Learning from the Masters

Sometimes when I go to concerts, I find myself focusing pretty intently on whichever musician captures my interest that night, be it the guitarist, drummer, bassist, etc. As a musician myself, I occasionally go into academic mode at concerts, studying techniques and focusing on how the band makes the sounds that I’ve heard on their albums. Sometimes, seeing a band live unlocks their secrets.

In that vein, shortly after I started painting two years ago, Kathryn and I went to the Art Institute of Chicago. It was my first time looking at those paintings through the eyes of someone who aspires to do similar things, and I was fascinated by the technical mastery on display with some of those paintings. (Here, I will admit, there are some paintings that I still have no idea why they would be on display at such as prestigious museum, but as with poetry, I am well aware that there are vast gaps in my knowledge of the subject). I wasn’t just getting the overall effect, but trying to understand how colors played against each other, how light and shadow get used, the different impact of an artist’s brushstrokes. I’m especially enamored with the work of the Hudson River School artists and their ilk. There’s something about those majestic landscapes that stirs my imagination.

I remember being absolutely gobsmacked, though, when I came across George Inness’s 1870 masterpiece, “Catskill Mountains.” Described in words, it doesn’t sound special. It’s a painting featuring a couple of people walking toward a church, featuring a pastoral landscape, a distant mountain, and a dramatic sky. But when I stood in front of that painting there on the bottom floor of the museum, it was one of those moments where I couldn’t help but think that all the technique in the world couldn’t explain the magic behind it. The sunlight breaking out from behind the clouds gives the painting an affect that makes the viewer think it’s somehow generating light, so bright that you wouldn’t be given for putting your hand over your forehead to shield your eyes from the glare. How could a 150-year-old painting still give off such intensity?

The sky in George Inness’s “Catskill Mountain.”

So while I’ve been focusing on original compositions lately, I also knew that there was much to learn from the masters. Similar to a musician learning a cover song, artists do “master studies” to figure out for themselves how the greats plied their craft. During that trip to the Art Institute, knowing only a few Bob Ross techniques, I hoped someday I’d get good enough at painting to take a swing at my own version of Catskill Mountains.

Whether or not I’m good enough, after two years of painting, I at least felt confident enough to give it a go. And I’m pretty happy with the end result. A few things I learned: brightness is about contrast. It’s the dark clouds that give the sunlight its power. The paint Inness used isn’t particularly bright. Really, it’s a dull Napes yellow with a bit of white mixed in. But that color lining the edges of the dark purple-grey clouds electrifies the sky.

The trees in Inness’s painting are different than my usual technique, too. While I tend to dab on leaves using a fan brush or a liner, Inness has a softer focus, using dark shadows and mid-tone highlights to suggest the depth of his trees—both the distant ones and the foreground pines next to the church. Instead, it’s the careful, subtle variations of color and atmospheric distance that lends the amazing level of intricacy to his forests.

The mid-ground trees in George Inness’s “Catskill Mountain.”

Yesterday, before finishing my version of the painting, we went back to the Art Institute to get another close look at the original. Having labored over mine for the better part of four weekends, I realized that Inness relied on the suggestion of detail. You can see how he uses wide brushstrokes for swaths of grass, and the foreground rocks I’d been fussing over for 30 minutes were just a few swipes of color on his version, yet his appear no less detailed. When you labor over a painting, your face six inches from the canvas, you don’t see it as most will until you step back a few paces and take in the effect. That’s something I am learning to incorporate into my work as well.

You can see how detailed the rocks on the left side of Inness’s painting appear, yet they’re built from simple brush strokes.

Finally, there’s something to be said for scale as well. Inness’s original is 48” × 72”—massive compared to my 16” x 20” version. I suppose the nice thing about being a real artist is having a studio to work in where you can fit those sorts of canvases. With a smaller canvas, sometimes there just isn’t enough space for looser brushwork if you’re going for detail. But I tried to be more conscious of not getting too bogged down. In fact, I thought I’d spend a good 8 hours on the final touches for my last session on this painting, but after yesterday’s visit to the museum, I realized that I only needed a little more time with the trees to get some better contrast in the darks and lighter greens of the tree line and a few touch-up details. Trying to overwork it would have been detrimental to the overall painting.

Catskill Mountain Master Study - my version

Ultimately, I’m pleased with how my version came out. Nobody’s going to mistake it for the original, but it’s taught me a lot of useful lessons that I’m looking forward to applying to my future work. In fact, my next big painting will be an adaptation of another Hudson River School classic, Thomas Cole’s “The Oxbow,” changed to incorporate a view of my hometown of Chattanooga from a nearby vista. I’m quite looking forward to learning the secrets Mr. Cole is keeping in his canvases.