At its best, life is
completely unpredictable.
-Christopher
Walken
So,
as I stated earlier, with the arrival of warmer weather last spring, I intended
to get outdoors and paint some landscapes.
I had spent the prior winter painting a series of not very successful
self-portraits in gouache and looked forward to continuing my experimentation
addressing a new subject matter under open skies. I am almost exclusively a figurative painter,
only on rare occasions venturing into other genres such as landscape or still
life. During my years of employment, I
would usually attempt some plein air painting during my vacations, my
inexperience with the subject matter bringing about some fairly inconsistent
results.
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| Birches - Moosehead Lake, Maine - Oil on Canvas - 1987 |
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| Greece - Watercolor - 1988 |
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| Searsport, Maine - Oil on Canvas - 1991 |
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| Switzerland - Watercolor - 1992 |
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| Manomet, Massachusetts - Oil on Canvas - 1994 |
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| Narragansett, Rhode Island - Pen and Ink with Watercolor - 2002 |
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| Horseneck Beach, Massachusetts - Oil on Canvas - 2003 |
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| Lake Taghkanic, New York - Watercolor - 2006 |
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| East Sandwich, Cape Cod - Watercolor - 2007 |
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| Union Vale, New York - Watercolor - 2007 |
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| Lake Minnewaska, New York - Pen and Ink with Watercolor - 2009 |
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| Gertrude's Nose, New York - Watercolor - 2011 |
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| Cabin Interior - Gilbert Lake, New York - Watercolor - 2017 |
But now, being newly
retired, I imagined myself driving or biking to various locales near my home,
rambling into the “wilderness” with a backpack full of supplies and a picnic
lunch to spend the day drawing and painting.
I was really quite excited at the prospect.
Of course, with the spring
thaw, the ground became sodden and muddy.
Happens every year, and I anticipated that in a week or two the earth would
firm up making some fantastic locations accessible. It was definitely a wet spring but, in my opinion,
nothing extraordinary. However, by the
start of summer, my mood was changing. I
was tired of the regular rains, the wet grass and the puddling of water
throughout my yard and was eagerly awaiting some hot, dry weather.
It never materialized. Well, to be honest, we did have a brief spell
of a few days in early July when the rains abated and we actually had to water
our flower gardens. But it was a very
brief spell. Normally, during the summer
months, the gardens must be watered every evening. Occasionally, out of sheer laziness, we might
skip a day, and the next morning the plants will look like hell, their fragile
blossoms contracted into raggedy fists, their leaves brown edged and drooping like
flags on a windless day. Abstain from
watering a second day and most of the plants, except for a few hardy succulents,
will die. This summer we stopped
watering around Independence Day and never did so again - not through the
summer months or the entire autumn. Bare
spots in the lawn which would usually turn an ashy tan stayed a rich, chocolaty
brown throughout the season. My knee
high rubber boots, purchased mainly to keep the yard accessible in deep snows,
were heaved on for routine outdoor chores.
I’d take the dog up the property for a few minutes, and we’d both return
covered in mud. Many times, I cooked out
in the rain, stationed at the barbecue in waterproof gear, my boots sloshing in
an ever-present puddle. And there were
always a couple inches of water in our basement’s boiler room, forestalling
some critical repair work that needed to be done before the next heating season
began. I’m not exaggerating. There was some precipitation most days, a
major downpour coming on in about three day intervals. By mid-autumn, hiking on natural trails
became so unpleasant that I’d opted to get my exercise making half mile laps on
the paved path around the perimeter of a nearby pond, and eventually even that
artificial and manicured location became threatened as the pond’s waters
spilled over its banks and crept ever closer to the walkway*. By December’s end, the TV weathermen were
excitedly informing us that 2018 would fall into the top ten wettest years for New York since such
statistics were recorded. Appropriately,
rain was still coming down in torrents as revelers gathered in Times Square to celebrate the ushering in of a new year,
and I’m still not sure if we ultimately ended up setting the record for the fourth
or fifth wettest year.
*Note: As of this writing,
the walkway is still traversable, but the waters are higher than I’ve ever seen
them and will spill over the pavement shortly in several spots if current rainfall
trends remain consistent.
And,
during the summer months, when it wasn’t raining, it was very hot, very humid
and, subsequently, very buggy, making outdoor activity far from appealing. But I was determined to get out and paint as
I had planned. I would conscientiously
study the week’s weather forecasts and select the optimal days on which to make
my forays into nature, yet, even then, something inevitably went wrong. On one occasion, I persuaded my wife and son
to join me in a day of painting at a lake located about twenty miles from our
home. The day I selected turned out to
be one of the hottest of the year, and little did I realize that the walk from
the parking area to the lake would involve hiking through miles of rolling,
mosquito infested woods. Each of us bore
a heavy backpack loaded with art supplies and water, and, as our hike proceeded
without any sign of a lake, we were surprised at how far we were required to
walk. Every now and then, we’d stop
along the trail, convinced that we must have made a wrong turn, only to come
across some fellow hikers who assured us that we were on the right path. Eventually, my companions were griping
vociferously, demanding that we turn back at once, when a lone wayfarer
appeared out of the brush and assured us that the lake was just minutes
away. Sure enough, a little further
exertion brought us to the edge of a scenic lake, its serene waters providing a
mirror image of the sky and surrounding forest.
It would probably have been an ideal location at which to paint, except
that by then we were exhausted, overheated, drenched in sweat and covered with
mosquito bites. After studying the view
of the lake for a few minutes, a consensus was reached with barely a word
between us; we pulled our backpacks on again and began the long hike back to
the car.
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| Nuclear Lake - Pawling, New York |
On another occasion, after
securing an exceptionally rosy forecast from my favorite weather sites, I left
my home on a beautiful, sunny day and made a twenty minute drive to a nearby
park. When I exited my car, I
immediately recognized that the weather had undergone a change. The sky had grayed a bit, and a steady breeze
was blowing from the northwest. Thinking
that the front would pass quickly, I loaded my supplies on my back and headed
out to the spot at which I had chosen to paint that day. During the fifteen minute walk there,
conditions worsened, but I persisted, hoping still for a quick recovery. However, by the time I arrived at my intended
location and had to decide if I should construct my easel and prepare my paints,
the clouds had thickened considerably and the sky had darkened to such an
extent that I felt like I was experiencing a total eclipse of the sun. I sat down a while, peering into the murky
heavens and considering my options. Reluctantly, I called it a day and retreated. A minute or two after arriving back at my
car, the downpour hit.
In early July, I had planned
for my youngest son and me a ten mile bike ride on a nearby rail trail to a
spot I thought would be perfect for painting.
We set off at midmorning, our supplies and lunch stowed in our
backpacks. About halfway to our
destination, my son let out an anguished cry and I turned back to see him far
off in the distance, standing beside his bike.
Unbeknownst to me, he had been struggling with his gear settings since
we started out, causing him regularly to fall behind me. Now his pedal had fallen off. Not a problem, I thought, I’ll have the bike
fixed in a minute or two. Unfortunately,
I wasn’t able to thread the pedal back onto the crank arm. Frustrated that a task so apparently simple
could not be accomplished, my son and I alternately went at it to no
avail. Of course, it was a sweltering
day, and the prospect of walking our bikes home wasn’t very appetizing. As we sat on the pavement beside our bikes,
two sheriffs on ATVs pulled up beside us and inquired if we needed help. I asked if they happened to have any tools in
their vehicles, which prompted a fruitless search of each ATV’s cargo
trunk. One of the sheriffs was kind enough
to attempt to thread the pedal himself, but after numerous attacks he had no
better luck than we had had. Finally, he
threw in the towel and advised me that he believed there was a bike rental
location in a small shopping center off the trail about a mile back. I thanked him gratefully before we started
back, our bikes beside us. The officer’s
information was offered with many caveats and ambiguities, so I wasn’t
particularly optimistic of our chances of success as we started out; but, at
least, we were heading toward home. In
about a half hour, we found to my surprise the bike rental shop exactly as
described. I entered the store, explained
to a worker our situation and asked if I could borrow a wrench. He didn’t answer me, just picked up a number
of tools and lumbered toward the door, his foot swaddled in a compression cast. He examined the bike, shook his head and
declared that the crank arm was stripped.
Well, that’s that, I thought and steeled myself for the long walk home. But he was undeterred. He forced the pedal into the opening and,
using a bizarre looking tool, began to feed it into the damaged grooves. Progress was so slow and he was obviously
exerting himself so strenuously, sweat literally beading up on his brow, that I
encouraged him to quit several times. However, he persevered and ultimately
reattached the pedal to the bike. I
insisted on paying him for his efforts, but he refused, stating, “If I wasn’t
doing that, I’d just be doing something else.”
I thanked this second Good Samaritan appreciatively, and my son and I
continued on our way. We did arrive at
our destination, which proved to be not nearly as scenic as it appeared from
high on the rail trail, and, after a late lunch, we determined that we were
rather exhausted, the day was pretty much shot and painting really wasn’t in
the cards. We pedaled home, stopping to
convalesce several times along the way.
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| Why, when things go wrong, is the father always the one who gets the blame? |
Feeling dissatisfied with
the small number of outdoor sessions I was able to realize, I continued my
plein air painting late into the autumn, clearly recognizing at times that
conditions were less than perfect. Once
I went out in early November, hoping to capture the reflection of the intensely
pigmented foliage on the water of a nearby pond. Temperatures were brisk, but the air was
completely still. I’m sure that my
reader can already predict that, once I was set up to paint, the winds picked
up. At first this wasn’t too challenging
a problem; I simply steadied my easel whenever a gust broke upon me. But soon the winds became constant. Now, I’ve painted in high winds before with a
weighted easel and a carefully secured canvas, but I had left the house
completely unprepared for these conditions.
So now I was painting with my right hand holding a brush and the other
gripping the leg of my easel. I know
this sounds extremely wimpy, but eventually my left hand grew numb and
painfully cold. I still painted on,
hoping to complete the work before conditions became untenable. Only after the wind had torn the pad off my
easel and sent it tumbling into the lakeside brush several times did I concede
that further effort was impossible and yielded my ground.
These are just a few
examples of some of the many hindrances that thwarted my efforts to paint
outdoors during the warmer weather. I
particularly recall being forestalled from an afternoon’s activity by a dead
car battery and squandering two perfect days waiting at home for the oil burner
repairmen to arrive. Another time, I was
on a remote rocky ledge, preparing to get my painting supplies out, when a
hiker startled the hell out of me, pretty much appearing out of nowhere. He informed me that he was an avid hiker, and
he told me how important it was for him to get away now and then from his
girlfriend and kid, escape into the wilderness and spend some alone time
communing with nature. I would say that
he certainly wasn’t “communing” much that day because an hour and a half later
he was still blathering away, even though I would only respond to his discourses
with a few polite words or mere grunts.
Soon I recognized that my window had passed and opted to spend the day
hiking and taking photographs. By
autumn, this weird pattern had played out so many times that I felt something
uncanny was going on and would sullenly grumble each time my plans to paint
fell through. When I started to whine
about being jinxed, an unsettling assertion to be put forth in a pragmatic
household of skeptics, my wife’s brow furrowed with concern. But she bore my grousing stoically, and
shortly, to her relief, the change of seasons rendered all thought of outdoor
painting impossible.
Well,
in spite of any supernatural influences, I did
manage to get out for some painting on several occasions in 2018. A couple of times, I admit I did concede
defeat and submitted to painting in the backyard. But there were also days when the weather
cooperated and I could set up my easel in some secluded location, fill my palette
with a small array of gouache colors and paint for hours. While in that hyperfocused trance that comes
with hours of undisturbed effort, I’d find that distractions would evaporate,
minor discomfits like heat, bug bites or the strain of an awkward perch could
easily be ignored and the day would slip into evening in the blink of an eye. At those times when everything worked out,
I’d be filled with a sense of wellbeing, feeling grateful to be so privileged
as to pursue, without the restrictions of employment, my personal inclinations.
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| Me, Painting at Poets' Walk - Red Hook, New York |
Below you’ll find the
artwork that resulted from those sporadic occasions when all the stars aligned
for me.
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| Backyard Gazebo - Sharpie and Gouache - 2018 |
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| Poets' Walk - Red Hook, New York - Charcoal and Gouache - 2018 |
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| Lake Minnewaska, New York - Charcoal and Gouache - 2018 |
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| Backyard Picnic Table and Pergola - Charcoal and Gouache - 2018 |
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| Keith's Pond - Gouache - 2018 |
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| Keith's Pond - Graphite and Gouache - 2018 |
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| Tymor in Autumn - Gouache - 2018 |
So, after hearing of my many
trials and tribulations, you should not be surprised to learn that my
experiences have helped me understand a little better what artists before me
have suffered in the pursuit of their craft.
Now I can more fully appreciate the tremendous physical torture
Michelangelo must have withstood while painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling… or
the frustration a marriage with the unfaithful Diego Rivera had inflicted upon
Frida Kahlo… or the anguish Vincent Van Gogh endured struggling to establish
his artistic vision while contending with severe mental illness. Well… maybe not.
No. But I have gained a profound
respect for those artists who chose to paint landscapes on location. I’m particularly impressed with those who
opted to record winter scenes. Claude
Monet, Ferdinand Hodler and Harald Sohlberg come readily to mind, though I am
sure there are many others. After my
brief foray into plein air painting during the most clement months of the year,
I can’t fathom how they pulled it off.
As always, I encourage
readers to comment here. If you would
prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.
