dead now….

LB:  Wait — what are you yammering about?

RB:  Well, it was your fault.  Remember when we learned Forestry and you made me learn that only two trees were “even” — maples and ashes.  And a lot of these weren't shaped like maples.  Maples are happy and rounded. Ashes are all straight and pointy.  Y's on top of Y's on top of Y's....See?

And you told me how those bad greeny chewers have murdered them all.  I wanted to do something nice for them so they'd know I was sorry..  And they all look like brides in the photo....

LB:  It's called "hoarfrost" you idiot.

sullen silence

So what delight can I expect next:  a pyre of parrots?  a graveyard of  grackles?   a cemetery of sea turtles?????

RB:  Gosh, noooooo!!  Now do I have to worry about them too???

LB:  oh, right  We should do something.

​Neither moves.

​Wow.  Both lobes are streaming Beckett’s two tramps instead of Laurel and Hardy.    They don't normally agree on anything.   Scary, when you think about it.