art technique

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Occasionally you see books, articles, or workshops dedicated to helping artists “paint from the heart,” loosen up their style, whack themselves on the side of the head, discover the light of Tuscany, or some other damn thing.

It’s crap. Your heart will never have any idea how to paint.

Of course, there are a few artists out there who could benefit from some loosening up. For every one of them, there are a hundred others who need to learn how to actually paint. This entails the acquisition of difficult skills and the mindset to use those skills to achieve specific goals. Some of those skills are:

  • How to draw
  • How to draw exactly what you see
  • How to draw the figure
  • How to draw the portrait
  • Proportion
  • Perspective
  • Foreshortening
  • Color theory
  • Color mixing
  • Composition
  • Brush handling
  • Rendering
  • Art history
  • And lots more

That is the case even if you want to paint loosely. Read Richard Schmid’s book on painting (he paints in a loose alla prima style that is wondrous to behold) and you’ll see how hard it is to learn how to paint that way, too.

Heck, it’s a lot of work learning to paint abstractly, if you want to do it well.

Painting from the heart is for lazy people who just want to schmear paint around, feel artistic, and find people to tell them how wonderful it must be to paint.

Instead, learn to paint with your mind and your soul. That’s a lot harder, but will take you much further toward making paintings that belong on a stranger’s wall.

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Sometimes you look at a painting in which each passage is competently executed, but the overall look just doesn’t hold together. The parts don’t look like they exist in the same visual space. Usually, the problem is with inconsistent keying, with edge control, or both.

Key

Key refers, of course, the the range of colors in the painting. The most important key is the value key. If the degree of light and dark on one object doesn’t fit that of other objects in the painting, then they won’t look like they belong together. It’s easy to get so involved in one particular passage that its value key doesn’t fit that of other parts of the painting. Another possible look, besides that of being pasted-on, is that some passages fade out inexplicably.

It is, of course, possible to similarly mess up the chroma key or the hue key of the painting. Value is a more common and noticeable problem, however.

The best way to avoid inconsistencies in key is to frequently step way back from the painting and either squint or throw your eyes slightly out of focus. Inconsistencies tend to stand out.

Edges

Another way to inadvertently achieve a pasted-on look is to make all your edges equally hard. If all of the edges are the same, then all of the objects appear to come forward equally and the painting fails the verisimilitude test. Some otherwise excellent academic realists make this mistake. So do many beginners who have begun to develop the ability to render.

Softer edges recede, harder edges advance. Control edges and you control the dimensionality of each object in the painting. Do that consistently and the painting looks like each passage is part of a whole.

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Tad Spurgeon has an excellent summary article on his views regarding sound oil painting practice.

Because the structure of an oil painting is inherently complex, it’s always best to attempt keep both it and its various components as simple as possible. However, this element of simplicity should not necessarily extend to purchasing ready-made materials if the hope or expectation is to create higher quality work: generic materials have a strong tendency to produce generic work. While boutique materials are usually higher quality, this is not necessarily the case with the oil. And they still don’t impart the vital information about the nuts and bolts of the craft: at the end of the day, there is no real process, just a set of purchases, a pseudo-craft.

Go read the whole thing.

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I’m getting ready to stretch a 61 × 37.75 inch (155 cm x 96 cm) canvas for a commission. So I’ve been looking at online articles on canvas stretching. Here’s one by James Bernstein at Golden paints that suggests a different set of procedures than generally used.

Recommendations include:

  • Drawing a line along the weave of the canvas in pencil along the boundary beforehand, so that you can check to see that the edge of the stretcher is even with the canvas weave as you apply it to the stretcher chassis.
  • Stapling or tacking from the edges of the canvas inward. This is exactly opposite from the way every other source I’ve seen says to do it.
  • Using pushpins for the initial attachment of the canvas to the stretcher, for ease of adjustment, before final tacking or stapling.
  • Letting the canvas settle onto the frame for a day or two, with adjustment as needed, prior to final tacking or stapling.

These methods differ from standard practice, but the author makes a good case.

(Note that I found this article via a related post by Randall Stoltzfus.

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The vanishing point has always held a certain mystique about it to art historians and art connoisseurs alike. The creation of specific vanishing points in the early Renaissance was a turning point in the art world, and led to cement the depth in many paintings of this time period. Before this point, most artists used skenographia on stage in order to give it more depth, with the artist Giotto even attempting a mathematical calculation to determine points of distance within art.

Brunelleschi was the first Renaissance artist to use the vanishing point and depth perception during this time period. Brunelleschi additionally noticed that when drawing Florentine buildings, all lines converged at the horizon line, therefore leading to the realization of the vanishing point. Other artists such as Donatello and Perugino helped to further cement the importance of depth during this time, culminating in Da Vinci’s Last Supper; never before had there been a painting with such mathematical accuracy in relation to depth perception and linear formation. The realization of linear perspective and the vanishing point was kept within Italy for years before flourishing throughout the rest of Europe.

The checkerboard floor pattern is one of the most obvious examples of original perspective. Alberti was one of the first artists to recognize this phenomenon, and named it as the “pavement” construction, as it typically led to the addition of a pavement scene. He later wrote a treatise entitle “De Pictura/Della Pittura” explaining the proper methods of perspective painting. His theories were based more on planar projections and calculations using the height of triangles in the distance, and also using previous mathematical concepts from Euclid.

The vanishing point and depth perception are concepts which we take for granted today because we have never known an art world without them; however, if you traverse through the ages, you will see pieces from the Middle Ages where the baby Jesus appears to be the same size as Mary because the artists had no way in which to signify perspective. It is amazing to view in art museums this subtle change in technique; many museums have paintings set up in chronological order, or at least by major movements. The Renaissance was truly its own movement within the art world, and symbolized a shift away from the chaotic, extremely fanatical world of the Middle Ages.

Without this kind of revolution within the art world, we would still be looking at one-dimensional art works, lacking a proper depth perception. This would prove to be a completely different world from the one we know now, perhaps even lacking the fundamentals of television and movies. Without depth in art, that could not have translated over into any other medium. Therefore, we owe a great deal to these post-Medieval artists who truly paved the way for modern art and art movements. Picasso would not have been able to exist without his acute understanding of the many layers of depth and perspective, and we therefore would have missed out on abstract art entirely as well as every subsequent modern art movement.

This post was contributed by Heidi Taylor, who writes about the online schools. She welcomes your feedback at HeidiLTaylor006 at gmail.com.

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The last several weeks, I’ve attended a local figure drawing/painting session in which there is only one pose for the full time. The last couple of times I’ve attended, I’ve done oil portraits.

The portrait from the first week was pretty awful. Last night’s was not exactly good, but not nearly as bad. Maybe I’ll post them when I have something a little better to compare them to.

This is the first work I’ve done with portraits or figures in about three years, so I am not surprised that some of my skills have gotten rusty. One skill that has improved, however, is mixing flesh tones. I remember, when I was taking figure painting classes, having a heck of a time getting flesh tones that looked even approximately convincing, even when I could take my time over a multi-session pose of 9 or 12 hours. The poses I’ve been working from lately are only 2.5 hours, but I now find paint mixing to be relatively straightforward.

Because these are pretty short poses, I have not worried too much about getting exactly the right hue, instead choosing to concentrate of value, chroma, and shape. I’m working with a very limited palette in which flesh tones are mixed from lead white, raw sienna, burnt sienna, and raw umber. (I’ve also used some black and some ultramarine for dark hair and background.) The flesh tones are basically convincing, however: others at the session have remarked on it and my wife, who remembers my previous struggles, has mentioned that these flesh tones seem better. I should note that, thus far, the subjects have been Caucasian, although I don’t think I would have any greater trouble painting folks of less pallor.

I’m not sure why this aspect of painting has become easier, except for all the practice I’ve put in mixing still life colors over the last couple of years. The very simple palette seems to help as well.

Now if I can just get the shape of the head down correctly in paint, I’ll be just fine.

Update

7 May 2009: On further reflection, I think that one of the things I’ve learned over the last couple of years, even with a very limited palette, is much better control over chroma. Many artists mix overly intense skin tones. Most people’s skin is very low in chroma. Even when using relatively dull earth colors, you often need to cut the chroma of your mixes to get accurate color. For these portrait studies, I’ve been using raw umber for that purpose, as it’s chroma is very, very low.

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Lately I’ve come to realize that the light on a painting as you’re working on it is as important as the light on whatever you are painting.

I’ve recently added a light over my easel that provides more illumination than anyone would actually shine on a painting that was being displayed. I tend to keep it off much of the time while painting, but turn it on periodically to check my work. Under a higher level of illumination, I often catch problems, especially in the deeper shadows. Without enough light, it’s easy to miss inaccuracies in value, hue, chroma, or gradation. These problems might not show up too strongly when the painting is displayed, but can be significant enough to cause noticeable errors.

Of course, the color of the light shining on your painting should be neutral enough that it does not itself introduce distortions and thereby lead you misunderstand hue relationships while mixing paint.

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Sometimes, you need the highest value highlight that it is possible to get in paint. Other times, you need a dark accent that is as low in value as you can get. Beecause paint doesn’t have anything like the dynamic range of human vision, it’s good in realistic painting to have as wide as range as you can. Small differences can sometimes be important.

The whitest white I’ve been able to find is “radiant white” by Gamblin. It’s titanium white in poppy oil. Most of the time I prefer paints ground in linseed or walnut, but for this purpose it makes sense to use the whitest possible pigment and the most colorless binder available. I’m still painting out test strips on a neutral gray background, but I’d guess it’s a quarter Munsell value step than the next brightest titanium white I’ve played with. I’ll use it only when I need a very light highlight.

The darkest black I have is Williamsburg intense black. The pigment is listed as “carbon from gas flame.” The back label says: “warning: very slow drying.” It is just noticeably darker than bone (“ivory”) black. The slow drying can be compensated for somewhat with a drier such as lead napthenate. I will use it only for dark accents at the very last stage of painting, so drying time for this particular paint is not that important for me.

Update

2 May 2009:_ There’s a small highlight that I had previously painted in Old Holland titanium white. It’s light reflected from the shiny metal part of a clothes hangar. In real life this highlight is very noticeable, but on the painting, surrounded by relatively light tones, it did not stand out at all. I recently painted it in using pure Gamblin radiant white. It is noticeably brighter than before—giving an effect that is much more like what I was trying to depict.

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Keep working on a painting until you’re sure it’s finished. Then come back again a few days later and work on it some more if you realize it’s not as good as you thought it was.

That seems like a “duh” kind of statement, but it’s inconsistent with lots of art book advice. We are told that it takes two to make a painting: an artist to do the work, and someone else to hit him (or her) on the head before it gets ruined. Freshness and spontaneity above all, we are told. Never overwork the paint.

That advice was a problem for me until I realized what a crock it is. My problem isn’t a lack of freshness—it’s that I am so often tempted to stop too soon. I get parts of the painting to look really good and the rest basically not too bad, so I want to stop rather than put in the extra hours needed to get the hard parts exactly right. That whole “freshness” canard is an excuse for laziness—something seen in the work of many a marginal painter of approximate smears.

If you really want the painting to look like you got every part of it right the first time (i.e., “fresh”), then do what Sargent did and continually scrape off anything that didn’t come out exactly right and paint it again. And again. And again, until it is correct in it’s calculated appearance of perfect spontaneity. Even if you have to paint it 100 times.

If a look of freshness is not what you’re after (it’s not something I’m all that interested in, myself) then just keep painting until there isn’t anything you know how to do that will make it better.* If you’re not willing to keep at it until the difficult parts look right, then you’re not serious about painting.

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*Or you realize that this painting is just a dog and trash it. You should allow yourself to do that only very rarely, however.

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Here’s a recent painting; I thought I might provide some detail on how it was made.

This is “Newbury Street,” oil on panel, 20 × 20”. Many artists shy away from the square picture format, because it can be hard to achieve a dynamic composition within such a stable frame. I worked on overcoming that within a simple “bullseye” composition with a bit of tension between the jacket and its shadow. I think I succeeded fairly well with that.

The panel, which I had primed with lead white, had been curing for more than six months. Different sources suggest different amounts of time to let an oil ground cure; anywhere from a couple of weeks to several months. I can say that this well-cured surface was excellent to work on.

Click on a thumbnail to see the full-sized image.

I started with an underpainting using a mixture of raw umber mixed with a small amount of Studio Products Tuscan red (a bright iron oxide pigment). Unusually for me, I used the wipeout technique for the underpainting. I did that by smearing on a bunch of thinned paint in any given area, then wiping it back. I used a mixture of mineral spirits and linseed oil, with a bit of turps. Then I used a bristle bright brush to wipe the paint back. A bright is good for this because the short bristles allow for easy scrubbing. The idea is to wipe the paint away, letting the white ground show through in the lights and letting the paint stay thick in the darks.

Normally, I avoid the wipe out technique because I don’t think that thinning paint down a lot is a good idea—it can generate a paint layer that is not properly bound in the oil vehicle. However, because the oil primed surface was smooth and not absorbent, I found that I only needed to thin the paint down just a bit in order to use the wipe out method effectively. It allowed me to easily get the structure of the painting down quickly and easily, and to correct errors easily using a rag dipped in thinner. Because there was some linseed oil in the thinner, the final result was a surface that was clearly well-bound, as I could not easily scratch it with a fingernail or rub any pigment off.

Once that was dry (within a day, due to the siccative properties of the raw umber), I painted in the background and shadow. That took a few days to dry. Then I applied a very thin layer of Studio Products glazing medium to the surface of the painting and began working my way over the painting, attempting to paint something close to the final effect in each area before moving on to the next. That took several painting sessions.

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Michael writes,

Dear David,

My question is in reference to “Paint Strings”. I’ve never heard this term before. Is this an oil painting technique? (I’m just learning to paint and I’m using slow drying acrylics if that makes a difference.) Can you one day do a blog posting about making paint strings.

Thanks, Michael. “Paint string” is an oil painting term because other kinds of paint dry too fast for it to be practical. What it means is to pre-mix a series of colors in a gradation from one color to another. Usually, the string goes from high value to low value at a single hue. Typically, chroma is highest in the middle of the range, because that mimics the progression of chroma across objects in the real world, and because that’s easiest to mix.

You can use paint strings in a couple of different ways. At one extreme is to just mix one or two strings that you think you’re likely to use. For example, you could have a string of neutral grays that you use to decrease chroma in mixtures (the best way to decrease chroma with minimal effect on other aspects of chroma is to mix in a neutral gray of the same value). You could also mix a string of “average” flesh color in preparation for working on a figure. Personally, this is usually how I work with paint strings.

At another extreme is a “set palette.” This means that you carefully plan out the colors you will be using and mix them all out before you begin painting. That way, you don’t worry about mixing as you work because the colors are right in front of you. Frank Reilly, for example, was a 20th century artist who taught a set palette method. Artists who work with set palettes often tube a bunch of their most commonly used mixtures so that they don’t have to spend so much time at the beginning of each painting session.

You can pre-mix color with water media, but you need to do something to preserve them over the course of your painting session. I have not tried the new slow-dry acrylic paints and have no real sense of how they behave. With oil paint, it just works that way naturally.

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If you haven’t run across it already, I’d suggest you take a look at this demonstration of the “form painting” method by Tony Ryder. It’s pretty close to the procedure I learned from Dennis Cheaney. Dennis and Tony are both students of Ted Seth Jacobs. (I should be clear that I have no connection to Tony Ryder whatsoever, and I have only met Ted Seth Jacobs once.)

The method proceeds through several stages.

Poster Study

This is a small painting (5 × 7” or so) done quickly, to develop an overall sense of what the final composition will look like. It is painted entirely in big blobs of color, with no detail and no gradations (i.e., no blending). Each blob represents the overall average color of a big shape, such as the hair of the subject of a portrait. It’s best to do a lot of squinting while completing a poster study. Poster studies never look good enough to display as separate works of art, as studies by some artists do. If it looks that good, you didn’t do it right.

The poster study allows you to solve a lot of painting problems beforehand. You quickly come to understand your composition in a way that thumbnail sketches do not allow. You see color harmonies evolve and figure out how you are going to mix most of the colors you will need. Lots of mistakes can be caught in this manner before you ever touch the final painting. Once you start, the poster study becomes a reference to refer to as the final painting progresses.

Underdrawing

The next stage is drawing the forms on the canvas (which is white, not toned). Tony does this in vine charcoal, then inks in the underdrawing in diluted paint. Dennis sometimes also had us do this in dilute paint from the start. The idea behind the drawing is to linearly delineate all of the important forms throughout the painting, with a high degree of detail. All the important decisions about placement, shape, and structure are made in this stage.

Note that you must be able to draw accurately for this to work. Then again, if you can’t draw well, there isn’t really much point to trying to paint realistically.

Color Wash

The next stage is what Dennis calls the “color wash” and Tony calls the “wash in.” It involves application of diluted paint to the canvas, approximating the final color. Although Tony doesn’t mention it, Dennis emphasized that you should never use white when doing the wash in. This is a transparent application of paint in a manner similar to watercolor, in that the lights are generated by the white of the canvas. The entire canvas is covered in the wash-in, so that virtually none of of it ends up pure white. While the level of detail is not as high as in the final painting, the wash-in gets pretty detailed. In his demo, Tony says this:

The wash-in helps solve many of the problems that we would otherwise encounter if we were to paint a finished painting directly on white canvas. One such problem has to do with knowing whether or not the colors we’re applying to the painting are indeed the ones we want. Colors, by themselves, are never right or wrong. They can only be judged in their tonal context, i.e., in the painting itself. That context is never fully realized until the painting is done. Consequently, while the painting is in progress there is always a degree of uncertainty involved in the choice of colors. However, we can take steps to lessen the degree of uncertainty.

Form Painting

Dennis also calls this “painting opaquely.” Over the color wash, you start in one area and slowly create the final appearance of the picture. You can now begin to use white, which is part of what makes this stage opaque (you also stop diluting the paint to a watery consistency). This is called a “window shade” technique because you attempt to create the final appearance of one area of the painting, move to an adjacent area, do the same thing, and continue. The painting appears slowly, as if pulling up a window shade. The procedure is therefore basically a direct painting method, applied over the wash-in (which has dried very quickly because it was applied so thinly). It may take many days to complete the painting, but each section is finished before you move on to the next. (Corrections are allowed, of course, but the goal is to not have to do any.)


This is not how I actually paint nowadays, although there are strong similarities. I am often too lazy to do a poster study, although it would be a good idea. My underdrawings are usually done in paint, not charcoal. I almost always tone the surface rather than paint on a white ground. Because I don’t like to dilute paint to that degree (I am concerned about its technical soundness), I don’t do a color wash. I do at times deliberately work in layers rather than directly.

This is an effective way to paint realistically, however, and I may go back to these roots more over time.


Update

30 November 2008: I should also note the strong opposition to working from photos that proponents of this approach espouse. All work is done from life or from the imagination, never with mechanical aids and never from photos. I myself find photos to be pretty bad sources of information to use for realist art, although I am not nearly so opposed as Jacobs and his direct students are to “cheating.”

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In comments, Julius writes:

David: In the beautiful work you show on your gallery, are most of the effects achieved with your “thick glazing” technique? I have been experimenting with thin glazes and have run into problems at every turn. For example: How to achieve an intense red or orange, since cadmium colors are out? How to glaze thinly and be able to do fabrics and tablecloths - especially in light colors? How to do a light color ceramic bowl (as in one of yours)? Maybe you could speak in detail about the work in your gallery…

Thanks for the kind words, Julius. Glazing is not my primary oil painting technique.* I tend to paint fairly opaquely most of the time, attempting to achieve the final look of each passage before moving to the next. I’m not dogmatic about that, however, and will go back over a passage, opaquely or transparently, if I didn’t get it right the first time.

I do use glazing for specific purposes. For example, the background of the self portrait in the gallery is yellow ochre glazed over white. Although YO is usually thought of as rather dull, its undertone has a very different character—much higher in chroma and value. That’s one great use of glazing: to avoid “chalkiness” (lowered chroma) at high values.

As far as intense red or orange, here’s how that was done historically. Start by painting that specific passage in a flat opaque color similar to your desired final hue. For example, you could use cadmium red light (historically, this would have been vermilion, which behaves similarly to cad red). Let it dry. Then glaze over it with a similar transparent color such as alizarin crimson (which is fugitive) or pyrol ruby (which is not). Make this second color thick where you want it dark and thin where you want midtones or lights. If desired, paint into the lights with the same or similar colors mixed with white. Let it dry. If the darks are not dark enough, apply another layer of glaze to those areas, perhaps darkened with another transparent color such as ultramarine blue. Over two or three layers, you can get the darks as strong as you like, in a higher chroma than you can get without glazing. I’ve tried this, and it works. For orange, you are limited in glazing colors, but hansa yellow mixed with any of the modern transparent organic reds or crimsons can work.

Does this method allow you to get any color you wish? No, it does not. You are limited to available shades of transparent pigments. But the Old Masters were even more limited, and they didn’t make junk.

As for fabrics, this method works quite well if you have the patience for it. Be prepared to go back into the lights, while the glaze layer is still wet, with opaque colors mixed with white.

Ceramics are easy. For a white ceramic glazed with blue, just paint the object without the blue and allow to dry. Ultramarine or other semi-transparent blues glazed on top are quite convincing (that’s how I did the ceramic cup in the “Three Cherries” painting in my gallery).

This would be easier to show than to tell, but I hope this is helpful.


*In part that’s due to the influence of my teacher, Dennis Cheaney. Dennis is a student of Ted Set Jacobs, who long ago rejected glazing in his own painting method, because he believes it makes it more difficult to precisely control hue, value, and chroma. I don’t paint the same way that Dennis and Ted do (nor nearly as well), but the vast majority of my formal instruction has been in a direct painting style.

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White Shirt

Here’s where the “White Shirt” painting is at. What I’ve done is finish initial rendering of each area of the shirt. I found that the hues were uneven—I am still learning to manage near-neutrals across relatively large areas of a painting. What I tried was to glaze transparent yellow oxide across bluer shadow areas, which evened out hues somewhat, but the overall painting was unconvincingly yellow-orange. I had also over-rendered much of the shirt, with too broad a range in value between darks and lights.

This was a perfect time to apply a velatura.

Taking a hint from Tad Spurgeon, I mixed up a batch of putty. This was calcite (ground marble dust) mulled with walnut oil and a bit of stand oil. The resulting mixture was a dull grey with the consistency of, well, oil paint. Putty is a medium used to increase the transparency of paint, since the calcite is essentially invisible in an oil vehicle. This is better than adding a lot of oil or resin, as the calcite/oil mixture is as strong and as resistant to discoloration as oil paint.

I mixed the putty with lead white (Doak’s flake 1C) in approximately equal amounts. Then I added a very small amount of neutral gray paint (ivory black and burnt umber) which I had previously tubed. I now had a very light gray, relatively translucent mixture.

I oiled out the surface of the painting with a thin layer of walnut oil, which is very slippery and less yellowing than linseed. I applied the gray mixture to the surface. Initially, it looked awful—my careful painting was covered with flat gray. With a stiff bristle flat, I started working at adjusting the thickness of the velatura layer, pulling the underpainting out. I found that it was effective to moisten the brush with a bit of walnut oil. It took awhile, but eventually the underpainting began to show through, with the value range compressed toward the gray value of the velatura and the hue pulled toward neutral.

It needs a bit of work once the velatura layer has dried to restate a few highlights and dark accents, but overall this was a successful exercise.

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Wipe

So tonight I’m working on my “White Shirt” painting. I spend a good hour on the most detailed part of the piece—the hangar hook and its shadow. I do a really nice job, with small brushes, getting each curve and the flash of metal just right. Detailed, but not too fussy. Then I step back.

I’ve made an error. The hook is too small. It looks almost right, but not quite.

I sit for a minute, then take a rag dipped in turps and wipe it off the painting. You need to be willing to do that sometimes, just as an author needs to be able to delete a wondrous chapter that just doesn’t work with the rest of the novel. If it’s not right, it has to go, no matter how much you like it.

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