Near the Ruins of Brederode Castle, by Simon de Vlieger

Continuing with our weeklong look at artist Simon de Vlieger, (born 1601), we see here one of his pen, ink and wash drawings of Brederode Castle.

The castle, also called the Ruins of Brederode, can be found in Santpoort-Zuid.  The castle was built sometime in the second half of the 13^th Century by William I van Brederode (1215-1285), a descendant of the lords of van Teylingen.  The castle was part of the estates given to the Brederode family by the count of Holland.

Brederode means broad wood, and references the woodland that was cleared away to build the castle.  The castle was initially little more than a tower, but Dirk II van Brederode had the tower pulled down in 1300 and built a proper castle in its place.

That Brederode is in ruins is no surprise.  During the 1426 siege of Haarlem, the southern part of the castle was destroyed.  In 1492, the castle was plundered by German soldiers.  In 1573, Lancelot van Brederode was beheaded by Spanish soldiers, and the castle was set afire. 

In 1679, Wofert van Brederode, last of the Brederode, died, and the ruins became the property of the Dutch Republic.  In the 19^th Century the ruins were one of the first buildings to be restored by the government, becoming the first national monument in the Netherlands.

While this is not a finished drawing, de Vlieger manages to suggest the sense of ruin that pervades the place.  The grand towers of the castle loom in the distance, with the simpler village walls and houses in the foreground.  It’s unlikely that de Vlieger is making some kind of statement in this sketch, but, rather, that he planned to use it for a more finished work.

De Vlieger manages light and shade with a simple gray wash.  However, he manages to etch more concrete details with a fine pen, suggesting the movement of scrub in the foreground, and the shaggy quality of hay on the cottage roof.

Just a moment to reflect on the importance of sketching:  artists think with their hands, as well as with their brains and their optic nerves.  To make a sketch to reference for future work is one of the core methods of an artist, and it can teach us a great deal about how they think.

Clearly, de Vlieger thought in terms of light and shade, value and tone.  There are a few clearly delineated details, but the focus is on composition and light.  These values would provide the key for his finished, and highly polished, paintings.

More de Vlieger tomorrow!

Brederode Castle Today

The Artist’s Sketchbook

Let us first consider what a sketch is not.  A sketch is not a finished drawing; a finished drawing is often a work of painstaking effort and an artistic product in-and-of-itself – a drawing is its own thing.  A sketch is not a preparatory drawing for a larger work per se; preparatory drawings during the Renaissance, for instance, were works that were made to be used to transfer finished compositions to larger canvases or onto the wet plaster of a fresco.

No.  A sketch, simply, is an artist’s first draft, a rough idea, the idle result of his drawing implement(s) and spare paper.  They are not finished works of art, but, rather, places where he is thinking on paper.  Most every artist of any importance (and most who are not) have kept sketch books – Your Correspondent has been guilty of this, as well.  Artists carry sketch books on vacations, on the subway, at the café or restaurant, at the concert or to the market.  In short, wherever there is life (or landscape!), the working artist takes his sketchbook, ready to think on paper.

And that’s what an artist’s sketchbook is – thinking on paper.  Sketches are not made for the general public, or even for small audiences – they are reference works for the artist as he is working out his ideas, planning out his compositions, or explaining his ideas.

Artists will also add sketches to the darndest things.  Much to the horror of restaurateurs everywhere, I am an inveterate tablecloth sketcher.  Can’t help it – but I do make sure that I doodle in pencil, so as not to ruin the cloth.  I have also added little sketches to the bottom of bills and receipts, and in letters.

Many artists, in fact, have loved to put little drawings in their letters.  Here is a typical letter from Van Gogh:

These are not finished drawings, and are just tossed into the text as an illustration.

Look, here, at Thomas Eakins, who sought to illustrate his letter about furnishings he admired with some quick sketches:

What I find most interesting about the sketches of even the greatest artists is that they are not often all that good.  And that’s the point – a sketch is simply the artist thinking pictorially, because that’s the way artists think.

That was what came to mind during a recent visit to Rome, where I saw a sonnet Michelangelo wrote to a friend (essentially, a poetic letter), about the experience of painting the Sistine Chapel.  (See above.)  The sonnet also has a very loose sketch of himself, arms overhead, brush in hand, performing an impossible task of artistic creation.  The sonnet reads:

Here like a cat in a Lombardy sewer! Swelter and toil!

With my neck puffed out like a pigeon,

belly hanging like an empty sack,

beard pointing at the ceiling, and my brain

fallen backwards in my head!

Breastbone bulging like a harpy’s

and my face, from drips and droplets,

patterned like a marble pavement.

Ribs are poking in my guts; the only way

to counterweight my shoulders is to stick

my butt out. Don’t know where my feet are -

they’re just dancing by themselves!

In front I’ve sagged and stretched; behind,

my back is tauter than an archer’s bow!

This is not an impressive sketch (and, perhaps, not an impressive sonnet), but it is a perfect example of the artist working out his ideas on paper.

More on sketches tomorrow!

Prud’hon My Absence: Male Nude Leaning on a Rock

I ask my readers to forgive my several days absence, but your correspondent had heavy business obligations that kept him away.  I had also promised another work by Pierre-Paul Prud'hon (1758--1823), so here is another magnificent academic drawing by the master, Male Nude Leaning on a Rock.

The model for this drawing was named Lena, one of two models used by Prud’hon with the same name.  Were there two Lena brothers, or father and son?  That is not known, and though Goncourt states that Lena was the ‘usual male model’ for Prud’hon, it’s unlikely with his bald pate and rather prominent features that he did much work for the artist.  Indeed, he seems to appear in only two other drawings.

This work is done on blue paper with black and white chalk.  I have not seen the original myself, but it appears that a smaller piece of paper was hitched to a larger one – you can see that the figure’s toe and part of the rock extend beyond a horizontal line near the bottom of the page.

This drawing is little short of magnificent.  Note how Prud’hon uses white chalk to accentuate the straining muscles of the arms, which are used to support the weight of the model.  Note, too, how the figure seems to twist to one side as it leans forward – a natural reaction for anyone in the same pose.  (Try it yourself.)  His genitalia are pushed to the side to accommodate his bent leg, and Prud’hon uses a masterful circular shadow thrown by the arm over the bent leg to create a rounded mass as it juts forward.  He also uses a mix of black and gray to delineate the length of the body as it recedes into the distance, and builds up very dark shadows on the arm and arm pits where the light cannot reach.

Though one might think the foot partially hidden by the rock is overlarge, it is important to remember that artists habitually draw feet too small, and that a normal-sized foot is usually as large as a normal sized head.

The truly magnificent achievement of this drawing is the head – for the head is not level, but both tilted and turned.  Prud’hon manages to capture the shift in perspective caused by the tilt and – perhaps my favorite detail of the drawing – the dark shadow cast by the head over the shoulder does not fully cover the barest section of shoulder blade that manages to capture light.

Most artists of Prud’hon’s heroic age made academic drawings during their initial artistic training, and then abandoned the practice.  They drew, of course, but mainly studies or cartoons as a preliminary step to developing a painting or fresco.  Not so Prud’hon, who continued to produce academic drawings throughout his life.  This made him something of an anomaly – these drawings were often time-consuming to create and had little value to collectors or buyers at the time – indeed, Prud’hon’s magnificent drawings were considered of negligible value once his work was sold at the time of his death.  Now, they are considered his greatest artistic legacy.

But he loved to draw.  There is a story told by Eugene Delacroix, who knew several of Prud’hon’s students, including Auguste-Joseph Carrier.  Delacroix wrote that:

In the last years of his life, Prud’hon could be seen spending all of his evenings in the studio of one of his students, Monsieur Trezel, drawing from the model as if he were a student himself.  He felt very comfortable there, with his pencil case in hand, in the company of these young people.  His kindness toward them was inexhaustible.  Many accomplished artists also had reason to praise him.  He often neglected his own work to help colleagues out with his advice and his able hand.

Tomorrow we will take a look at a Prud’hon painting.

Prud’hon’s Standing Male Nude

We return to the incomparable drawings of Pierre-Paul Prud'hon (1758--1823) with this standing male nude.  Again, Prud’hon uses black and white chalk on blue-toned paper – cut narrow to accentuate the length and statuesque quality of the figure. 

The light falls on the figure from the front, creating a white blaze on the upper torso and upper part of the stomach.  The face, with its deep-set eyes and delicate nose and full-lipped, expressive mouth, seems almost Christ-like in repose.  The expression is enigmatic, partially hidden by the sweep of delicately rendered hair. 

Note the deep hues beneath the figure’s chin, left arm and pubic area.  The light was obviously harsh and dramatic, and both the figure’s sculpted features and voluptuous musculature are accentuated to great effect.  The navel, as well, seems rendered with an almost feminine flourish.

“Voluptuous” and “feminine” are perhaps provocative words when describing a male nude, but look again and the figure.  Prud’hon’s figure drawing sometimes had the most remarkable bi-sexual quality: men often feminized or woman oddly muscular and statuesque.  The figure here could well-be described as a strange mixture of Beyonce and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Prud’hon does not clearly delineate the hands of feet of the figure – it is clear that torso, arms and legs are the focus of our gaze.  The fleshy, somewhat hippy lines of the stomach and thighs are underscored by a dark accent mark beside the figure, and the groin area is soft, flaccid and somewhat sexless.

Looking at the face … is it not possible to see just a passing resemblance to Prud’hon’s student, lover and artistic collaborator, Constance Mayer?  I make no allusions – coy or otherwise – to Prud’hon’s relations with her, but if Mayer was indeed Prud’hon’s ideal, is it not possible that a hint, the faintest trace of her, could be found in even his most masculine compositions?

Prud’hon’s nude academic drawings have been revered for over 200 years, and art students have been drawing from copies and prints for nearly that long.  They often hang in the halls of the Art Students League in New York City, where the most ambitious and scrupulous students look, learn … and occasionally genuflect.

More on Prud’hon and Constance tomorrow!

Prud’hon’s Portrait of Constance Mayer

Pierre-Paul Prud'hon (1758--1823) was a French painter and one of the most superlative draughtsmen of his time.  He was born in Cluny, Saone-et-Loire, and was trained in France and Italy.  He worked primarily in Paris and was a favorite of Napoleon.

There has been much debate over whether to characterize Prud’hon as a Classicist or Romantic artist, and there is no better illustration of this conundrum than this stunning drawing of Constance Mayer, rendered in black and white chalk on blue paper.  It was drawn sometime around 1805 and by any yardstick is a remarkable drawing.

Before lingering on this lovely image, let’s spend a moment on the story of Prud’hon and Mayer, one of the most tragic and affecting in the history of art.  Mayer was born in 1775 and was an artist herself, taught by J.B. Greuze, among others.  She was a pupil and later lover of Prud’hon, raising his children for him instead of his invalid wife.  They also collaborated on several paintings and the historical record is sometimes cloudy on what components were from Prud’hon, and which were courtesy of Mayer. 

On her deathbed in 1821, Madame Prud’hon requested that he never remarry, and he promised her, “no, never.”  Upon hearing this, Mayer bade farewell to her own pupils and cut her throat with Prud’hon’s razor.  Prud’hon was not able to save her life and his own health declined after the incident.  He died in 1823, and Prud’hon and Mayer were buried in the same grave in Père Lachaise, Paris.

What a magnificent picture.  Mayer seems to have turned away from her work to give Prud’hon a smile.  The light falls from above, creating dark shadows on her face and around her eyes, which are vibrantly alive.  There are times when the moment seems too intimate, and that we are mere intruders.

Note not only Mayer’s curls, but the shadows they throw on her forehead and the hollows of her eyes.  Not only that, but through some alchemy of chalk and paper, Prud’hon manages to convey a sense of dew upon his beloved’s brow.  The artist uses white judiciously – note how it highlights the moist, and most reflective sections, of her face but not her teeth, which would render Mayer little better than an advertisement.  He also uses his paper to create a satisfactory mid-tone, allowing him to gradually build shadows under the curve of her neck, and create a deep, velvety black for the collar of her jacket. 

The ribbon in her hair is clearly, but not fussily, delineated, and the white of her blouse (or, perhaps, her artist’s apron) creates a non-distracting focus.

This portrait so clearly illustrates the dilemma of whether Prud’hon was a Classicist or Romantic simply because it accomplishes both goals so splendidly.  The portrait has a mastery of line, command of form and finish that clearly aligns Prud’hon with the polished Classicists; however, the homey, almost spontaneous nature of the pose and costume clearly falls in the province of the Romantics.  For this correspondent, I contend that Prud’hon was an arch-Classicist – Romantics (and later Impressionists) largely gave up on drawing, and this picture is literally a glowing example of drawing virtuosity. 

This portrait was probably drawn during the first year of their liaison, so Mayer is around 30 years old here.  Mayer herself obviously loved it, for she painted a miniature from this drawing for her father.  The original always hung near Prud’hon’s easel.

After Mayer’s suicide, he gave the drawing to another of his pupils, August-Joseph Carrier.  He could not look at it any longer, and told Carrier “hide it well, my friend, I am not strong enough to bear its sight anymore.”

It is impossible to look at the smiling Mayer, so young, so vibrant, and so pleasantly sensual, and not think of the horrible end that awaits her.  Our historical hindsight adds to the profound pathos already evident in the picture for, as with many Classicists, Prud’hon captures the pathos of the human condition simply by expertly recording it.

More on Prud’hon and Constance tomorrow!

Renoir's Dance in the Country Sketch

Today, another pretty drawing by Renoir, this, a study for his later painting, Dance in the Country, painted in 1883 and currently at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris.   The painting was commissioned a year earlier by wealthy merchant Paul Durand-Ruel; it is a sister picture to Renoir’s Dance in the City, painted that same year.

The male figure was modeled by Paul Lothe, Renoir’s friend, and the woman is Aline Charigot, who later became Madame Renoir.  The finished painting is rather large -- both figures are life-size – and features Renoir’s characteristic limpid coloration.

But let’s look for a moment at the drawing.  That this is a quick study (executed in brown wash and watercolor with a brush over a pencil sketch) is fairly clear.  Lothe’s arm around Charigot is clearly a little too long above the elbow, and Renoir seems a tad uncertain as to where on the man’s shoulder to place the lady’s hand.  Moreover, Charigot looks more pained than pleasured, a misstep Renoir corrected in the final painting (see below).  Charigot, a simple country girl somewhat in awe of her celebrated husband, looks at us from the finished painting with an open-mouthed grin, teeth showing, truly happy.  It took Renoir a few studies (there is an additional pencil study for the drawing in the Honolulu Academy of Arts) before he captured her mix of happiness and abandon.

What Renoir does do well here is convey the sense of movement; this is not two people standing still in the simulacrum of dance, but a man and a woman really moving.  And Renoir, always colorist before draughtsman, cannot help but apply blue wash to the man’s pants and details of her dress – color was to the Impressionists what line was to the classicists.

While it is always interesting to look at a painting’s preparatory drawings, it is usually the finished work that is the most arresting.  However, I will chance a sacrilege at the Impressionist alter and opine that I think the drawing – a sketch, really – is somehow more beguiling than the finished work.  The drawing has an immediacy and intimacy that the painting lacks, and the line is not obscured by Renoir’s sometimes ‘fuzzy’ brushwork.

Before we leave Renoir, here’s a great story the artist told about how he acquired a Paul Cézanne watercolor (quoted from Renoir, an Intimate Record, by A. Vollard):

Coming back from Italy, I went to the Midi.  I looked up Cézanne and proposed that we should go to Estaque together to paint.

“Oh, don’t go there!” cried Cézanne, who had just come back.  “Estaque is done for!  They’ve put up parapets.  I can’t bear it!”

I went just the same, a little saddened by the thought of how they must have spoiled it; but I was encouraged when I found the same old Estaque, and if Cézanne had not told me, I would never have noticed any change.  His parapets were just a few stones one on top of another.

It was on this trip that I brought back a magnificent water-colour of Bathers by Cézanne, the one you see there on the wall.  The day I found it, I was with my friend Lauth.  He had been suddenly taken with a violent diarrhea.

“Do you see any good leaves around?  No, I don’t want pine-needles.”

“No, but here’s some paper,” I replied, picking up a stray piece at my feet.  It was one of the finest of Cézanne’s water-colours; he had thrown it away among the rocks after having slaved over it for twenty sittings.

Renoir Drawing, Peasant Girl With Dog

This very pleasant drawing, Peasant Girl With Dog, was done in red chalk on cream-colored paper by Pierre-August Renoir (1841-1919) in 1894, one of the most celebrated Impressionist painters.  With perhaps the exception of Edgar Degas, drawings by Impressionist masters are relatively rare – mainly because Impressionists gave up on drawing.

The characteristics we associate with Impressionism largely emerged from the paintings of Renoir and Claude Monet executed between 1867 and 1870.  Between the two of them, they changed the ‘language’ of painting, the after-effects of which are felt to this day.   Impressionists painted directly from the subject (dancers, farmers, seascapes, picnicers) to retain the changing nature of appearances.  They achieved this effect by using broadly painted broken brush-strokes, and by trying to capture objects as they change.  (It is not unusual for an Impressionist still life to include slightly wilted flowers.)  I also think of the advent of Impressionism as the era in which the mind and optic nerve parted ways: the largely intellectual, skill-based discipline of drawing (and painting) was largely abandoned in favor of sensation. 

The canon of Impressionists paintings has, once this new language of painting became more familiar, become very popular with the public.  This is largely because many of the Impressionists (Renoir, Monet, Degas et al) were wonderful colorists.   They painted slices of life rather than epic history or Biblical pictures, or formal portraits, and with this revolution, the centuries-old artistic tradition that began in the early Renaissance began to erode.

Renoir was born in Limoges and moved to Paris in 18S45. His early work was as a porcelain painter, and he used the money he earned to attend the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, where he became a pupil of Gleyre with Monet, Bazille and Sisley. He exhibited in four of the eight Impressionist exhibitions which launched the movement and was one of the leading lights of the revolution until it was perceived that his native good humor led the more zealous Impressionists to dismiss him for not being ‘serious.’  (It is a mystery to your correspondent why ‘dour’ is equated with ‘serious,’ but that is perhaps the topic of a future post.)

We’ll look at Renoir’s life in greater detail tomorrow, but till then, let’s look at the above drawing.  The overall effect is a very pleasant one, but it seems to your correspondent to be little more than an artful doodle.  The woman’s anatomy looks to be sound, but much more is suggested than depicted.  The arm supporting the head seems a bit crabbed, and the head itself unevenly fitted to the torso.  The dog resting on the woman seems to be to scale, until one begins to wonder upon what low object the woman is sitting, or ponders how big is the bottom of the dog’s body.  The other dog is standing on its hind legs, unless it is a dry run for the final depiction of the dog.  The trees and fields are sketched out with a few loose lines, but mass is convincingly created.  So, like much of the Impressionist canon, the overall effect is quite nice, but it does not really support detailed viewing.

If I sound prejudiced against the Impressionists, well …, I am.  While I love much of the work, I cannot separate my momentary optic pleasure from the realization that the movement was the beginning of the end of art.  As Impressionists largely abandoned the discipline of drawing and the long apprenticeship of the Beaux-Arts tradition, art became less about skill and more about ‘feeling.’  It may be a big step between the pretty pictures of Renoir and the horrors of de Kooning, but Impressionism was the necessary first step that made the ugly irrelevancies of Modernism possible.

Learning to See With Artist Paul Foxton Part II

Work of Artist Paul Foxton

Today we conclude our interview with Paul Foxton, the man behind the blog Learning to See.  I urge my readers interested in art to look at this remarkable resource.  It can be found at: http://www.learning-to-see.co.uk.

Learning to See is an amazing public document.  What inspired you to chronicle your return to drawing in such an exposed manner?

Narcissism probably! Who doesn't like to bang on about themselves all day?

It's been a useful record for me though, I'd recommend anyone to do it. You can look back and see your progress, see where you followed dead ends. It's an effective way to learn from your mistakes, because you can't hide from them. You can't edit and rewrite your history in your mind (as I believe we usually do) when it's right there in front of you and lots of other people have seen it too.

I remember when I came back to painting, I was hunting around for good websites that could help me learn. I found some step by step articles that left out more than they described. They seemed to me to be largely about artists showcasing how good they were, these articles were useless as learning tools. It made me angry. I resolved to make the most useful posts I could about my own practice, to describe everything as fully and completely as I could, leaving nothing out. I suppose I've tried to make the site I couldn't find for myself six or seven years ago. It's different now, a lot more people are blogging about painting, there's a lot of videos on YouTube that weren't there then. There's a lot more good information freely available. It's a positive thing.

The site has also helped me to connect with people, that's been a wonderful experience. It's reason for being now, what I want from it most, is to help people like me who are struggling with teaching themselves to draw and paint, if I can. I want it to be less about me and more about other people who are learning too. What I hope for more than anything is that I might be able to help people to have happier and more enriching lives by helping them to draw and paint better. I want to make their struggle easier for them if I can, because I know how tough it is to teach yourself. That seems to me to be about the best thing I could aspire to right now, much more important than how good I get at drawing and painting myself.

You detail many techniques on your site – sight-size, Old Master copies, loose sketching – which is the most appealing to you?  And which has taught you the most?

I'm not sure I could pick one, and if you asked me this question again in a year, I'd probably have a different answer anyway. Which method you learn most from will depend on your personal goals and how close you are to achieving them I think. I've learned a huge amount from sight size but I'm moving away from it now. Dependence on the visual effect has become a straight-jacket for me, something I feel the need to break out of. It's stopping me create.

I think if you want to get better at drawing the main thing is not to worry too much about this or that technique, it's to put aside some uninterrupted time every day and practice. Don't beat yourself up, enjoy it, or else what's the point? Don't be afraid to explore. Keep an open mind. Don't take anyone else's word for anything, test things for yourself. Practice till your fingers bleed if you like, but enjoy it. If it becomes a chore, you progress more slowly and the love dies.

Do you really believe that anyone can be taught to draw?

Yes, beyond question.

But what about talent?  Isn’t talent essential?

I don't believe in talent, at least not in the usual definition. I don't believe we are born with gifts, I believe they develop. I've written about why here:

http://www.learning-to-see.co.uk/talent

What materials would you recommend for a beginner?

It really doesn't matter what you use I don't think. What matters is the thinking and the feeling behind what you do, not what you do it with. Anything that can make a mark can become a vehicle for expression.

What essential piece of advice would you offer someone who is staring at that blank sheet of paper for the first time (or after a long absence)?

Relax. Make a mark. All you have to do is start, and then keep going, the rest will follow in time.

That's easy to say and much harder to do, no-one knows that better than me. But procrastination is your worst enemy. Give yourself something simple and easy to do to start with. Make a regular appointment with yourself and keep it. Put aside a little time every day, ten, fifteen minutes, and progress from there. Take joy from small achievements, and they'll build into something much bigger over time.

Finally, to get a little philosophical, how do you define artist?

I don't. I'm too busy drawing, painting and writing in what little spare time I have to worry about such unproductive questions.

Anyone interested in the serious study of drawing, and in the journey of a gifted autodidact, should visit Learning to See.  It can be found at:  http://www.learning-to-see.co.uk/

Learning to See With Artist Paul Foxton Part I

The Art of Paul Foxton

You can learn how to draw better – that is the lesson of the blog Learning To See, written and illustrated by artist Paul Foxton.

In late 2005, Foxton returned to painting after a gap of many years.  As he started rebuilding his artistic muscles, Foxton chronicled the long and labor-intensive process in a very public manner: by posting his progress regularly on his blog, Learning to See.  The record of his journey is a wonderful resource to anyone trying to draw better, or understand the process by which artists master this fundamental component of their craft.

The site has dozens of interesting passages, including notes on how to practice more effectively, the mysteries of composition, and sight-size drawing.  Foxton is also generous with more than his growing expertise: the site is liberally illustrated with his own work.  This is a gift to any serious student, for while looking at a finished drawing is useful, watching the process of drawing, including the missteps and excisions, is a god-send. 

Visitors to Learning to See can also see Foxton’s casual ‘café sketches,’ where he captures life on the fly with his sketch pad, as well as his efforts to copy the lithographs of 19^th Century French Academician Charles Bargue (1827-1883) that were circulated around the ateliers of the time for students to copy.

Among the many things to admire about Foxton are his rigor and his honesty.  Opinions held at one time and not altered later on as his views evolve, honestly chronicling his journey.  He is also quite a terrific writer: anyone who has tried to learn to draw from books knows that one of the biggest obstacles is often the ham-fisted prose of the artist!  That is not a problem at Learning to Draw, as Foxton’s pen is as fluid as his pencil.  For example, here is Foxton thinking aloud while explaining the planes of the head, “One of my original ideas when I came back to painting was that I wanted to get back to portrait painting. I find portraits fascinating, and am often to be found skulking around the National Portrait Gallery. But all the portraits I've done in the past have been of the cheesy copied photo variety. When I was a street artist in my twenties, every now and again people used to ask me to copy poor quality snaps of their nearest and dearest, which I used to do quite happily for them. I couldn't say the work was particularly inspiring and the results were invariably awful; they were crimes against art for which I should have been excommunicated, but along with the change people threw into my hat they paid the bills.”

Though Learning to See is not a portfolio site, Roxton does have several of his paintings on view.  His work reveals a delicate sense of coloration and a sure brush-stroke.  His still life paintings have a serene beauty that makes an interesting contrast to his more muscular drawing style.  I am particularly enamored of his painting Wedgwood Saucer, Bottle and Silver Egg Cup (made all the more valuable by his write up detailing its creation).

Paul Foxton was gracious enough to take time from his busy schedule and answer a few questions for us.

Did you draw as a child?  And, if so, how did you fall out of the habit?

Yes, I did draw. I used to like to spend time on my own, still do actually, and a lot of that time would be spent drawing. I don't remember when it started, but I do remember that getting approval for drawing well was a nice feeling. I think that's probably how an early skill with something grows. As a kid you want the approval of the people around you. If something you do tends to get you that approval, you'll do it more.

Drawing was also a way to escape into another world. I used to copy drawings from Marvel comics, Spider Man, that kind of thing. I mostly liked to draw Spider Man. As I got better I suppose I became known amongst friends and school mates as someone who could draw. It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy in a way, you draw well because you draw well. By the time I was in my teens at school, I was doing uncomplimentary cartoons of the teachers that went down pretty well with my class-mates.

Drawing is one of those things you could be good at at school without being thought of as a swot. It's not like being good at maths or science, which would mark you out for bullying. After I left school, I rebelled, dyed my hair, became a punk. This was in a small town in the north east of England, where being different wasn't looked on very favourably. I remember sitting in a pub one evening and bunch of what used to be the hard kids at school sat on the next table. One of them started making loud comments about the way I looked, it looked like it was about to get nasty. But the leader of the group said “Leave him alone, he's a good artist.” Drawing can even save you from getting beaten up, apparently.

I don't know how I fell out of the habit. I was doing commercial work as I got older which I became disillusioned with. I hated the work. I think that partly killed it. Drawing and painting became something else. It was no longer a world that could be escaped into that represented freedom. It was about marching to someone else's tune. Just like the rest of life. Perhaps that was it. I stopped drawing and painting and put what creative energy I had into music instead.

What first inspired you towards art?  Were your parents encouraging?

I think I've answered the first part of this question as well as I can above.

As for the second part, I think my parents believe that they did encourage me yes, but they were worried that I wouldn't be able to make a living from art, quite understandably. They wanted the best for me and they didn't see art as a viable alternative. I was required to take other, more academic subjects along with art, which I hated. It was something of a bone of contention.

In The Practice and Science of Drawing, Harold Speed contends that aspiring artists should be actively discouraged, because only those who can't be discouraged will keep going. It's one of the few things I disagree with him on, and vehemently so. It's important to have encouragement early on, very important.

What did you do in the period between your initial drifting away from art and your return in 2005?

All sorts. In a way I was lost. I did a lot of music, I learned about computers, I got a proper job for the first time in my life. I could see it as a mistake, and in a way it was. But the important thing is to learn from experiences and to move on. There's still plenty of time left, for all of us.

I met my wife Michelle in that period, without who's love and support I doubt I would have made it this far, so I wouldn't go back and change things even if I could. It's not so much where you've been, it's where you're going that matters I think.

Some drawing teachers will tell you that when a person drew in their youth, that actually is a deficit in learning to draw in adulthood.  (Something about hard-wiring bad habits, I believe.)  Do you agree, and, if so, how do people overcome that?

I think that's complete nonsense, frankly. Who gets to decide what is a good and what is a bad habit? Some teacher who wants you to draw the way they do? Drawing regularly, practicing any skill regularly, builds and reinforces connections in your brain. Neuroscience tells us this. It's how we learn. Practice may be more or less effective, but it's never a waste of time and never counter-productive in my opinion.

A lot of kids these days like to copy manga. That's art to them. From one perspective, you could say that they're not using their own creativity, that they're just copying, but they're also stretching the mental muscles required to draw. If that's what they like to do, that's what they should do. It's never going to be bad for them and it'll motivate them to practice. How can that be bad?

What artists were particularly inspiring to you?

Were or are inspiring? When I was a kid I was fascinated by comic art, fantasy art too. I wanted to draw like that. I used to copy Spider Man and Hulk drawings and was fascinated by the way they drew the muscles, how the shadows made the the forms.

The artists that inspire me the most now are people I'm lucky enough to know, if virtually; people I see struggling on despite difficulties, motivated to get better and improve; people like Lisa Gloria, Sadie Valerie, Julian Merrow-Smith, Shaun Day, Linda Tracey Brandon. There's more. My online painter friends. These are the artists that inspire me now.

More tomorrow!

The Working Artist

Plate from the Charles Bargue drawing course.

In a time when “inspiration” is all and execution and technique suspect, it is useful to remember the training artists underwent in much of 19^th Century Europe.  Artists were trained at academies, where the work was rigorous and the competition for prizes was fierce.  It was this training that helped foster an artistic tradition of remarkable technical ability and polish – the fusion of expertise and artistic passion.  That the dominant form of 19^th Century art is now called “academic” is a tribute to this tradition. 

One of the most prestigious schools was the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, founded in the 17^th Century.  To join the Ecole, student artists had to be male, less than 30 years of age, and recommended by a teacher.  The Ecole worked to position artists as more than craftsmen – for, in addition to practical training, Ecole students were taught history, aesthetics, and theory.  This academic curriculum included intensive drawing, from plaster casts and the live model, and students competed for prizes, including the prestigious Prix de Rome (awarded from 1663 to 1968). 

The rigors of competition seem incomprehensible in today’s world of post modern finger painting, but at one time, art was a discipline that required skill, erudition, insight and … endurance.  Competitions would last over the course of 106 days.  For the first lap, 100 artists would have 12 hours to sketch in paint a topic chosen by supervisor.  In the next round, 20 artists would work through four seven-hour sessions painting the male nude.  This would weed out half, with the remaining 10 artists producing an oil sketch in 12 hours on topics chosen by judges.  And then, at last, finalists had 72 days to create a large-scale painting based on the oil sketch.

Happily, there seems to be a movement in the art world (among artists, at least) to move away from the stunted, anti-human modernism and post modernism so prized by dealers and galleries, and return to both more rigorous artistic training and work in a more humanist ideal.  Fine Arts schools, neglected for decades by the art establishment (or, worse, sneeringly dismissed) are now flourishing across the country.  As working artists seek to recapture the expertise of the Old Masters, they find that many secrets have been lost to time.  Work to unlock and update these secrets continues apace, and I suspect that we will see a new flowering in years to come of the academic ideal.