Ancient Artist: Developing an art career after 50

The Greatest Single Factor in Creative Work

There has been a continuing thread on many of the blogs that I read, regarding the value of individual artistic thought, so today's post comes from an excerpt from my book Ancient Wisdom Emerging Artist. I believe this is an important conversation for artists to have, particularly those who are in the early stages of growing into their personal voices and are looking for direction. But also, a member of my immediate family is facing a significant health crisis that will monopolize much of my time and I still want to post to this blog.  So there may be times when I rely on excerpts, but most of the time I will continue to post new content because I value the sense of community that has grown up around Ancient Artist readers. 

 

Originality

    Today I learned that originality only became important around the eighteenth century, manifesting in western culture as an outgrowth of the Romantic Period.  That's according to a Wikipedia article.  Prior to that time people tended to like things that looked the same, which could explain some of the practices during the Renaissance, when master artists ran studios filled with laboring apprentices, leading to art history references like "in the manner of" and "from the workshop of," and my personal favorite, "from a student of."  I'm not sure if my terminology is correct - "from a student of" - but there are plenty of folks still attaching themselves to their teachers.  Personally I think this is too much influence from academia, where you list your professional provenance on everything you do.  But for the artist, well, I've always wondered why you would tell someone, "I was a student of such-and-such famous artist," when the obvious outcome is that this person will immediately compare said famous artist's work to your own.

    I much prefer artists who say "my teacher was so-and-so and he would always say..." because this is more participatory.  Perhaps I'm splitting hairs here and at the end of the day it doesn't really matter to most people whether you think of yourself as a student or of having a teacher.  But in my mind, continually thinking of yourself as a student is like refusing to graduate and step out into the world on the risk and strength of your own ideas.  It's a little too cautious where real growth is concerned.

    All this seems to point out how difficult it can be to come up with an original thought, to make art that is fresh, innovative, and creative.  The usual argument -- that cave painting, line drawing, drip painting have all been done before -- might be true on one level and an excuse for laziness on another, a shrug of the shoulders and metaphorical "Oh well."

When I first started painting I bent over backward trying to be original, and then I quit.  I realized that as soon as I became conscious of how original I was, my brain started pointing out images from other artists that looked exactly like my own.  It's similar to the children's game where you start looking for a particular car and suddenly you see them everywhere.  I can't think the word "originality" because what flashes into my mind are all the images of what was original when some other artist thought of it: Frankenthaler's huge acrylic paintings created with squeegees, Pat Steir's dazzling light waterfall paintings - you see what I mean? And while I understand what Edgar Payne meant when he said "individuality in thought is, without a doubt, the greatest single factor in creative work", it was so much easier when people all liked the same thing.

 

    The discussion I was having through this excerpt is centered around the way we construct our ideas about how to "be original."  Some of this vagueness comes from the way we are exposed to Art - with single artists lionized because they came up with an idea that may or may not have been exclusive to their work at the time.  Certainly ideas along this line, that artists must search out new methods of expression, drive various interests within the arts.  But does this become an impossible task, or an approach that relates to fewer and fewer arts enthusiasts, because it drives the work into the obscure?

    Other pressures come from the popular arts culture, which has narrowed down drastically through this recession to reflect only the tastes of the art markets that are thriving.  The pressure to compete in this shrinking market drives the work into a certain homogeneity - making it far more difficult to engage with collectors caught up in image overload.

    So what do you, as an artist, decide to do?  Where is your comfort level?  What would you tell younger (experience-wise) artists to do if you were asked for advice?

 

******

 

"I could sure hear you in the book, very upbeat and encouraging...I also loaned your book to my Tucson art teacher and she let another friend of hers read it, too.  She’s already doing most of what you suggested...she hates self-promotion like most of us do..."  TB, Tuscon, AZ

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Do We Paint for the Scientist, or the Chicken?

Passion is important.  Passion is what drives the artist but there are times when passion gets in the way.  I remember an early design class.  We were instructed to paint a value scale, and in my enthusiasm I created one of the loveliest, longest value scales ever seen in class - when the intended goal was to create a precise set of ten steps moving from white to black.  My passion was caught up in the wonder of it all, the tiniest gradation, the way the white, when mixed into the black, could be nudged ever so slightly one way or another.  I bent to my task like a child with her first set of crayons.  Artistically, this idea captivated me, and continues to captivate me today.  How the slightest adjustment can nudge a gray one way or another. 

Of course this fascination is more suited to the scientist than to the artist, who must deal with the recreation of a visual reality that is based on contrast and relationships.  The scientist, while looking at some bit of flotsam through a microscope, studies the subtle variations.  The artist might do better to remember the chicken experiment from the psychology department.  Apparently chickens can be trained to look for their food on a light colored square when it's placed beside a darker square.  Once trained, it doesn’t matter what the shade of gray or the color combination.  As long as one square is lighter than the other, the little hen-brains can distinguish between the two and immediately find the food.  This is based on a learned relationship – lighter means corn, darker means nothing.  As long as the chicken can discern the important lighter/darker relationship, it remains happy and well fed.  But when the gradations are too close together – like my magnificent value scale – the poor birds are likely to starve to death.   

This is the main lesson artists learn when studying values: there must be significant contrast for the human or animal eye to discern the difference between one form and another, or the positive and negative space.  This idea of pattern and contrast is how we navigate our world. However - the human eye has an amazing ability to infer relationships.  We can account for distortions to interpret correctly what we are looking at - the Impressionists grew famous exploring it, all those dabs of color and value, seeing just how far they could reduce form in sparking light and still retain a readable image. 

And so there is the conundrum.  Do we paint for the scientist, or the chicken?  Is it simply safer to recreate a photograph, a ten-step value scale, a set of lighter/darker squares designed to appeal to the hen-brain?  Where does artistry come into play?

This is the sort of stuff I like to think about and which I don't recall being mentioned in that design class. Sometimes, in the studio, I find myself abstracting down to the barest level and then back-tracking to appease the hen-brain.  I found this short snippet video by Clyde Aspevig where he addresses this idea of where to appease the hen-brain and where to paint like the scientist.  I'm sure most of you have already watched this video as it's been around since 2007, but if you watch it again, notice when he talks about the silhouette of the trees.  Then think about this in terms of hen-brain and scientist - contrasted shapes and layers of nuance and texture. 

So what do you think? 

 

 

Thoughts from a Closet Regionalist

Dry/Canyon, Mountain Series, oil on board

Having recently read the interesting post on Edward Winkleman's blog about his thoughts on Regionalism, I had a small Epiphany of my own.  I am a Regionalist.  Not such a horrible thing, when you think about it.  There are numerous artists we all could name who are seen as internationally recognized stars of the art world but - who are, at the core - Regionalists.  So yes, I am a Regionalist.  I live and paint my environment, as I experience it.  As I want to share it with those who live in areas quite different from mine.

We most often learn about Regionalism in the Art History classes, looking at Grant Wood, or Thomas Hart Benton.  There is an odd quirkiness about their Depression Era work; it carries the negative stigma of being the kind of art that attempts to "reassure America with scenes of idyllic rural life." Art we would - in today's volatile political arena - dismiss as pandering to an unsophisticated audience looking for their Thomas Kinkade fix.

I admit, after reading Winkleman's open thread, I was feeling an insidious fear that my work was really just "Tourist Art from Quaintsville."  I had to remind myself of all the artists who inspire me, and the common theme I find in their lives - that they all felt the need to remove themselves from what was their equivalent of New York.  That they all isolated themselves, in an effort to discover their own sense of who they were and, more importantly, why they felt compelled to create the art that they did.

(image: Afternoon Light, Mountain Series, 20x30, oil)

I am also a realist.  I'm willing to acknowledge that my work will only show in New York if I participate in the National Association of Women Artists Annual Membership Show again.  The ambitious part of me mourns the idea that I will never make it in this rarefied arena - and the other part acknowledges that my passion has already taken me in a different direction.   Which - after all - it is the path that suits my art, the way I paint, the ideas that inspire me, and the stories I want to share. The stories many collectors appreciate.

This quote from Zen teacher Cheri Huber is on my studio wall because it is the most important thing for me to remember: "Every time we choose safety, we reinforce fear."

Because there is safety in crowding into the center of the herd, where you aren't as likely to be taken out by the predators. Safety in blending in and adopting a form of camouflage by looking just like everything else around you.

(Image: Eye of the Sleeping Man, 22x28, oil)

There is safety in not raising your hand, not sticking out your neck, not taking that road filled with rocks and weeds where you might suddenly find yourself lost and alone. And ignored.

But maybe, being an artist is what you are, not what you do, and if you honor that part of your creative life then you must also honor your personal voice.  If nothing else, this recession has been a gift to me in this respect.  I have discovered the freedom to explore ideas related to my art and my process that I would never have had the courage to express before - partly because no one seems to be looking right now, and I say that with all respect and warm humor.  It's like we are all waiting in the wings, and no one knows when the curtain will go up, but some of us are so fearful we will miss the big event we can't move from our spot. 

Maybe a negative concept like being a Regionalist Artist is the kind of impression that can keep you rooted in place, seeking safety.  Or maybe it is a concept that expands your way of thinking about your art. By working through the clutter of generalizations in Winkelman's post and continuing thread, it is possible to see that if we wanted to, we could describe everyone as a Regionalist - the Conceptual artists who require a continuing dialog with like minded people to fuel their work, the landscape artists drawing inspiration through environmental ideas, even the dismissive term of Quaintsville denotes a "Regionalist" way of thinking about where you are compared to where everyone else is. 

You could say I live in the middle of nowhere and I would agree.  You could also say that the Pacific Northwest is dominated by Conceptual and Contemporary influences.  And you could also add that the idea of someone choosing to paint landscape in such an environment is probably...well, someone who is lost in Quaintsville.

And you might be right - if you are speaking from a "Regionalist" viewpoint where the center is where you are and the importance of other art diminishes the further away it is from your center.

It is the secret reality of the art world.

We are all Regionalists. 

 

 

(images: Break in the Storm, Mountain Series, Mile Post 46, Mile Post Series)

 

 *****

"I could sure hear you in the book, very upbeat and encouraging...I also loaned your book to my Tucson art teacher and she let another friend of hers read it, too.  She’s already doing most of what you suggested...she hates self-promotion like most of us do..."  TB, Tuscon, AZ

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Things I Talk About When I Talk to Myself

I often talk to myself at critical junctures during the creative cycle.  I do this for several reasons: either I’m not clear on what I want to achieve, or because only another artist would understand whether this area needs a perspective cue or that texture is too dominant. 

Mostly, the conversations I have with myself revolve around ideas, and why some unfold like the rapid motion photography of flower petals,  and others are lost in a fog.  When the fog happens, I remind myself that I'm not a very good gardener, either. I plant seeds and then forget which ones I put in which pot, and have to wait weeks before I can identify the emerging leaves. Last year I ended up with twenty pots of zucchini and only three of sweet peas because, both with my painting and with gardening, I don’t always know what I am interested in. I once worked non-stop for three days, painting, wiping off, re-painting the same scene of pine trees along a canal, thinking it was the structure of the trees, or the pattern of light between the trunks, or just figuring out how to put the paint on in a way that effectively suggested “pine trees” – and each version, horizontal, vertical, reversed, intimate, expansive – each version earned the TIC (This Is C##P) designation.  Oddly enough, at the end of this failure marathon I knew I had figured something out and didn’t need to keep painting those trees.

What I have discovered is, sometimes the idea exciting me isn’t the one I think I'm working on.  And while talking to others is an effective way to clarify which seed is in which pot, at the early stage of my creative work I can easily get trapped by the obvious – and often incorrect – assumptions that result in "foggy" paintings.

For many artists, this physical and mental act of turning a concept into reality is difficult work.  We’ve all had the experience of inspiration, followed by struggle to bring it into reality.  These are the things I talk to myself about, because persistence, and patience, and the willingness to survive the disappointment of not getting it right the first – or even the tenth time – are all critical to the creative process: not from the Edison Perspective (how many failures before he achieved success?) but because inconsequential discoveries, along with the mindfulness to recognize them, propel the creative process. 

Jeffrey Davis, M.A., in his article The Creative Thinking Myth in Psychology Today, writes, “A person who is aware of how her mind works and who trains herself to pay attention to and to capture those flashes of insight, of course, is more likely to follow through on them.”  And perhaps it's possible to have flashes of insight that we don't, consciously, apprehend, but totally get on another level.  Any maybe it's just as possible that the pop-culture description of insanity - taking the same action over and over while expecting different results - isn't insanity at all but the fine line of creativity. 

I don't know.  There are times I wonder if, after you've been painting your entire lifetime, you get to the point where you don't need to talk to yourself that much. Or paint pine trees over and over.

But I hope not.

 

 *****

"I could sure hear you in the book, very upbeat and encouraging...I also loaned your book to my Tucson art teacher and she let another friend of hers read it, too.  She’s already doing most of what you suggested...she hates self-promotion like most of us do..."  TB, Tuscon, AZ

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Narrative in Landscape

 

One of my favorite stories is about Vladimirka Road (1892, Isaak Levitan, oil on canvas, 79 x 123cm, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, shown left).  It comes from the book Isaak Levitan Lyrical Landscape, by Averil King. 

Long considered one of the artist's masterworks, the story behind Levitan's inspiration is recounted by his friend:

"Kuvshinnikova recalls how she and the artist were returning from a hunting expedition when they suddenly found themselves on the old Vladimirka highway.  Now re-named Highway M-7, running eastwards from Moscow, the ancient road formed the route taken by generations of prisoners to spend their lives in Siberia.  The modern town of Gorenki, from the Russian word gore meaning grief, lies at the site of its first staging post, the place where countless families saw their loved ones for the last time.  Levitan started as he recognized the road, calling to mind 'the many unfortunate souls who trod the road, clanging their chains, on their way to exile'.  He and Kuvshinnikova sat at the foot of a weather-beaten roadside alter and talked about the fates witnessed by this highway and the sorrowful supplications that must have been addressed to the little alter."

The story continues to describe how Levitan returned to the site the next day with a large (31 inch x 48 inch) canvas and began to work directly from nature; over the course of several days, he produced what is widely regarded as his masterpiece, a stark, endless landscape under stormy skies, with a solitary figure standing in front of the roadside alter.  As author Averil King states, "It is a picture filled with sadness and foreboding, clearly suggestive of the despair of the shackled men and women who had trudged eastward through these lonely wastes."

Narrative in art is easier to understand when expressed through still life and figure, but for many landscape painters the question becomes more nebulous: is it enough to paint a scene because it consists of interesting elements? 

Certainly a beautiful painting will generate its own narraive in the mind of the viewer.

But when the artist's emotional response to a scene is also grounded in the narrative, the result can be powerful. 

What do you think?

 

*****

"I could sure hear you in the book, very upbeat and encouraging...I also loaned your book to my Tucson art teacher and she let another friend of hers read it, too.  She’s already doing most of what you suggested...she hates self-promotion like most of us do..."  TB, Tuscon, AZ

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The Tree of Shoes

There is a tree of shoes near where I live.  At one time it was a cottonwood, but now is it something different, there by the side of the highway, bearing shoes instead of leaves. 

It started simply, no doubt through the random act of a brother irritated with his sister, for the first pair of shoes were pink sneakers tied together and dangling from a high branch.  After that, other shoes followed, slowly at first, then more, high-tops, running shoes, large and small, some painted fluorescent orange, tied by the laces like bolos or fetishes, a tree of shoes.  Some might wonder why people would waste perfectly good shoes in such a way, that certainly they have better things to do.  Others – so busy with their own lives – don’t even notice that the tree which once shaded the corner of the pasture now has no leaves, only shoes.  Perhaps there were too many leaves in the world, so why notice when there are less?

Nobody really knows why people began leaving shoes in the tree, but the owners of the property are leaving the shoes there.  One could argue that the only reason for that is because the highway is now too close to the tree to allow for safe removal of shoes.  Or that the owners aren’t even there anymore, only the renters, who probably don’t even notice the tree. 

One could also argue that sometimes, perfectly reasonable people decide that there is something greater in the idea of a tree of shoes, something that isn’t naïve, or foolish - given the prospects of financial success -  or that there are sometimes wonderful shoes and sometimes not so wonderful shoes hanging from the branches. 

Sure, there are people who throw their shoes into the tree and expect some reward in return, then become discouraged when there is none.  There are people who will look at all those shoes and think “ there are simply too many shoes in the world.” 

But there will be others who will leave their shoes in the tree because of that idea, the greater than the parts thing, the sense of belonging to a group of people who understand the sometimes quixotic notion that by adding to the branches of the tree of shoes they are joining in an endless conversation.

There is a tree of shoes near where I live.   

 

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Ancient Wisdom Emerging Artist is available through Amazon.

 "It's a path for life as well as art." JS, USA

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Beyond Landscape and Meaning

There are a lot of reasons why people paint landscapes.  Just as there are plenty of reasons why the consumer likes them.  Easy to read.  Not likely to offend anyone, and pretty hard to get a political statement out of a painting of a tree. In fact, for the unofficial un-offending aspect there are landscapes just a step or two above that old standby beige paint.  Not that I have anything against beige paint.

So if you are a landscape painter, why do you care?  Why do you choose to paint mountains instead of figures, or still life or even abstract, which many artists claim has it's roots in the landscape but is so far removed it's hard to really tell? 

For that matter, why do you care what you paint, no matter what you choose to paint?

Because it isn't so much a question of what you care about, but whether or not you know why you care about it.  Not that caring will improve your work.  But not caring will most likely show up as beige paint.

 

That Summer When We Walked the Field, oil, 12 x 36 © 2012

 

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When the Art Feels Old

I have been writing too much.  Last year it seemed that I was writing and writing and painting just a little.   Some of the paintings were good but most of them felt old, old in that they were echoes of what I used to do, had been doing for so many years.  I can’t explain it,  except to say that when I looked at them I saw myself two, even five years ago, the same approach, the same emotion, maybe  a general improvement in technique and materials, but still that underlying...sameness.

There was a part of me remembering what it felt like, long ago, before I learned about painting. A part that could remember the escape into the paint without the worry that worried me now, and part that whispered late into the night that I was well on my way toward competent mediocrity.  I began reading, and then I was reading and writing too much and still painting just a little, only the painting became less and less enjoyable until I wondered if I really wanted to be an artist at all.

I don’t really think my experience is unique.   We like to call it a growth process, but it’s damn discouraging when it happens – yes, we’re supposed to come out of it stronger but that only happens if you destroy a bit of yourself in the process – that bit that holds on to what you’ve been doing, the part that creeps into your work and makes it look old.

And that’s the thing, because there does seem to be a strong rational for creating work that appeals to the gatekeepers, those in power who tell the public what to look for in fine art.  In one of the books I am reading, titled Why Art Artists Poor? The Exceptional Economy of the Arts, the author, Hans Abbing (an economist and an artist), describes what he calls the two kinds of Art – High Art and Low Art, and that those who enjoy High Art look down on Low Art, while those who understand Low Art might admire High Art but they will never embrace it. 

It’s one of the books I probably shouldn’t have started to read, when I was reading and writing too much, because it made it more difficult to get back to serious painting.  Oddly enough it didn’t interfere with the painting that felt old, so I suppose that out of cowardice I was safely painting the way I had been painting while I tried not to answer the questions as to why.

But that “getting back to serious painting” part – that’s the key phrase here.  Because what I realized was that – for myself – the painting that felt old was the painting that was hanging on to the way I used to create  – when what I was doing was slowly moving into a different place, a different perspective about what I wanted to achieve.   And all that reading and writing was simply a way for me get beyond the form of tunnel vision that had been dictating my choices. 

In an odd way I feel like I grew up a bit. That old growth process thing again. 

But the new art doesn’t feel old. 

 

 

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Why Pure Representation isn't Enough

E. H. Gombrich, in his book Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation, starts  with a discussion about the representation of nature over the course of art history, including this statement:

"We see aspects of reality represented on the television screen and in the movies, on postage stamps and on food packages...I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both the historian and the critic."

Food for thought for the artist.

When we consider that technology can produce visual images that not only depict, but in the case of 3-dimensional technology, can recreate a visual kinesthetic experience so real as to be able to nearly duplicate reality, then the artist must consider ways in which his or her art can move beyond pure representation.

How much information is necessary before there is a perception of form and substance?

How can we articulate form through unexpectedly beautiful color and abstraction?

Even with a hyper-photorealism approach, where is the hidden magic of the artist's hand?

If art is an illusion, then the artist must be aware of the need for magic in what is produced.  Pure representation of what is seen, perceived, or imagined is not enough. 

 

If you are interested in this subject, check out these books at your local library:

Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation, by E. H. Gombrich, from the A. W. Mellon Lectures in the Fine Arts, 1956

Art and Visual Perception: A Psychology of the Creative Eye, by Rudolf Arnheim

As always, I appreciate your contributions to this blog, and please forward it to anyone you know who might find it informative. 

 

 

******

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Working in a Series

When I was in my final year of school we were asked to present a Senior Thesis that consisted of 8 large paintings demonstrating a single concept - in other words, a series. Since I was under the Diebenkorn spell and only had 8 weeks to complete the assignment, my work was quite abstract and built around the grid. 

At the time my understanding of what a series was - and why an artist might consider working that way - was heavily influenced by my inexperienced views and the Modernism and Post-Modernism concepts that dominated the curriculum - in other words, I was faking it to a certain extent, repeating myself in different colors and textures without really appreciating what I was trying to do.

I've said before that in my growth as an artist I often do not immediately understand certain ideas, and only years later, as my skill level, comprehension and experience matures, am I able to grasp a deeper understanding of the work of the artist.  Working in a series is one of those concepts.

Right now I work with two specific approaches - the Mile Post Series and the Landscapes of the Interior West .  I consider both a Series - in that they explore unique ideas in different ways and yet are connected conceptually through subject matter.  With this post I want to use a group of paintings from the Interior West series, built around the cattle guards that are iconic in the open west.

I began the first cattle guard painting with a clear image of what I wanted to achieve.  On a recent location-scouting drive we rounded a curve in the road and suddenly the scene presented itself.  The light was perfect.  Late in the year, before the snow falls, there is rich color in the sagebrush and the red and gray cinders: the oblique light of the sun is so low in the horizon it defines edges, bounces across surfaces and dances in what is otherwise a drab landscape.  There was something about the light, and the idea of the empty road and distant vista - this unique physical space - that I wanted to communicate through a painting. 

Cattle Guard, 20" x 24" © 2011

While the oil paint on first Cattle Guard painting was wet, I was happy with the surface quality.  But as the work dried - and those of you who work in oil paint appreciate this - dimension diminished, colors flattened, and texture disappeared.  (This is also a consequence of using a lighter weight cotton commercial canvas that does not have the weave of linen.) 

As I studied the painting over several days, I was disappointed by some of my paint application technique, particularly edges that became more visually hard as the paint dried. These were primarily sections dominated by palette knife work - which I inattentively rely on in an effort to create texture on a - my apologies to all those commercial canvas manufacturers out there - but on a surface quality that just doesn't cut it. Perhaps if I had not felt so strongly about what I was trying to accomplish, I wouldn't have been so hyper-critical - but I knew what I wanted my painting surface to look like, not just the pieces of a composition, and I also realized how working through a series of this same subject matter - much in the way I work with the Mile Post Series - would help me explore subtle variations of my visual goal.

Yellow Cattle Guard, and Yellow Cattle Guard - Late November 2011 developed as I tried to work out issues I wanted to improve.

Yellow Cattle Guard, 12" x 18" © 2011

 

Yellow Cattle Guard - Late November 2011, 8" x 16" © 2011

 

The locations are different ( between the Cattle Guard painting and the Yellow Cattle Guard painting), but the concept is the same.  Yellow Cattle Guard is painted on a Signature linen panel, and the Late November version is on a Ray-Mar linen panel prepped with flake white which was allowed to dry for several weeks.  For me, having the right surface really allows the full expression of what I am trying to say. 

When you choose to work in a series, the benefits are far more subtle and unique to each circumstance than you might initially assume - you are not repeating an idea over and over, but creating room for your ideas to develop in a variety of ways.  You notice details in your execution that you've overlooked because you are not so tightly focused upon compositional problems.  You learn the surfaces and solve the issues of previous work. You discover happy accidents and - particularly important to me - continued joy in putting paint successfully on a surface. 

It's probably safe to say that all artists start out at a universally equal place - the desire to create something out of shape and color and give it meaning.  But the work of the artist evolves from there.  Words, instructions, generalizations, examples cannot convey the experience of looking at a work of art that impacts our emotions, just as you cannot use words to describe what Yo-Yo Ma creates with the cello.  We must each discover our own sensory language. Working in a series is - for this artist - one way to get there.

 

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 Looking for inspiration or motivation in 2012?

Ancient Wisdom Emerging Artist was nominated as one of the finalists on Katherine Tyrrell's Making a Mark Blog for Best Book by an art Blogger along with Studio and Business Practices (published on Blurb Nov 2010) by Deborah Paris, The Gyotaku Project (published by Blurb Jan. 2011) by Jeanette Jobson, and Color and Light: A Guide for the Realist Painter (published Nov. 2010) by James Gurney.  Thank you, Katherine!

 

 

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