As the cedar-strip canoe painting nears completion, I have been re-establishing its focal points.  Unquestionably, the deep-toned wood of the canoe dominates;  it is the bride of this event.  The bridesmaids take the form of  two long-dead cedar logs; maybe we should reconsider them as grandmothers. Truth be told, the bride is a bit long in the tooth herself.

Her first posthumous life began with Jon’s family forty-five years ago.  Bridie didn’t get a lot of use, perhaps because her first outing (in Algonquin Park) involved a snowstorm in August.  That consigned her to a spot in the backyard under an enormous oak which, when it succumbed to old age, landed on her.  Jon and I claimed the body and decided to fix the old gal.  The canvas skin was irreparable so we set out to fibreglass her.  I do not recommend this.  First of all, it added 15 pounds of weight and NOBODY wants a portly canoe. To make things worse, the process of fibreglassing killed the grass in our backyard;  we spent the next five years with a canoe-shaped dead zone. So Fatso is now a flat-water day-tripping kind of gal, redeemed only by the elegance of her lines and the transparent siennas of her hand-built frame.   Always a good girl, never fast.

Rounding out the wedding party are  the pale coltsfoot leaves (which I softened because I found them too strong) and dark but glowing river rocks.    Of tertiary interest, they are present but unobtrusive  and reward the eye with some low-key interest.  Check.

The biggest problem in this painting was unity.  The water near the canoe was so slow as to reflect blocks of sky;  further to the left, however, the current picks up and breaks the surface into myriad wavelets.  Thanks to the input of three dear friends, all of them good painters, I was reminded that the sky blue needed to be substantially present there as well.  They also reminded me that the bride sets the palette so the sienna needed to appear more often in the painting.   Check.

I think we are might be ready to head for the church.

A friend asked me today about how I create glow on water. I wasn’t sure how to answer. It’s certainly something I aim for, but it’s tricky. For one thing, the surface of a body of water (a placid lake in particular) functions as a huge mirror which captures sunlight and sends most of it, but not quite all, back. So I’ve spent the day thinking about the question and have a few ideas.

For one, I realized that I rarely paint water photographed on a cloudy day, and virtually never paint muddy water even if it is sunlit. I grew up beside two rivers which were full of sediment and wanting to paint them or even photograph them never crossed my mind. What I do remember is studying clear puddles when I was very young because the water brightened and amplified the colour of the pebbles at the bottom. THAT was worth looking at. So the allure, the glow, of water has something to do with transparency. In "The Cradle Endlessly Rocking” #2, I was interested in what I could see of the river bottom and the colour of the deep water, visible on both left and right centres where the river lies in shadow and cannot reflect the sky.

In full sun, on the other hand, the river or lake wears the sky and flaunts its dressed-up self. Above us at the peak of the sky's dome are found the deepest blues, but I also watch for the lighter, more turquoise, blues near the horizon if they haven’t been blocked by trees. There is rarely an opportunity to display the zenith blue directly unless it is a prairie scene. Painters like Dorothy Knowles from Saskatchewan are famous for their extremely low horizon lines; the prairies’ glorious unobstructed sky is the main attraction and needs height to strut itself. Those of us painting in the heavily treed East have to settle for the reflection of that special blue. “The Cradle” has large areas of reflected deep sky blue but only a hint at the very top of light sky itself. My interest was in the water.

The last element of painting water, I think, is paying attention to whatever is floating on top. My waterlily paintings often include the tiny insects that no self-respecting lily is without. Other times small wavelets (n.s.w?) such as those generated by someone standing in a current are critical to reading the river correctly. You will begin to see these in the last painting sessions on “Down in the Gorge”#2. Some artist friends had trouble interpreting what they saw in the early stages, possibly because the photo was taken almost directly above from a high bridge on a sunny day. As a result of the almost 90% angle and strong light, there is no sky reflection and everywhere the sunlight penetrates through to the river bottom. Jon is casting in the main channel, where the strong current has swept away almost all of the duff. To either side of him, however, the current is slower and the river bottom is dark with debris. I am hoping that judicious application of small white high-lights wherever the flow is interrupted will make it clear that he is knee deep and that the entire canvas is a water scene. In “The Cradle,” my last brush strokes added the white flecks on the surface. I am still unsure of what they were; I simply knew they had to be there.

I think I may have just explained to myself why I need a rest-cure after painting a large water scene.

I’m deep “In the Gorge”.  The layers of transparent pigments are starting to get interesting, though there are still many decisions to be made about our shape-shifting river.  While sunshine pours through the gin-clear water in the mid-section, it is filtered and obscured by the ancient litter of cedars which have collapsed into it.    I see it through Jon’s eyes:  these mysterious crevices and cast shadows are where the big trout lurk.  However, today (now about five layers in), I am happy to begin re-establishing the cedars’ white bones wherever they emerge from the water.   Jon’s shirt too needs its brightness restored.  Laying in these whites is a joy.  


Building this painting has been meditative. Downed trees morph into an esoteric calligraphy of shapes and lines.  The addition of the thinly- glazed primaries just deepens the revery of fluid motion.  I toggle between hard line and soft wash, between subtle tones and clean whites.  The cedars may be dead, but they are full of life for those who live within their tangled skeletons


Several posts ago, I promised to return to the subject of learning, especially meditative.  Many years ago I was introduced to a hand-held skin-response galvanometer, which was to be marketed as a meditation device;  it ticked loudly if you were tense.  The bio-feedback loop was amazing and it took no time at all to learn to silence it.  It took decades of looking for something similar before I finally found it in the shape of a Muse Headband.  I look like a geographically-challenged Egyptian princess but no matter.  When the ocean roars, I am learning what to do to quiet the surf and make the birds sing.  So perhaps the “Muse” has been truly named.  Whatever the cause, this painting doesn’t feel like work at all.

Mick Herron’s delightfully funny take on British spies is titled Slow Horses;  you find out pretty quickly in the novel that the term refers to less-than-stellar spies who can’t be allowed out and must be somehow stabled so that they cannot harm themselves or the nation.  

I am a Slow Painter in a that and another sense.  Jon has given up asking me what I painted each day.  The answer is inevitably along the lines of “so-and-so’s eyes” or “that tree on the far right.”  Today, if I am diligent,  it may be “the value study for In the Gorge” #3.  I even did the focal point yesterday;  today brought the endless blur of dead cedars partially or fully emerged in the river.  Darned it there aren’t quite a few more than I noticed at the time.

I took the reference shot from a bridge above a lovely section of the gorge on a clear summer’s day.  Jon had been instructed to fish as usual.  No trouble selling that assignment.  I leaned out and took forty or fifty shots, of which several were worth using.   But there they sat.  The famous story I’ve told before about Winston Churchill bears repeating here.  A Sunday painter, he sat gazing at his blank canvas one week;  his friend grabbed a brush and made a dark swipe across the expanse of white:  “The enemy is vanquished.”  

It took the pressure of three upcoming shows to summon the courage to vanquish my own enemy.   This is not unusual.  And, as usual, a slow horse I remain.  Last night when I broke down and asked Jon to come see what I’d accomplished, his first comment was “Oh, I wouldn’t have chosen that one.”  And only then did he tell me that his left arm was on an awkward angle because he was trying to keep his prized Hardy bag out of the water.  Normally he would not carry it while wading deep, but the prospect of being immortalized must have inspired his inner fashionista. Dang.  Hadn’t noticed that the arm was in a funny place until he mentioned it.  Note that once I'm painting, it is no longer Jon's arm.  MINE!  But I decided he was right anyway. So today’s first act of regret was to tuck the forearm in front where it belonged.  The rest of today has been spent rendering the complex calligraphy of the downed trees in white and burnt umber.  It's 5, I’m cross-eyed and my arches collapsed several hours ago.    Both I and the light are failing. 

Once in a while, some well-meaning soul suggests that I enter an Art Battle, which is essentially a speed test.  

​Fat chance.

I often find it necessary to leave a painting for a few days at least, especially when there's a lot of sun around.  My stone studio, while charming as hell, faces due south.  This is not good.  On a sunny day in a season of low sun, it's almost impossible to read the image through the high reflection.  So I find something else to work on and wait it out.  

Only now, with the high shine gone,  is it possible to detail the paddlers.  The canoe on the right is the painting's focal point, so there I've placed the darkest darks and the lightest lights.   Jim's white hat gleams, contrasting with the shadows on his face and the faintly seen blues of his shirt;  the red of the canoe is so dark as to be almost brown.  The canoe paddling behind, with Brian and Jon, contrasts with the background but less so than does the first canoe with Jim and Moose.

There are a few adjustments to be made to the foreground water, where the lighter sky is reflected, and to the range of hills, but Ugly D is beginning to grow up.  She's "Coming into View."

I remember feeling happy when I finished the first "Reading the River."  Feeling that the portrait had caught Jon, I took it in to him, planning on reaping some well-earned praise.  My beloved's first comment put paid to that:  "Why can't you see more of the split-bamboo fishing rod??"  "And where is the reel? -- it seems to be entirely missing!"  Yes, he did go on to admire the portrait and he did confer on it his highest praise in the form of declaring it his and not to be sold.  But the experience gave me something to think about.  Not just murder, either.

Men are all about the gear.  While I view it as an aesthetic embellishment,  Jon sees fine gear as an expression of reverence towards tradition and fine workmanship as well as the key which unlocks fishy secrets.  I do admit that he makes a handsome, if expensive, sight on the water.  But a portrait doesn't normally choose its focal point below the waist.  I painted that photo because of the light differential between the right side and the deep shadowed skin tones.  He just happened to be holding a rod. The only reason it was at all visible was to make sense of the waders.

My marital experience does highlight the painterly gender gap.  No wonder there are damned few married women represented in the National Gallery.  Any national gallery.  Instead there are thousands of uncelebrated married female painters (Jon calls me his "paintress" when he's feeling reckless) who perished unknown because they couldn't figure out how to add cars, whiskey decanters or fishing gear to their florals.

Which one should I use for the background to the new painting of Baby Rose in her bunny hat?  

*I echoed the rhythm of this title from one of my favourite books of humour - Golfing for Cats by Alan Coren.  In addition to his irrelevant title choice, Coren put a large swastika on cover, counting on the bookstore's having to stock it in four departments - humour, sports, pets and history.  Inspired.

Well, my time ran out.  I postponed it as long as I could but on Sunday I found myself fully decked out in fly-fishing gear and standing in a river for two hours.  To my enormous surprise I enjoyed it.  "Why?", you are most certainly asking.  Glad you asked.

Permit me to count the ways:

 1.  The day was hot but the water was cool.  Perfect.

2.  The gear that I had reluctantly accepted as a Christmas present from my ever-hopeful husband fit perfectly.  I'm less than hourglass-shaped in my waders and wading shoes but for the first time I can stand in a river in comfort.

3.   The river was gin-clear and there were minnows everywhere.  Since I was a tiny child, I have been drawn to the beauty of the gravelly bottoms of puddles, streams and rivers;  the clear water seems to act as a lens which magnifies and clarifies the colours and lines.    Until now, the only fish I have been able to see well have either been unhappily hooked or glimpsed through the scratched glass of an underground viewing chamber*.  Now I can go to them and watch their sinuous grace in 3D.

4.  I was using a classic split-bamboo fishing rod with a Hardy Cascapedia reel.  Even if I can't or won't catch fish, I can pass for a fly-fisher.

5.  Jon was occupied upstream trying to pique the interest of a mammoth trout;   that left me blissfully alone to practise my execrable casting.  I learn best when I'm practising one thing and one thing alone, while alone.  If, on such occasions, wise spouses always headed upstream, the divorce rate would plummet.

6.  I am modestly pleased to report that I didn't get a single nibble.  While Jon fishes catch-apologize-and-release, I would prefer never even to place that barbless hook.  The few releases I've done have been fueled with remorse and panic.  My perfect fly fishing scenario is that of casting well in a clear river on a good day (i.e. looking the part) and seeing nary a fish.  Call me unusual.  Many have.

So - I am actually looking forward to fly-fishing again - not so much that I wanted to brave thunderstorms tonight with Jon but with a new interest in becoming the sissy fair-weather fisher I was fated to be.



*My best painting of a salmon was inspired in Gros Morne, Newfoundland, on the Torrent River where the huge adults mass up before the locks open and they can spawn upstream.  Even through the glass you can sense their impatience.  I called it "Show Time!" and wished them all the best.