painting trees

It's easy when you're five. Big green blob for the leaves, brown stripe below for the trunk, and little red blobs for the apples. Not an apple tree? Doesn't matter, get them in there. 

Now that's how you paint a tree. It gets a lot harder when you're older. Especially when they're all bunched up and you're trying to paint them in changing light. You can't see where one ends and the next begins, or where the branches start and finish. The trunk is in there somewhere, and you could see it yesterday when the light was different. But you can also see the outline of the tree behind through the tree you're trying to paint, and that's not helping at all... 

So you have to get organized when you're drawing or painting something that insists on being undrawable. Painting trees en masse is a little like painting clouds, in that both move about and are made up of deceptive forms which change appearance with the light. 

'But trees just stand there,' you say. Well, yeah, but their forms are hard to read, in that while a mass of foliage looks like a solid some of the time, it's really a collection of twigs and leaves. And because of this, as the sun moves, or clouds cover it, different aspects of various trees appear and disappear like stage flats lit by madmen. Branches pop in and out of sight. Foliage is light, then dark. And it moves with the wind. So you have to simplify, and make what is ambiguous, plain. Painting demands that we pick and choose from what we can see, and make all our selections work together in one convincing whole.

  

I often start with the trunk, then try to lay in the branches and the outline all at the same time. If you get the outline, that's half the job of making your tree look convincing done. The outline can usually identify the species, which at least tells the viewer you actually looked at a real tree. Incidentally, learning a little about the species of tree you're likely to encounter can help you draw and paint them well. 

Judicious placement of sky holes comes last - probably fewer than there are in real life, unless you want your tree to resemble a lace doilie. Remember that verisimilitude matters, but making a good painting matters more. There comes a point when a painting has enough facts in it, and you have to start thinking of it as a performer thinks of a music score. Getting the notes right counts, but not as much as making music. 

the horsey test

Having opened my big mouth a while ago about real artists being able to draw horses, I thought I should probably attempt to prove myself capable. Since there are horses conveniently parked in the field over the road, that was where I began. I took a small drawing book and a biro and set out to draw me some horsey. 

They obliged me by standing around, quietly wondering what the scrawny human was up to. Some went so far as to actually pose nicely, which was handy. Others took the mickey something fierce, and stood in front of the ones posing. Eventually, they all lost interest and moved on, having heard there was some great grass at the far end of the field.

There are pitfalls lying in wait for the horse draughtsman. Their ears come out looking like Doberman ears if you're too emphatic with the curve and point. The legs leave the body at unexpected angles, giving them the appearance of being perpetually poised, ready to spring forward at the gallop, even when standing still. And don't get me started on hooves. What kind of design is that for a foot? That's why God made tufty grass, so painters wouldn't have to deal with hooves.

I took photographs too, but something weird happens when you take pictures of horses. Even though they were standing still, they all came out looking as if they were caught in the middle of a peculiar dance, with legs inexplicably in the air, tails flapping about, and gormless expressions. Anyway, here's the end result. A drawing I'm not totally ashamed of. 

It had to be patched and redrawn a couple of times. Obviously, it's time to take a look at how other, better artists tackled the same subject. Leonardo's drawings for the Sforza equestrian statue spring to mind, along with Degas at the races. Degas is a great choice because you can often see his mind working with different versions and over-drawing in his studies. 

Horses in a Meadow, by Degas. Photo by cliff1066 on Flickr.

The trick, I've found, is to avoid making your horse look like a freakishly stick-legged rodent - more easily done than you might suspect - and to take care over the aforementioned Doberman ears. Remember, horses come in different shapes and sizes, and that experts will look long and hard to make sure you've captured the characteristics of a particular breed, quite possibly with that same obsessive attention to detail that makes painting steam trains a no go.

The good news is that information is just a Google away. I already have George Stubbs' 'Anatomy of the Horse', which will show you more than you wish to know about the insides and outside of that quadruped, along with Muybridge's 'Animals in Motion', which demonstrates how a horse runs. YouTube has this video, 'Equine Anatomy on a Live Painted Horse'. 

Am I going to explore the horse as subject? No. There are equestrian artists online who will capture the likeness of your favourite hunter for a fee. Paint what you love, should be the guiding principle for any painter, and I confess I don't feel much more than wary admiration for horses in general. And now I know what a fetlock is, and where the withers are, I feel I know as much as I needed to. It's just that, as a landscape painter, I think I should have some ability to convincingly render any of the staffage that might appear in my paintings. So, cows next. People I can do already.