Website (Vanity II)

Either...

A website is an absolutely necessary piece of online real estate for every artist, where you can display, promote, and sell your work.

Or...

A website is an expensive way to waste time you could have spent painting. You have to learn to code, or pay someone to do it for you, and either way it costs you time or money. 

Your expensive premium WordPress theme looks great, but it slows down your site so much that Google hates you. So you waste half a day checking out fast loading free themes, every one of which is exactly wrong for your site.

Also, one third of your surprisingly low traffic is bored east european kids trying to hack your database for the fun of it, as you will discover when you're obsessively perusing your visitor logs in your host company's back end and wondering why nobody drops by. And your email sign ups will dump you the moment they get that free gift you gave them in exchange for their email address, never to be heard from again.

Which of these points of view is true? Well, they both are. Kind of. If you've reached a place in your art career where people are looking you up online, getting a website is a logical step to take, or at least it can be if you have a realistic expectations of online sales or some other kind of profitable contact from it - perhaps commissions, or exhibition invitations.

If you decide to go with the 'Heck, yes I want a website!' option, remember it's not all upside. Creating a customer base and selling your work without paying gallery commission? Well, that makes sense. Having to deal with the heavy lifting a good gallery would do for you in return for their commission? That's when it starts to look a little less inviting.

I've been looking at art marketing advice online, given that I'm ready to start selling my paintings, and one thing every art consultant agreed on was the absolute necessity of having your own artist's website. Given that all of them just happened to be selling artist's websites, I decided to take that advice with a grain of salt.

If you haven't reached the place where your name is getting Googled on a regular basis, maybe you should concentrate on your painting until it does. And, for once, I'll be taking my own advice and not getting my own website yet.

Vanity.

I've been drawing self portraits since I was an art student, partly because it's good drawing practice, but mainly because it's easier than persuading someone to sit for me.

Drawing the human face or figure means that any mistakes leap out at you, so you're less inclined to let your drawing become lax. Drawing yourself means you've always got a model, but it also means you get to examine your face somewhat more closely than you usually would, and see the harm that time is doing. (As well as the flaws that came built in - little lapses in symmetry, features that are too big or too small, a nose that points off to the side.)

If you have any vanity, drawing your face pretty much takes it away. Having said that, when I look back at photographs of me taken years ago, I wonder how that fresh faced innocent ever survived to become the evil old monkey into which I am slowly transforming. Altogether, I think I prefer the look of now me. 

Choosing paintings to show.

I wrote recently about looking back at what I'd been doing, and it seems like a good time to pause and take stock.

Having consigned half my recent paintings to the kindling pile, I then took a long look at what remained and picked around twenty pieces that could be worth showing.

There's a consistent theme of landscape, with sub themes: the tree 'portrait', the light effect, the path in perspective, water and reflections, the horse, the house. All four seasons are represented, though mostly summer. There are several attempts at convincing skies.

In all of them there's a tension between finish and its absence, mostly caused by trying to keep the balance between making the mark and trying not to overwork the paint.

Attempts at making more ambitious works have foundered on the twin rocks of lack of preparation and this problem of finish. A big, complex realist painting takes a long time and a lot of work. If you're thinking of painting that way, here's a tip: do lots of studies.

Success? I've found my themes, and I now know how to tackle a new subject and assimilate it into what I can do.

Failure? I'm not half the painter I hoped I was. My ambition has outpaced my abilities.

Conclusions? I need tuition. 

A Good Painting Spot

This was a good painting spot, because there happened to be a thicket of blackberry bushes within arm's reach to my right. Free fruit.

Of course, it also happened to be on a footpath which got more traffic than I expected, which led to some akward dances around the easel, but it could have been worse; read this Telegraph article to see what can befall an RA in the middle of London.

Even as a landscape painter I sometimes get an audience. The good thing is that onlookers soon realize that painting isn't interesting, and they drift away. Sometimes a troll will try to spoil your concentration by talking to you, but I've perfected the deadpan monosyllabic reply and cheerful countenance that makes them realize they're onto a non starter, and they soon leave in search of fresh prey.

People who do that were the bane of Cezanne's life, or so my reading about him would suggest. A sensitive man who was quick to anger, he was probably easy entertainment for bored peasants on a slow farming day. I've been leafing through the local library's copy of Cezanne: His life and works in 500 images, by Susie Hodge (available at a surprisingly high price on Amazon).

Anyway...where was I, and what's my point? Pick painting spots with free fruit, avoid those with bored peasants and/ or jobsworths.

Every day carry

Having seen other every day carry pictures and posts, I thought I'd empty my coat pockets and bag and reveal what lies within.

The folding craft knife takes a Stanley knife blade and will probably get me arrested if I'm ever spotted using it to sharpen a pencil on the open street in the UK.

The black Bic and the propelling pencil are my everyday drawing tools (biro on flimsy sketchbook pages, pencil on heavier paper). The Derwent eraser pen is the best thing since sliced bread. The HB pencil stub is a back up in case of technical difficulties with the propelling pencil. 

The watercolour box came with 24 half pans. I took out 5 I never used, and looking at the 19 half pans left, only 10 are showing signs of wear. A point to consider if you're thinking of buying a watercolour box - fewer colours is generally better. There's a number 6 sable brush in the box. The pens and pencils in the bag are, of course, spares. 

There's also a DSLR stuffed in the rucksack which gets daily use, for shots of potential subjects, reference for paintings, captures of finished works that are too big to fit on the scanner.

Brian Sewell

My favourite art critic just died. When I'm having a good painting day, I find myself commenting on what I'm doing in a poor imitation of his splendidly plummy voice.

It is ridiculous to think you could regret the loss of someone you never actually knew or were ever likely to meet, but he was one of a kind, and his death leaves a noticeable gap. We are a little poorer for his passing.

Here's a link to a YouTube upload of his Grand Tour series.

Oak in a field.

This is a series of paintings of some trees at the side of a cultivated field. I've done one a month for the past year or so, starting in March 2014 and deciding to paint a  series in October of that year.

Actually, it feels a bit cheaty passing them off as a year's paintings. I might do three more so I've got one for every month in 2015.

What has painting a series taught me?

Foliage can last longer than you expect.

Things are beautiful all year round.

The sky is different every day.  Different colour blue, different way it fills with light.

You never find the balance between mass and detail, but you get close enough.

Paint for too long and you're just second guessing yourself.

Colours change with the light in a heartbeat, but if you look long enough you see what repeats.

The smallest brush you use should be a little too big.

If your painting looks right at the viewing distance, don't worry about how it looks close to.