Sharing the beginning of an oil painting……………
Most people imagine that a painting begins when the brush first touches the canvas. For me, it begins much earlier.
A few days ago, I was driving through Sag Harbor on my way to Southampton. As I passed Long Beach, something caught my eye. Along the edge of the bay, wildflowers had appeared as if overnight. Tall Queen Anne’s lace rose above the grasses, surrounded by delicate lavender blossoms that seemed to have volunteered their way into the landscape. Behind them was the bay, an extraordinary teal blue, deep and luminous, almost jewel-like in the morning light.
I pulled over.
I carefully walked into the grasses, taking photographs from every angle. Not because I intended to copy what I saw, but because I didn’t want to lose the feeling of that place. I knew immediately that this wasn’t simply a beautiful view; it was the beginning of a painting.
I still had to get to my errands, so the drive ahead became part of the creative process. I turned off the radio.
When an idea takes hold, I don’t want anything competing with it. My mind becomes completely absorbed. I begin asking myself questions. What size canvas wants to hold this scene? Should the flowers dominate, or should the sweep of the bay carry the painting? How much sky? What colors will capture that impossible blue-green water? Which greens will make the grasses glow?
It’s one of the greatest pleasures I know.
There is an excitement that comes before a painting exists, when everything is still possible. I don’t know exactly what the finished painting will look like. In fact, I never do. The reference photographs are only the starting point. The painting grows from memory, emotion, and intuition as much as observation.
That uncertainty is part of the magic. By the time I arrived back at my studio, I wasn’t thinking about the errands I had planned that day. I was thinking about pulling out a canvas, laying out paint, and searching for the right mixtures to capture the colors I had just witnessed and the feeling they left behind.
The painting now sits on my easel, still unfinished.
Its composition continues to evolve. Some flowers will disappear. Others will become more prominent. The grasses will shift. The light will find its way across the canvas in ways I can’t yet predict.
That is what I love most about painting. The finished work is never simply a record of a place. It is a record of being moved by a place.
Until next time,
Casey
Show: Romany Kramoris Gallery, 41 Main Street, Sag Harbor, NY, August 13 – September 3, reception on Saturday, August 15, 5-6:30 PM
