Van Gogh's The Sower

So I went to the MFA to fall on my knees before this painting and worship it as any true disciple of Vincent would and I have to say I was just as thrilled with it as I had hoped I would be, and may have even been a bit more excited than I had anticipated (if that's even possible). I took my time heading into the Impressionist gallery, stopping in the hallway just outside it to snap a few photos of a Constable I thought I might like to try my hand at emulating. I wanted to take my time: to savor the moment of that first fleeting view; of seeing a Vincent that I had never seen before. When I got into the room and saw The Sower in the distance, my heart skipped a beat. Several, in fact. There it was in the far corner, hung with Millet's sower that Vincent loved so much. And I was instantly startled by two things: its size and its palette.

The work was much smaller than I had anticipated. I'm not sure why I thought it was bigger than it is, but there you have it. It was small. Intimately and accessibly small. And while I have seen endless photo reproductions of the many versions Vincent painted of The Sower, especially many photos of this particular piece, I now know that not one of them even remotely captured the true life colors Vincent used in creating this tiny masterpiece. Holy cow! A lime green sky, pink clouds, cornflower blue fields, little slashes of vivid cerulean and of course Vincent's beloved yellow. I couldn't tear myself away from it. I tried, but I couldn't. I moved aside every few minutes to let others get a look, only to step back before it the moment they walked away. I committed every brushstroke and every nuance to memory. I took endless photos of it from various angles (and wished I was at least a foot taller to see it eye to eye on the gallery wall). And then when David had asked me to move on for the umpteenth time, I did so grudgingly, but only briefly, as only a few short minutes later I found myself back in front of The Sower once again.

And then it was time to go. I had given much thought to seeing this work, to experiencing this work as completely as I could. I had thought about the time I would spend with it and how I wanted to be sure I stayed calm so as to remember every last detail of the piece and the precious time I spent with it. What I didn't think about at all was the act of walking away from it. Of leaving it once and for all, knowing that in all likelihood I would never, ever see this painting again in my lifetime and knowing that it would be on its return trip to Europe just hours after I walked out of that gallery. It was incredibly difficult to do and I was utterly surprised by how much trouble I had saying goodbye to it, though given my absolute adoration of Vincent, how this could have been a surprise is beyond me.

But leave I finally did. I was joyful at having had the opportunity to experience a Vincent painting I had never before seen, yet sad that this experience was over. I was left with both a sense of the surreal at having been in its presence and a bit melancholy too at how quickly it was over. I think Vincent would more than understand.

Photo of The Sower was taken by me in the Impressionist Gallery at the MFA Boston. While the angle is odd due to the height it was hung at and my rather short staure, I think it is a bit more accurate a representation of the brushwork and pigments used by Vincent than most generic photo reproductions of this piece found online or in books.

Historical Palettes Part I

I'm currently reading a book on painting alla prima and it has, in one chapter, a rather extensive list of the palettes used by some of history's greatest artists. I find it endlessly fascinating to see what pigments these masters used: some very few and some (with the advent of so many new and exciting colors at certain points in time, as well as the convenience of pre-mixed tubes) a great many.

Titian (Italian, c. 1488-1576)

lead white

ultramarine blue

red madder

burnt sienna

malachite green

red ochre

yellow ochre

orpiment (a yellow)

ivory black

Paul Cezanne (French, 1839-1906)

white

brilliant yellow

naples yellow

chrome yellow

yellow ochre

raw sienna

vermilion

burnt sienna

red madder

crimson lake

burnt lake

veronese green

emerald green

verona earth

cobalt blue

ultramarine blue

prussian blue

peach black

John Constable (English, 1776-1837)

lead white

yellow ochre

umber

red earth

emerald green

ultramarine blue

prussian blue

black

John Constable, Seascape Study with Rain Cloud, 1824 (which, by the way, I find endlessly mesmerizing as one seldom sees his studies and is instead fed a steady diet of his finished works, complete with the most amazing skies).

Neekie Pete

Two portraits of Neekie Pete: the first one that I rejected as soon as I finished it and the second one, which I think is far better than its predecessor. I had the eyes just a bit wrong in my first go-round and it bothered me enough to start over from scratch, which really was a shame because the rest of him was a good likeness. Still, it's the eyes that matter, isn't it? This was a tough little drawing because the dog was laying down at an odd angle in his photograph but after nearly 30 hours of drawing the little guy, I think I at last got it right.

Face Portrait of Neekie Pete, graphite on paper, 2010

Edison Head Study

A medium-sized pencil study of Edison's head and chest. I'm currently working on a portrait of a friend's dog. Actually, to be more precise, a second portrait of that particular dog as I wasn't at all happy with the first one. I just didn't feel I even remotely captured the dog's personality in his eyes so it was back to square one. I hate when things don't go the way I plan, but then that's art for you.

Study of Edison's Head and Chest, graphite on paper, 2010

The Sower

Yesterday and today I worked on the sower, which is done completely differently. The sky is yellow and green, the ground violet and orange. There is certainly a picture of this kind to be painted of this splendid subject, and I hope it will be done someday, either by me or by someone else. Now, could you paint the Sower in color, with a simultaneous contrast of, for instance, yellow and violet, yes or no? Why, yes. Well, do it then. Yes, that is what old Martin said, "The masterpiece is up to you." But try it and you tumble into a regular metaphysical philosophy of color...a mess that is damnably difficult to get out of with honor. And it makes you as absent-minded as a sleepwalker. And yet if only one could do something good. Well, let's be of good heart, and not despair. I hope to send you this attempt along with some others soon.

Vincent to Theo in a letter from Arles, dated 22 July 1888.

The Sower, 1888

Van Gogh's The Sower is currently on view at the MFA Boston, on loan from the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, through August 8.

Bernard

Though he was a friend and artistic contemporary of my beloved Vincent, no matter how much I try, I just can't get into the work of Emile Bernard. I think it might be because so much of it is virtually identical in style and subject to Gauguin's work and we all know how I feel about that. When I look at most of Bernard's canvases, all I see is Gauguin. Vincent was so smitten with Bernard's brush that he not only made copies of his friend's works, but in letters to Theo he implored his brother to promote Bernard's new style of art. This, I guess, shouldn't be surprising as Vincent also thought Gauguin was brilliant. Uh-hunh. At any rate, this is one of the few pieces of Emile Bernard that I really do like. A lot. The juxtaposition between the field of green and the boy's fiery red hair is beautiful, and startling. Its simplicity is a joy. And oh yeah, it looks nothing like a Gauguin.

Boy Sitting in the Grass, 1886

Bram Sitting

Portrait of Bram Sitting, graphite on paper, 2010

Pissarro's Montmartre

There's something about the compulsive artist's penchant for painting the same subject over and over again in different light and in different seasons, ad nauseum, that's very appealing to me. Monet was the master of this, creating no less than 25 canvases of haystacks in less than a year and more than 30 of Rouen Cathedral. But by far, he wasn't the only artist to relentlessly work a subject. There are countless artists known for their need to wring every nuance from a location, an object or a portrait subject, but one of those not necessarily known for this is Pissarro. Granted, he returned again and again to a broader subject, especially in his etchings of peasants, and though he often painted the same scenes from various angles, he's generally not known for painting the same location again and again, from the same vantage point and identical except for the light, the weather or the seasons. But when he was diagnosed with a chronic infection of the tear duct, he was no longer able to paint outdoors on location due to wind and dust, and so spent most of his time painting landscapes and cityscapes from indoors looking out through the windows. While in a Paris hotel in 1897 and 1898, among the numerous works he completed of the city, he painted multiple canvases of Montmartre from the exact same vantage point in every season in all weathers: sunlight, rain, fog, and at all hours of the day and night. Most critics believe that these Paris works are among his most brilliant and well-executed and I would have to agree. While not a huge fan of Camille Pissarro's works, these are truly breathtaking and like Monet's many series of nearly identical works, these thrill me simply for their relentless consistency.

Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning, 1897

Boulevard Montmartre Au Printemps, 1897

Boulevard Montmartre La Nuit, 1898

Encaustics VII

I devour nature ceaselessly. I exaggerate, sometimes I make changes in the subject: but still I don't invent the whole picture. On the contrary, I find it already there. It's a question of picking out what one wants from nature.

-Vincent van Gogh

Monet and Renoir

Two paintings of the same scene by Monet and Renoir, painted at Monet's riverside home in the village of Argenteuil, and almost identical in size and vantage point, but each visually distinct from the other. I used to think I preferred Renoir's lighter, airier take on the river, but now I think I like Monet's darker, moodier version more.

Claude Monet, La Grenouillere, 1869

Pierre Auguste Renoir, La Grenouillere, 1869