Despite my decision to use the pad canvas only after affixing individual sheets to stretcher bars, I decided to try it stretched only with clips. Firmly clamped to a backing board, my second sheet of canvas held its shape well and appeared to lose little area due to shrinkage.

In placing the subject, I mentally included the margin space on all sides to allow for later stretching and shrinkage. (Refer to the Faces and Figures gallery to see the finished proportions of “Anticipation.”)

When I applied glazes on this type of canvas surface, I found that lifting was still almost as much of a problem as it had been on the stretched and gessoed canvas (Joe Miller’s brand) I had used previously (see blog for January 1, 2012). So, when I decided I needed a final glaze to warm the foreground, I set the painting aside for several days to dry thoroughly (front and back) before spraying it with fixatif. Only when that was dry did I lay in my last applications of paint.

I had not used this type of fixatif before (Krylon Workable Fixatif), but it was called “workable” and stated that it “allows easy rework.” However, apparently that holds true only for the stated “pencil, pastel, and chalk,” not for watercolor. The watercolor beaded up on the fixed surface, and though I was able to do a bit of retouching, it was not satisfactory.

Out of desperation, I recoated the painting with the varnish (Krylon Gallery Series UV Archival varnish) I had used on my first canvas, hoping that that would provide a more friendly working surface that would accept top coats of watercolor. The paint continued to bead up, failing to adhere smoothly to the surface.

One of the few advantages of the seal appears to be that I can wipe off failed attempts without fear of leaving stains and smears behind.

Another advantage (admittedly a major consideration) is the UV protection it offers for any paintings that will not be shielded by UV-protective glass.

I would be interested to hear from others who may have found alternative fixatifs or sealers over which additional layers of watercolor can satisfactorily be applied.

However, I decided to try using it as I would a pad of watercolor paper, as I supposed was intended. Using bulldog clips, I fastened the canvas pad back against the backing board, set it up on my easel, and got to work. After wetting, the canvas didn’t stretch but actually shrank. Where the canvas was clipped to the board, shrinkage was negligible, but areas that I had failed to clip shrank enough to form noticeable ripples in the fabric as it pulled diagonally against the clips. Having worked primarily with paper and stretched canvas in the past, I had not expected this to occur to such an extent.

In this case, to encourage more even shrinkage, before applying fixative, I reversed the canvas and, leaving it entirely unstretched, I sprayed the back with water, spreading the moisture with my hands to ensure even coverage. Then I allowed it to dry thoroughly. Most of the ripples disappeared as the canvas dried. Overall, the 20”x16” canvas lost approximately ½” in length (in width as seen in the horizontal orientation below) and ¼” in width (or in height as shown in the illustration).

Lessons learned: 1) Use the sheets singly, rather than on the provided pad, and 2) Stretch even page-like sheets of canvas before painting—it’s shrinkable cotton fabric, not paper. Whether on stretcher bars or by affixing the canvas to a sturdy backing, the canvas must be stretched before wetting. I will use 12”x16” stretcher bars for the remaining sheets, to allow enough edge to wrap around the bars.

More about my experience with the canvas next time.

The spray varnish (Krylon Gallery Series UV Archival varnish) I had used successfully on canvas did not work so well on paper, leaving white flecks where I had expected a clear, even finish.

Rechecking the canvas I had sprayed previously, to see if I had overlooked a similar problem with that, I found white filaments, about 1/32” long, scattered across the surface of the canvas. But were they from the spray or from some other source? They did not look like the flecks left on the paper, and I was able to brush them off with no difficulty, which I was not able to do with the flecks on the paper surface, so I judged that they were not from the spray. More likely they were some form of dust, though I couldn’t figure out what would have produced the regular, elongated shape of those flecks. It continues to baffle me. But that issue is beyond the realm of this blog.

Although I was fairly certain that the new painting (the one on paper) had been completely dry, I supposed that it was possible that it had not been and that, as the varnish hit it, some of the color lifted off. But I couldn’t be sure. Or perhaps I had applied my second coat too soon after the initial misting. Whatever the cause, the damage was done.

I allowed the varnish to dry completely on the paper before attempting to retouch that painting by applying a top coat. Would it adhere? Or would the varnish reject it? I could find out only by trying.

Once the varnish had dried, I was able to apply a top coat of paint. Despite my fears, it did adhere, and it did improve the appearance of the painting. I was also able to tweak a few areas that I had overlooked previously. However, I did not feel that it brought the image quality back to what it had been before it was sprayed (see below). And I did not attempt to reapply the protective varnish over the final layer of paint.

In the future, I won’t be varnishing any more paintings on paper unless there’s an overriding reason to do so.

This discovery told me two things: first, that the painting was “erasable;” and second, that all colors to be applied had to be mixed either on the palette or while still wet on the painting surface. The entire work had to be more carefully planned than usual. Value contrasts would have to be optimal from the beginning, not relying on second coats to adjust color or value except to entirely lift all color out of an area.

I took advantage of the erasability by reworking the background, which had appeared streaky after the initial application. In fact, I reworked the background several times to test the effect of a variety of brushes on the surface and to evaluate several different background treatments. I also signed the painting in three different ways, erasing the dark-against-light versions and eventually lifting the lettering out of dark-pigmented area on my final version.

The erasability posed an additional problem—that of permanence. If the surface should become wet, the image could be ruined. This is true of any watercolor painting, which is one reason works on paper are usually displayed behind glass. One advantage of canvas, however, is that it does not normally need glass for protection, since it’s considerably sturdier than paper. In fact, canvas often does better without glass, since an enclosed framework can trap dampness in as well as keeping dust and moisture out, thereby promoting the growth of mildew.

So, in lieu of glass, when the painting was finished to my liking, I coated it with three layers of UV-protective, archival spray varnish to protect the surface from water and UV damage.

In the near future I expect to be experimenting with canvas primed specifically for watercolor use, and possibly watercolor-specific primers on standard canvas, to evaluate whether there might be better canvas alternatives more compatible with my painting approach.

I would welcome comments and suggestions from any of my readers who have already explored and found answers to these issues.

Of my five yellows, I found that three are very similar in color but behave differently in use. The yellow ochre, a semi-opaque that tends to muddy my mixes, will not be replenished when it runs out. The similar raw sienna is more transparent and poses less of a mixing problem. It provides a more subtle and slightly warmer underwash than the third similar color, quinacridone gold, which is stronger and more lively for mixing with other colors. New gamboge is also a rich, warm, more intense yellow that is good for mixing. And the bright, cooler Winsor lemon is needed for the lightest, clearest yellows applied over reserved white.

In the brown realm, burnt sienna is my standby, supplemented by burnt umber for my darkest darks (often mixed with indigo) and the more red-toned brown madder, which I also love to pair with indigo. I’ve tried sepia but found that that’s another color I can dispense with.

It has perhaps been a mistake to rely too heavily on the transparent reds—permanent alizarin crimson and permanent rose, more recently supplemented with the lovely quinacridone red and quinacridone magenta. Being transparent, these are fine colors for mixing, but I find the quin red a bit wimpy on its own. I need a good rich red to punch up a painting. A transparent scarlet lake is a new acquisition that I hope will fill the bill. It has a warmer cast than the cooler reds I’ve been using.

Though I have a purple (Winsor violet), I seldom use it, usually preferring to mix my own from the colors used elsewhere in the painting. This helps to maintain a sense of color unity throughout, rather than introducing an unrelated hue.

Of my blues and greens, Payne’s grey (which I consider a very muted blue) is my least used. Cerulean, being opaque, doesn’t blend well with most other paints (though permanent rose transforms it to the startling and lovely hue my father used to call “sky-blue pink.”) Cerulean is fine as a sky color but is largely limited to that use. And I find that the hue is very similar to that of Winsor blue (green shade), which is more amenable for mixing. French ultramarine blue and cobalt blue, on the other hand, are both workhorses and must-haves, as they are both useful for skies, water, shadows, and blending with other colors. The muted indigo (a premixed blue blend that can be subtle despite its powerful pigments) has become a personal favorite and almost indispensable to me. A new acquisition is Manganese Blue Nova, a Holbein paint, which creates a lovely range of greens when mixed in varying proportions with quinacridone gold. Though I haven’t used them as extensively, I enjoy the liveliness and mixability of my Winsor blue (green shade) and Winsor green (blue shade), from which I can achieve a good range of aquas and turquoises when blended together. Their transparency seems to lend them both to successful mixing with other colors. Permanent sap green has become another of my workhorses, as it is a good supplement to palette-mixed greens and is, in itself, easy to vary for great foliage.

I like the clarity and vibrancy of the transparent colors, particularly the quinacridones. And I’m less concerned now than I used to be about whether a pigment stains or can be lifted off the paper. So, as you see, as my tastes and needs change over time, I expect my palette selections will continue to change as well, both adapting to and contributing to the evolution of my work.

It’s difficult to break away from long-established habits to try a different approach to a recurring problem—the problem, in this case, being how to most effectively portray a given subject. As an artist, my approach to solving that problem produces a typical appearance, a “look,” my style. My eyes have grown so accustomed to that trademark look that it requires considerable effort to critique my own work objectively. But I knew that another experienced painter or painting instructor could call attention to areas in which my work could be strengthened and improved.

Similarly, artists may become overly critical of their own work, particularly in areas that differentiate it from other artists’ styles because it is “different.” We often forget that those differences may actually be strengths, contributing to the beauty and uniqueness of our work. Once again, another experienced artist may be able to offer the encouragement we need to continue building in the direction in which we’ve already begun.

The danger, of course, in taking a workshop with an established and admired artist is that we can sacrifice our own style and, either consciously or unconsciously, adopt something of the instructor’s style. It proves difficult to incorporate the information, techniques, and guidance we’re given without sublimating our uniqueness to the newer influences. So my challenge was to glean what I could from this workshop, absorb the enthusiasm prevalent in the group, listen with discernment to commentary and critiques, and then apply it judiciously and appropriately to my own work, in my own style.

As I worked in class, with the same equipment and supplies I use almost daily in the studio, I felt like someone painting with the wrong hand, and the results looked like it. My colors appeared muddy, and the brushwork looked like a beginner’s. I knew better! Yet this occurred because I was trying an approach that was uncomfortable to me. My mind wasn’t used to thinking in those terms, and my hand hadn’t yet been trained to comply with what it was being told to do.

Late in the week I learned that something as simple as a change of equipment can make a difference. I set aside my favorite round brushes and borrowed one of my husband’s angled household trim brushes—heftier and more awkward than a watercolor “flat” brush. It didn’t solve all my difficulties, of course, since it introduced its own new set of problems, but it broke me out of my rut. Suddenly expectations weren’t involved. I didn’t know what this brush could do with watercolor, or whether it would work at all. Watercolor paint was as foreign to this brush as the brush itself was to me. The size was wrong—both length and width. The bristle composition was wrong–nylon filaments rather than natural hair. But because I had no expectation of what it should be able to do, its “wrongness” didn’t frustrate me. It gave me permission to play, to experiment, and to have fun with it to see what it could do.

I won’t continue to use that borrowed brush for watercolor. Nor will I use all the techniques I learned during the workshop. But I have decided to buy a more appropriate flat watercolor brush. And I have already begun applying some of the techniques I learned at the workshop. I can also evaluate my work in a new light.

That’s really what a workshop is all about—breaking out of our ruts to discover what else might be possible beyond the tried and true.

The exhibit of more than 150 pieces included sculpture, acrylics, watercolor, mixed media, photography, painted pottery, glassware, jewelry, and textile art in several forms.

Participating members took turns manning the room and talking with community residents who dropped in to see the exhibit, which had been advertised through the community newsletter and email notices.

As well as viewing the artwork and purchasing some of what appealed to them, a number of residents took the opportunity to sign up for classes or to become members of the AVA themselves.

Was the exhibit a success? You bet!

Will we do it again? Possibly; the jury’s still out.

The Association of Verandah Artists (AVA) has decided to hold its first art exhibit to acquaint the community with our availability as a resource and with our members and whatever artwork each of us wishes to show. As president of the recently organized group, it falls to me to plan, organize, and … well … pull it off.

Admittedly, I don’t face a lot of the issues that some organizers would. Verandah is a gated community with a clubhouse and established security. Participation will be limited to AVA members. As an organization promoting encouragement, education, and support among both novices and more established artists within the community, and with the stated purpose of the exhibit being to acquaint the community with our existence, focus will be more on variety than on quality of artwork. Therefore, we won’t have to institute a jurying process.

But how many members will participate? With snowbirds just returning to their Verandah perches, it’s difficult to estimate. How many fields of art will be represented? Probably fewer than the number of participants. How our various media (paintings, sculpture, photography, and possibly more) should best be displayed becomes a game of “What If?”

At least after working around wedding parties, dinners, and more, our venue has been booked: “No problem.” The dates, again after working around wedding parties, dinners, and more, are set: “No problem.” However, there is virtually no wall space available to hang paintings. Now, that is a big problem. Can we beg, borrow, or build movable walls to accommodate our hanging pieces? We can certainly try. I began canvassing members and recruiting assistants to help with both ideas and people-power. Meanwhile, I continue lining up participants and artwork.

Will it fly? Can I pull it off? Check back in a couple weeks to find out.

One day I picked up a moon shell, at first glance round and gray, rather undistinguished and dull. But a closer look drew me into its vortex. There I discovered colors and textures and understated line that cried out to me to paint them.

In trying to categorize my finished painting, “Eye of the Moon” (#110805), no established category seemed to fit. What was it? A still-life? An animal? An abstract? But then, … does the category even matter? It is what it is, and that is open to the viewer’s interpretation. So I’m calling it an abstract, though it is actually merely a loosely rendered depiction of an actual form.

The question is less “What is it?” than “What is it to you?” And that’s part of what art is about – allowing our eyes to see the unexpected and our minds to read the unexpected into what we see.

The fact is that, though I have been to Venice numerous times and have depicted that city by using images of the boats encountered throughout its canals, I have never actually taken that quintessential gondola ride myself. So to retell my own travel tales, I often seek out less-anticipated images.

In Venice, these include the buildings, eroded by the ever-present effects of sea water; working boats in all their various forms; statuary, bold and bare in the open campos, or moss-covered in shaded seclusion; leashed pets who are sure this island domain is theirs and theirs alone; bridges that arch and turn, leading usually from via to via, but sometimes into a private door or window; and people who look comfortably “at home” … or out of place. The unexpected can be enlightening.

Icons do have their place, by bringing to mind a general recollection of a city. But non-iconic images relate specific experiences unique to my own travels. They speak to other viewers, as well, who want to remember … or imagine … more than the sights and experiences common to the everyday tourist.

In a shady memorial park in Venice, the lady depicted above in “Standing Sentinel” (#110706) has stood watch, season upon season, through unnumbered generations. Her moss-cloaked form blends with the foliage surrounding her until she has become a part of the land herself. I discovered her one day when exploring some of the less traveled byways of the city. Since then, she and the memorial park are on our must-do list whenever we visit Venice.