Painting and Birding 'round the Long Island Sound

I remember reading somewhere that "the best poems are never written because the act of writing them would have spoiled the moment", and this statement could apply equally to painting--especially plein-air painting where the  "moment" is truly happening there before you.  For all the romance associated with the image of the artist dutifully painting away at their easel while the sun sets in the distance, in reality that sun has probably set before they have the easel set up and the paints squeezed out onto the palette.  That is, if they even have their paints with them when that amazing sunset has occurred.  They could just as well be driving, or sitting in a cafe window.  The truth is, there are inspirational moments when it is simply not possible to paint.  Photography can occasionally be of use, but it should be used only as an aid to memory.  I often attempt to memorize a scene, internalize it, do a "plein-air painting in the mind" until I am able to work one out in paint.

I don't know if "Memory Painting" is an established art term, but the concept is pretty self-explanatory.  Most painting involves memory to a greater or lesser degree, unless you are copying a photograph exactly  (which seems rather pointless to me).  In plein-air painting for instance, nature changes more quickly than even the fastest painter can capture at once, and if one doesn't want to be constantly revising, "chasing the shadows", then one has to choose a moment and stick with it even as the light and conditions change.  This is especially true early and late in the day, when the light is at its richest.  There is nothing quite like painting in nature to make you realize just how fast light can change!  The ability to deal with this is directly related to the ability to memorize the basic color and value relationships of a scene, and once getting that down in paint, relating every subsequent color note to those.

This is a small sketch I did a few mornings ago.  Morning is one of my favorite times to paint, but the general rule is that the light is best at the beginning and gets increasingly less interesting as the sun rises and loses all that warmth and color.  I began by quickly establishing and relating three colors- the upper clouds, the streak of golden light, and the color of the ice.  All of these colors faded in intensity at an alarming rate as the morning progressed, so as I began picking out smaller color notes I had to be sure that they related more to the painting than to what I was seeing before me.  Painting at the end of the day, the situation is reversed, with the color improving over time (until it suddenly all goes dark!), so it is often wise to begin a bit more slowly, establishing a design but saving those most intense colors till the very end.

What does this have to do with memory painting?  It is training the eye to very quickly assess the important forms, values and colors, so that, if your painting time is suddenly cut short, or if you are unable to paint at all, you can preserve this information till such time as you are able to complete it.  I have often glimpsed a scene as I sped by on the highway.  The spark for a painting can be immediate-- something grabs you, the color, the design.  The key is to internalize those ingredients, and hold on to it as a picture in your mind.  It is helpful to close your eyes  (not if you are the driver, of course!), and go over that picture while it is still fresh.  It is quite a bit like waking from a dream and going over the dream to memorize it.

 I painted this 6x9 study upon returning from a birding trip to Hammonasset State Park two weekends ago.  My son and I were observing a flock of Common Eider through the scope, navigating rough surf with the wind catching up the spray, all in this beautiful raking afternoon light.  I was not equipped for painting, and though I had my sketchbook it was simply too cold and windy to bother with it.  Instead I soaked up everything I could about the view.  I knew I had sketches of Eider at home, and plenty of photographic reference of  both Eider and waves for specific details.  What I had to memorize was the unique "feeling" of the scene, the rhythm of the waves,  and the quality of the light as it glanced off water, foam, and feather, or passed through wave or spray.  I dashed this study off as soon as I was able to, and have begun blocking out a larger version. 

The Tundra Swan painting at the top of this post was done in the same way almost exactly a year ago, and I still haven't done the large-scale version I envision for it... but when I do, this study will be my primary reference-- not because it captures any real detail, but because it preserves the feeling of the experience, and that is the most important component of all.