In the 19th century (especially in Germany), painting recipes were developed that involved various combinations of tempera ingredients, often including some combination of egg white, whole egg, linseed oil, stand oil, dammar varnish, stand oil, and turpentine. You can find many such recipes on the internet with a few simple Google searches. I’ve usually avoided these relatively complex recipes in favor of simple emulsions of egg yolk (the traditional binder for egg tempera) and linseed or walnut oil, mixed with pigment/water paste.

Recently, I ran across a web reprint of Egg Tempera Painting, Tempera Underpainting, Oil Emulsion Painting: A Manual of Technique, by Vaclav Vitlacyl and Rupert Davidson Turnbull. Published in 1935, it is a compendium of various tempera techniques. One that caught my eye is a recipe they call “putrido.” Putrido is one name for tempera grassa (because it starts to smell bad after a few days). They say that this is based on a recipe from an old manuscript found in Venice. For all I know it’s what was used in the Renaissance.

Take whatever quantity of dry color you wish to prepare. Divide it into two equal parts. Rub up one part with yolk of egg only into a fairly stiff paste. Rub up the other part with sun-bleached linseed oil, to about the consistency of ordinary tube colours. (To save time or trouble, it is possible to use ordinary tube oil colours, but to be sure of your ingredients, it is always advisable to grind your own colour in oil.) The part that is rubbed up with oil may be slightly larger in quantity than the part rubbed with yolk of egg. Then take the two parts so prepared and grind them together, preferably on the marble slab. It will be found that when these two parts are put together, the resultant mixture will stiffen at once into a very stiff paste, too stiff to be easily rubbed. This may be softened down by the addition of either water, emulsion, or linseed oil. If you wish to use the Putrido in its leaner form, add either water or the emulsion (Medium Fat Emulsion), but if you wish to paint with it as an oil paint using oil as the medium, then thin it down with oil. In either case, add the water, the emulsion, or the oil very slowly, only a few drops at a time, until the paste becomes a smooth cream easily handled on the marble slab.

I find this to be pretty interesting. It is a recipe that is similar to what I’ve done before, is simple to make, doesn’t involve solvents, and uses egg yolk (rather than the white or the whole egg), with which I am more familiar. They suggest that adding a small amount of oil of clove will preserve the paint mixture and allow it to be kept for some time (although not indefinitely). I expect that storing them in a refrigerator, especially in warm weather, would be a good idea. The oil of clove would also act as a retarder for the oil component of the paint, causing to dry more slowly. That could be a good or a bad thing, but I expect one would have to wait between layers for the paint to dry. You could try to balance the retarding effect of the clove oil by adding a small amount of lead napthenate, but that makes for a more complex reaction than I am really comfortable with.

I’ll have to try this recipe soon. I have a large painting that I started in tempera and then stopped work on. It might make an excellent underpainting for this TG recipe.

That doesn’t work for me. First of all, it’s not “realistic,” in that human vision (at least as I experience it as a human with functioning vision) never has areas of flat color. If I look at a plain wall, it has constant variations in hue, chroma, and value. I just don’t see any flat color there.

That doesn’t mean the artist can’t paint it flat if that’s the way it looks to him or her, or if that evokes a certain feeling the artist wants to reference. But the big problem with flatness is that it distances me emotionally from the painting. Flat color pushes me away. It says, “there isn’t anything to see here—this space intentionally left blank.” A flat area of color emphasizes the reality that the painting itself is flat. The painting becomes less realist and more abstract, in a way that I find unappealing. Flat paintings are more “modern” (in the sense of being more 20th century), but that’s not a selling point as far as I am concerned. I like simplicity in paintings, but not that kind of simplicity.

By contrast, texture pulls me into the painting. It can be used to create a sense of mystery, as in the subtle darks of a Rembrandt painting. It communicates more about the visual reality that the painter is attempting to lure me into observing. It gives me a reason to spend more time looking, and from the standpoint of a painter, that is never a bad thing.

As a result, I spend lots of time with the “blank” parts of my paintings. I typically use multiple layers and think about how much texture and color variation to apply. Some blank areas get more attention than detail areas. That doesn’t show so much in a photograph of the painting—but that’s just one more reason why the original is better than any reproduction. And that, from the standpoint of a painter, is an excellent thing.

Peter Howson (b. London 1958) is one of these painters who are “writing” their art with their life; or - in other words - they continuously provoke challenges and arrange “scenography” in order to give their work a reason for existence. In that sense Howson occupies the opposite side to, for example, Henry Matisse or Joan Miro who lived comparatively ordinary lives of family men and their paintings seemed to emerge, first of all, from their intense inner life. Peter would be one of these artists, with whom Marcel Duchamp was likely to be fascinated. Artists with an amazing personal story and controversial work. I found myself being fascinated by that story both as a humanist and a person studying art.

Peter Howson met with violence and humiliation at a young age being bullied by his classmates. He was small, quiet and “different”, he wouldn’t play football during brakes simply because he preferred to stay inside and draw. Lately, he names his sickness of the soul as the Asperger’s Syndrome. The psychological effects of that early loneliness and brutality were to be long-lasting. At 17 he got into Glasgow School of Art (Peter’s family moved to Scotland when he was four and he’s recognized as a “Scottish” artist) but he found himself fighting with bad, non-understanding teaching.

Disillusioned, he quits school after a year and enrolls in the British Army. It’s quite an unusual move for a sensitive, introverted boy with the history of bullying. He stands military life for nine months and appreciates the period as being one of the most formative in his entire life. Personally, I admire that choice made just in the right time and probably with the instinct that in order to learn how to swim one has to throw himself into deep water. Peter Howson had confronted his fears and perhaps bad memories and he did this struggling through the hard, an extreme way. That “extreme” trait will develop to be the painter’s alter ego - Howson as we know him now.

Having finished the art school (thanks to an encouraging teacher - Sandy Moffat) Peter starts yet another fight, this time lasting throughout his mature life of an artist and man. It’s a battle of wills between Peter Howson - a victim of his own psyche and Peter Howson - a man of action and adventure, a talented painter with a great insight in the human soul.

In his early 20s the painter faces his fascination with the gym and heroes in A. Schwarzenegger’s type. Soon he admits that because he took things to a ridiculous extreme he had became so muscle-bound that he hated the way he looked. Also, his first painting series would be an acute, although slightly caricatured depiction of body builders, hard men and hooligans. At the same time the artist speaks out how much he actually detests the world he depicts: I hate violence. And I believe that everyone, no matter how gentle they think they are, has the capacity for it within them…

Through mid-1980s his profile rose steadily and within relatively short period of time Howson found himself being collected by Madonna, David Bowie, Bob Geldof and being rejected by the respectable museums at the same time. Initially thrilled by the fame he soon realizes a trap he and his admirers have set up - a trap of generating works in a one, recognized style and in a one popular thematic circle (just think about dozens of other artists who would never try to escape from such a comfortable trap). He knew he had to make himself different.

That’s how he threw himself into another very deep water - he became an official painter of the war in the former Yugoslavia, so-called Bosnian War (1992-1995). That was certainly the most extreme challenge of the “extreme painter”. First time he went unprepared and came back seriously sick, the home press labelled him “a coward”. He had returned and demanded an army uniform and to be treated like a soldier. That experience was about to make him a different man. The war is one of the most barbaric in the history - a civil butchery based on ethnic grounds with mass fratricidal killings and rapes, tortures and mutilations. Howson called it a war of violence and humiliation becoming himself a kind of a poignantly experienced expert in both. What exactly the painter witnessed remains his mystery (he rejected the presence of journalists at his second visit) but he admits that he had never been closer to suicide and - paradoxically - never felt more alive.

A series of Howson’s Bosnian huge-scaled canvases caused a big debate in Great Britain and beyond with the major media - The Times, BBC being involved. And it started even before they had their premiere at the Peter Howson: Bosnia exhibition in the Imperial War Museum (London) in 1994. Some of the paintings appeared “too explicit” for a public view (especially the powerful Croatian and Muslim depicting a brutal rape), some were questioned on a basis of their historical value as the painter admitted not to witness himself some of the scenes (but “just” using his imagination).

The paintings belong to the most powerful images of the contemporary figurative art. They depict women being raped, castrated men, hanged animals, ragged refugees and above all - anonymous faces, formidable, unforgettable physiognomies of those who went through hell. These works have the drama, fantasy, emotional intensity and visionary quality of W. Blake’s and H. Bosch’s paintings. They were born from sincerity and an authentic spiritual pain, from passion and courage, from a sinful fascination by the evil side of the human nature and a heroic struggle against it. It has to be said that the contemporary art seems to be nothing like that…

Recently, Peter Howson makes headlines over abusing drugs and alcohol. He turned towards religious themes.

In Phaidon’s 20th Century Art Book his name appears among 499 the most important artists of the past century.

Here is Howson’s official web page:Peter Howson

For further reading I do recommend books:

- Jackson, A. A Different Man, 1997

- Heller, R. Peter Howson, 1993

P.S.

Dear Readers,

With David’s permission I would like to invite you on my own page I’ve been developing throughout the last week - Terra Incognita

We agreed on cross-posting (I will publish some of my texts/images on both blogs and David - feel free to post on my site), but I would like also to contribute some pieces designed just for this site.

All The Strange Hours will remain a terrain of my debut, so it will always be a little bit special for me.

Before I do, I should point out that Mr. Mathis is, so far as I can tell, a professional artist who supports himself with his very good paintings. I, by contrast, am no more than a wannabee. On that basis, he has and deserves far more credibility than I. He is, however, commenting on the practices of another professional artist of at least equal stature (and fairly similar artistic style). It is certainly true that some professional artists throughout history have used ill-advised materials and painting methods. In any event, either Mr. Whitaker is right or Mr. Mathis is right on any of these issues (or they are both wrong) and I, lowly hobbyist that I am, will attempt to compare one to the other against my own limited experience.

Mathis’ concerns are based on what he has gleaned from doing internet searches and by that means finding recommendations that Whitaker has made on various internet fora regarding appropriate painting practices. Before starting on his primary criticism (regarding Whitaker’s recommended painting ground) Mathis first objects to Whitaker’s recommendation that Maroger’s medium is good to use and should be mixed with paint in a ratio of about 25% medium to 75% paint. In case you are not aware, this medium is from a recipe originally conceived by an artist and painting conservator named Jacques Maroger. It consists of thick mastic varnish (made with turpentine) mixed with black oil (which is linseed oil cooked with litharge, a lead compound). There are many claims out there regarding Maroger’s medium and its effects. I have heard both that Maroger’s own paintings are in horrible shape (turned black) and that they are so perfect that they look like they were painted yesterday. I have heard the same of his student’s paintings. I have not seen any of them. Other artists make claims about Maroger that are all over the map. Most conservators seem to condemn it. At least one technical conservation paper looked at some of his student’s paintings and found that they had deteriorated rapidly (although some of his students seemed to like the stuff so much that it seems as if they painted with Maroger medium into which a tiny bit of actual paint had been mixed).

My general take on the matter is this. I agree that 25% of any medium is way too much. Generally, I prefer to use just oil paint and perhaps just a touch of medium here and there. There are a number of products that are called “Maroger’s medium” and I am sure that they differ in their properties, so a blanket condemnation is probably not warranted. The one kind that I’ve tried seemed to slightly improve the handling characteristics of the paint, but not in any dramatic way. I don’t use it any more, myself, in part because of all the hysteria (which may be based on some truth) and in part because there are mediums I like better. Overall, however, I am neutral on the issue of Maroger’s when used very judiciously.

Mathis next condemns Whitaker’s recommended practice of wet sanding. This is a procedure that I myself use and recommend. He objects that any water on dried oil paint will cause all sorts of problems, such as buckling or delamination. Huh? Sitting a painting in water is of course a bad idea. Spreading a little water on a dried surface, sanding for two minutes, and then drying it off is unlikely to cause any sort of harm. Of course one should make sure that the surface is completely dry before painting on it. Water has no magical power to damage a painting. Extended exposure causes problems. Light wet sanding improves the tooth of the surface and improves the mechanical bond between layers. That will likely decrease the chance of problems, not increase it. And if you do sand, wet sanding instead of dry sanding greatly decreases the chance that you will breathe pigment dust. Mathis also objects to the idea that one should try for a smooth surface when painting. He thinks that such a desire is “fussy to the extreme.” I think that depends on the kind of painting you’re trying to make. Certainly a van der Weyden painting would loose much of its power without a smooth surface. I don’t usually worry about a bit of texture in my paintings, but I don’t think that painters who want a smooth surface should be condemned for that.

Next Mathis gets to the heart of his objection to Whitaker’s painting recommendations: he opposes the use of ABS (acrylonitrile butadiene styrene) as a painting surface. Firstly, he notes that ABS dust is very poisonous and that Whitaker suggests sanding it, which, Mathis says, is extremely dangerous. I’m not a materials scientist or toxicologist. No one should take my advice (or Whitaker’s or Mathis’) with regard to their health. The limited research I’ve done indicates that sanding ABS is something that should be done with a dust mask and that the dust should be thoroughly cleaned up afterwards. So far as I can tell, we’re not talking Chernobyl here. However, if you do choose to work with ABS, please do your own research and follow appropriate safety precautions. Err on the side of caution.

Now, this is not the place to get into it, but what sort of people would even consider making children’s toys by joining together three different toxic substances? It is sort of like making pacifiers out of arsenic, strychnine, and anthrax, and then saying that because the compound is not immediately lethal there is no problem. But we make dental fillings out of mercury and water mains out of other poisons, so it is already clear what sort of people we are.

In any event, I don’t think that the choice by an artist to use or not use ABS has much to do with the morality of modern Western civilization. Which, I might point out, generates vast amounts of surplus wealth that allows hundreds of thousands of people to work as artists instead of doing backbreaking manual farm labor to feed themselves. I find that to be a good thing.

If Bill Whitaker is recommending that people sand ABS without first taking appropriate precautions, then he’s giving bad advice. Mathis also objects, however, to painting on ABS after it has been prepared as a painting surface. I’ve done exactly one painting on ABS. I was sent the panel as a free sample by the folks at www.realgesso.com (who, I suspect, use appropriate precautions in their manufacturing process). The panel was already prepared and I did no sanding. I found it to be a very pleasant surface to paint upon. It took the paint well without being sticky or “chattery.” Overall, however, I didn’t find it to be superior to either traditional gesso or lead primer. The panels are expensive, so I prefer to make mine myself with materials I understand a bit better than ABS. Mathis recommends lead white, and so do I.

He also objects to ABS on the grounds that there is no reason to suppose that paint will reliably adhere to it. When I used it, the paint seemed to stick just fine. That painting is less than a year old, so there is no telling what the long-term prospects are for permanence. My overall philosophy with painting materials is that I want to work with stuff that other people first experimented with at least a generation ago, so that any problems will have come to light. I appreciate the brave sacrifice of those who use ABS panels, alkyd mediums, and other materials of questionable longevity for painting applications. 100 years from now, artists will have an excellent idea of whether they were a good idea. For now, we don’t actually know.

For that reason, I’ll generally skip ABS. While I don’t have the philosophical objections that Mathis does, I don’t see that ABS solves any problem that I actually have.

He’s got lots of discussion of his process of watercolor painting and drawing. Good stuff. Check it out.

My pedantic quibble is this: Pilate pronounces “ecce” wrong. He says, “eche.” I’m no Latin scholar, but it is my understanding that there are no soft “C” sounds in classical Latin. It should be pronounced “eke,” just as Caesar would have been pronounced “kaisar,” not “seesar” the way we say it today. The soft “C” pronunciation is from Medieval Church Latin, which did not exist circa 33 A.D. Any real scholars should feel free to correct me on this.

I know, I know. Who cares? It just irritated me. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

What’s all this have to do with art? It’s only tangential. I’ve been thinking about and looking at Renaissance depictions of the adult Jesus lately. Artists were called upon to paint various moments from the life of Jesus. Artists at the time produced this kind of religious art for customers and patrons who paid for conventional work that reinforced the religious conventions of the time. They sometimes managed to transcend the limits of the marketplace, however, with original work that is profoundly moving.

	Here, for example, is “Ecce Homo,” by Bosch, from about 1475–80.
	Here’s is another one of the same scene by Bosch from the 1490’s. I like the earlier one better.
	This is Bosch’s “Christ Carrying the Cross,” from about 1515–16. It seems more like the work he’s most famous for—chaotic paintings of hell. In this one, the composition is an almost random spread of grotesque figures surrounding Jesus as he is forced to bear the cross.
	And this is my favorite Bosch depiction of Jesus. It’s “Christ Mocked,” from about 1495–1500. In it, Christ stands patiently while a group of grotesque fools make fun of him. Using caricature freely, he creates a strong sense of humanity in the juxtaposition between Christ and the figures surrounding him.
	Here is an “Ecce Homo,” by Caravaggio from about 1606. Here he shows his typical mastery of composition, light, and darkness to create a dramatic and moving scene.
	This is Caravaggio’s “Taking of Christ,” from about 1598, in which Jesus is led to Jesus by the traitor Judas. Look at the way that the dramatic lighting is used to lead the eye across the composition from right to left—the opposite direction than we normally expect.
	But Caravaggio’s most moving depiction of the adult Christ is his amazing, “The Entombment,” from about 1602–1603. Caravaggio makes Christ into a mere corpse, any of the traditional indicators of divinity such as a halo or crown of thorns. In doing so he emphasizes Jesus’s humanity and the human and genuine grief of the mourners. Once again, he quite effectively leads the eye from right to left into an unusual, but effective, focal point.

Not all of his paintings depend on special effects like this, but these are some of his best.