 Since
surmounting the official retirement age something over a year ago I have
been revisiting my adolescent ambition to be a painter of the old
fashioned sort, an artist painting landscapes and portraits in oils and
watercolours.
As part of that venture I have been out sketching a
lot including, not too surprisingly given a long obsession with the
subject, many canal scenes. But what has surprised me is how few views
as actually seen add up to being the right material for a good picture.
Define a good picture here please. Well, for the purposes of this
article it is a two dimensional ground -- paper or canvas -- that
carries a design of colour, shape and line that excites or interests the
viewer either by the abstract power of the composition or the subject
matter. Ideally it does both at the same time.
So I have been looking again at the canal and waterway
world with rather different eyes, trying to focus on finding and
recording specific images that say something about both me and my
subject within the confines of a small bit of paper. This has led to a
lot of careful looking and a much more formal analysis of what actually
visually interests me, and perhaps you too. (It has also led to a fair
amount of personal frustration about my skills and ambitions, but that
is bye the bye.) We already share an interest in canals or you would not
be reading these words but can my specific findings as a painter offer
something a bit more universal, useful even?
English nature is, generally speaking, green. There’s
masses of it, sometimes enlivened with dark green or browny green but
broadly it is unexciting green, except perhaps in the autumn. We don’t
usually notice this neutrality when we are walking or boating through it
because we are distracted by the dog chasing the rabbit, the pink
flowers in the hedge or the smell of muck-spreading. The background
green-ness of everything is almost the epitome of the very peace of the
countryside that we have come out to experience. However, by itself it
is rarely visually exciting, and not therefore an exciting start to a
picture. A painting of nothing but a grass field -- sky above and green
below – is likely to be very boring. This is not to say that being there
and seeing the field was boring for the wind was strong that day,
lapwings were tumbling and calling and an inquisitive bull was
approaching purposefully. Being there was part of an event in time, a
moment in a chain of experience, a bit of life. None of that is apparent
or even hinted at in the dull depiction of a field so it is not an
interesting picture either for me to paint or anyone else to look at.
Clearly I need something more interesting for a pictorial subject.
Traditionally and classically water is very useful
stuff in any landscape picture. Water is reflective, so painting water
immediately introduces a lighter tone into the lower part of the picture
below the horizon, the blue or pale grey of the sky or the colours of
the sunset. It is also reflecting the trees and banks of the water’s
edge so there is also an immediate element of repetitive pattern making
going on. Things are looking more interesting already. That watery
reflection is also establishing a firm statement about the horizontal in
the picture and by implication the force of gravity. We are beginning to
feel more comfortable now we know something of where we are; surely this
visual peaceful balance is at the heart of our relationship with the
waterways whether painting them, walking by them or floating through
them. Calm equilibrium rules (well, most of the time.)
But nature is also, generally speaking, rather soft --
frilly round the edges and a bit untidy. The up side of this is
asymmetry, gentle surprise and a lack of boring predictability. The down
side is a lack of drama or forceful statement, the lack of rigid
scaffolding to build the depiction of a pictorial space or a story. Tree
trunks can do it and some rocks maybe but what is really needed is
something hard and sharp against the bushes, something straight and
artificial. Stick in a building somewhere -- any building for now.
Clearly mankind has been here before, fighting gravity, battling against
the elements so our picture is now has a narrative. If it is a Greek
temple we might be talking about ancient mythology or the eighteenth
century obsession with Arcadia, if it is an English castle it could be
medievalism, historic or romanticised. If it is a ruin we have
established the passing of time too, maybe regretfully with a tinge of
melancholia. All this with a painted statement of architecture inserted
into the landscape.
What more do we need? Well some colour, contrast and
curves would be useful, the sharp artificial curves of archways leaping
the water, bridging and linking, providing a pathway both above and
below. Or the mysterious dark portals to mines and tunnels or the tight
little arches into a dank dripping lock chamber. Colour? Well, bricks
are good too, warm orange and russet pinks, or the mauves of engineering
bricks and the ochres of stonework all contrasting beautifully with our
background green. We are getting there. Anything more for perfection?
What about a deep loaded painted narrow boat inhabiting this idyllic
space then, or is it too late? Yes, too late I’m afraid.
This fusion of the theoretical art of landscape
painting with the world of waterways as we experience it today is not as
fanciful as it first appears. The canal system was largely the product
of the late eighteenth century, honed and altered by utilitarian use in
the nineteenth century and the pressures of the industrial revolution.
However soft and naturalised it now seems the system is an artifice
designed and created by eighteenth century minds and sensibilities. It
is not an accident that so many of the bridges are beautiful or that the
relationship of the lock cottage to the landscape so balanced. The
instigators and designers were perfectly conscious that they were
introducing new engineering and architecture into the landscape. They
were familiar with the paintings of Claude Lorraine and the art of the
picturesque in the landscape gardening of Capability Brown, and some of
the avowed intent was to enhance the prospect (as well as make their
money back.)
So if everything is there why do I find it so
difficult to express some of that in a painting? Possibly it is the
difference between a theatrical experience and a photograph. One is
moved through, lived through for a period of time, the other records one
moment. A canal journey is being part of the picture, floating on the
sylvan light reflected from the sky, exploring the constantly changing
relationship of hard to soft, of architecture to nature, of archway to
distant hills. If we can still read the picture aright we can see
lessons about craftsmanship and even see hints of the old fashioned
concept of building things for the benefit of the whole society. That is
a tall order for an amateur painter with a small bit of paper. First I
have to find something that will stay still long enough.
©Tony
Lewery,
The Brow,
Ellesmere,
30th November 2007 |
Abbey footbridge near Welshpool |
