musings from the studio and beyond ~
dawn chandler’s reflections on art and life. . . .
how vermont trees lead back to new mexico sky
When I set out last year to walk across Vermont, one of my plans was to create a body of paintings based on my hike. They would be in the style of my “textual landscapes’ where I combine language (text) with semi-abstract landscape elements. The text might come from my Long Trail diary. If I were lucky, maybe I could even secure a 2016 residency at the Vermont Studio Center in Johnson, VT, and develop these paintings there, just a few miles from The Trail.
So much of last year was spend getting ready for my Long Trail hike. Hours and miles of spring and summer getting my body used to walking with weight; still more hours researching, planning, gathering and testing supplies and food and equipment. Painting focus was withdrawn. When I was able to paint in my studio, I worked small: 6” x 6” and 6” x 12” and 8” x 8” — panels small enough for me to get my head around in short bursts of time. Small enough, too, to hold in my hand and not take up too much space as piles of food and gear expanded from the closet tucked under the stairs and out into my studio. Rarely during this time did I finish a painting; mostly, they were incomplete.
In late summer as I packed up my gear and readied for my journey, one of my last actions at home before heading off to Vermont was cleaning my studio: I put away all the backpacking gear I was not taking, tidied table tops, arranged pens and brushes and paints and panels so that all of these would be in good order when I returned seven weeks later. And all of those unfinished paintings I hung on the wall in a neat grid.
And then deep into the Vermont woods I went.
You who are well acquainted with New England mountains will laugh, but here’s what I didn’t really grasp about Vermont until I attempted to walk across it:
Vermont is 80% wooded.
The Long Trail then is, as one fellow Trail veteran put it, “A long walk through the trees.”
Even the mountain tops!
This was a surprise to me. To slog up…. up…. up…. up…. and… finally… reach.. .the… summit… and… look out… and… see..
TREES!
I am so entirely conditioned and spoiled by the trails of New Mexico and Colorado, where, for the most part if you hike up a mountain, when you reach the top, you’re rewarded with a BIG VISTA PAYOFF.
But not in Vermont. At least not on most of the mountains in the first 174 miles of The Long Trail.*
Some of the peaks have fire towers. Others have ski areas, where swaths of trees have been cleared to make ski runs. In fact, if ever I was able to get a sweeping view of the landscape around me, it usually was from the summit of a ski area.
Afternoon view from the Glastonbury Mountain fire tower
. . . surrounded by sky.
Nearly every painting in my studio seemed to be of sky. Even those tiny unfinished 6” x 6” panels expressed B I G expansive S K Y.
It nearly knocked me over the abundance of sky — especially BIG BLUE SKY — in my studio.
And what I realized then is that even though I had just walked through the forest, I wasn’t ready to paint it.
Rather, I was ready to paint the sky. Hungry to paint it.
And so I set about doing just that: finishing all those little panels I had started last spring.
I do still plan on creating that series on the Vermont woods.
But those paintings are going to have to wait until I finish walking that last 100 miles through the trees.
Meanwhile, I’ve found my path to the sky.
feel winged ~ oil and mixed media ~ 24″ x 48″
your journey ~ oil and mixed media ~ 24″ x 24″
see and stand in awe ~ oil and mixed media ~ 24″ x 24″
we were speaking of summer ~ oil and mixed media ~ 24″ x 48″
i learned how awesome nature is ~ oil and mixed media ~ 10″ x 20″
how a landscape painting evolves
It’s always a little amazing to me how a landscape painting evolves. Even though I’m intimately aware of the stages, it still surprises me every time when, in the end, I have something I can actually recognize and identify. Between the first dabs of paint and my final, victorious signature, there’s a whole lot of mess and doubt and wonder. Yet almost in spite of myself, in the end somehow it all comes together.
Here are the steps of a plein air painting I did last week out at the Galisteo Basin — a beautiful sweep of southwestern beauty about 15 miles south of Santa Fe. Midweek I drove out just after sunrise. ‘Took the Pup for a nice little hike, then from the front seat of my car, found a good vantage point to observe a sweet vista of fast moving clouds and endlessly shifting light.
[Apologies for some of the awkwardly angled photos, but it’s a bit cramped in my car, and my focus, of course, was on painting, not so much on getting well composed-photos. Hopefully they’re good enough to get a sense of the painting process, at least.]
My palette, clockwise from the bottom left:
— windsor green (intensely strong; I’ll use this very minimally)
— green* mixed with ultramarine blue and hansa yellow (I’ll mix a lot more of this before I’m done)
— ultramarine blue (upper left corner)
— purple* mixed ultramarine blue and alizarin crimson
— alizarin crimson
— a bit of cadmium red light
— cadmium orange (this is to save time. I can get a color very close to this by simply mixing cadmium red light with hansa yellow, but I had a tube of cad orange, so I’m using it.)
— hansa yellow
— titanium white (I’m always amazed when plein air painting how much white I consume. Tons of it).
*If I think of it, I like to mix these colors in my studio, so as to save time once I’m out in the field, as the light and colors can change so quickly.
This is a more varied palette than I usually use in the field. Often I aim to use a “minimal palette” of just 4 colors — ultramarine blue, alizarin crimson, hansa yellow and titanium white. But I’ve been wanting to play with a bit more variety of colors, so have added a couple more.
Below, some of the brushes I used today. The largest one is a #6 “bright” — essentially a flat, compact brush with the toe end of the bristles forming a straight edge, and the belly of the brush about 1/2″ wide.
Note the colors mixed on the palette. At this point I was working on the lightest elements of the painting, namely the sky and highlights of the grasses — but that’s jumping ahead.
The first step in my creation of a traditional landscape painting is done back in the studio, where I stain the panel a warm orange-brown. I do this partly because the white surface is intimidating in its purity and brightness. More important, I do it because so much of my New Mexico landscapes are made up of blue (sky). Orange is the opposite of blue; they are compliments. So when I paint blue sky over orange, the orange makes the blue sing with vibrancy. Moreover, staining the panel orange-brown adds warmth and cohesion to the overall painting, as little flecks of it will appear here and there in the final painting.
Out in the field though, my first step after arranging my gear is to do a quick loose sketch to organize my perception into a composition. Note how I’m holding the pencil — this helps keep my marks loose and gestural, without getting caught up in needling details.
Then, I figure out where the “darkest darks” are, and block those in with the darkest mixture I can muster — some variation of my darkest paints all mixed together — usually ultramarine blue mixed with alizarin crimson mixed with windsor green with a touch of yellow
Next, I block in the “lightest lights” — in this case the dry winter grasses radiant with sunlight and also the far distant sky — then on to the distant mesas, trying to capture that certain shade of faraway green.
Incidentally, this business of blocking in the “darkest darks” first followed by the “lightest lights” I picked up from master painter Kevin MacPherson’s excellent book Fill Your Oil Paintings with Light and Color.
Then onto the sky. When I started this painting, the sky overhead was consumed in a massive grey cloud bank. All the while I was painting it was churning:
Punching in some blue to the sky. Already that massive cloud had lightened and is starting to change shape and break up:
Adding some color to the foreground, including the road.
A wad of paper towel is as important a tool for me as a brush. I used it to pick up some of the paint in the cloud bank and now here, to soften the strokes in the foreground:
Now to go in with green, and start adding a sense of the light hitting the junipers. I always find this challenging. I’ve learned that it really helps when you lay the darks down first, then “paint to the light.” For some reason that works much better than going the opposite direction of light -> dark.
Note the difference in overall color between the image above — where direct sunlight is hitting my easel — and the image below, where a cloud has moved in. Notice a difference?
The one above has the glare of bright sunlight as well as a harsh shadow from the car window frame.
In the image below — where my whole easel in in shadow — the overall painting is much, much cooler and bluer.
Which is the true color? That in the sunlight or that in the shadow?
Therein lies the challenge of painting en plein air.
Softening some of the shadows and adding a few highlights and a little more detail:
The clouds have continued to change; below, I update them with a little more shadow and highlights.
The mid-ground looks a little too smooth, so I add some quick marks to suggest cholla cacti, which are abundant out here.
Deem it finished and scrawl my signature with a pencil, etching it into the wet paint.
Total time: about 40 minutes, give or take, which includes occasional interruptions from someone in the back seat.
And yes — this painting is for sale. 🙂 Buy it here — though note it won’t be ready to be shipped for a few weeks yet, to allow the paint to dry fully.
jumping off and leaping in
I guess it was my turn.
My turn to have a crappy week…or two.
Let’s face it: I lead a pretty charmed life. I’m self-employed doing what I love; I’m active and in good health (I haven’t had a cold in five years); I’m reasonably financially secure; I live in desired solitude in a beautiful, soulful part of the world . I have no dependents, so I’m able to wake up quietly each morning and make each day my own. I’m blessed with a Good Man, a Good Pup, a big circle of friends, and come from a family that I’m infinitely proud and fond of. My “problems” are minuscule to nonexistent compared to what some people have to deal with, maybe even most people. In general, I believe in the power of a positive outlook on Life and therefore strive to make the most of what comes my way, so maybe that’s helped to bring grace to my life. Who knows.
Having a positive outlook though has been harder to maintain these past couple of weeks.
Mid-February I returned home from a midwinter trip with the plan of immersing myself in my studio. My calendar was wide open and I could spend two whole weeks with no distraction. I even had it on my calendar: A block of days with STUDIO written in bold across each day.
Wilson Pupster a bit groggy after paw surgery
Yet within 24 hours of returning from my travels, my Pup needed surgery. Within 24 hours of that, my utility closet—home to my hot water heater and furnace—in my kitchen started flooding with water, as did my neighbor’s (we share a wall). Now we are going into week three of mold eradication and repair.
This, of course, was the perfect time for the “check engine” light of my car to come on.
And what better time to get bulldozed by one helluva nasty head cold—my first in half a decade?
Couple all of this with the nauseating political shenanigans going on in our country and it was all I could do to crawl out of bed this past Monday morning.
Having had to vacate my place while the mold work was being done, I had camped out for several days at My Good Man’s place in ABQ, where I mainly coughed and sniffled and whimpered through sleepless nights while phlegm slugged down the back of my throat and my head expanded within the clamp of a vice grip. Exhausted, frustrated and a bit disgusted with myself as well as the world, Monday morning came and I didn’t feel particularly grateful for the “extra” day of February.
A message in my InBox from Seth Godin reminded me it was “Leap Day,” and the importance of taking leaps in one’s life and one’s career.
Whatever.
I shuffled along hacking and packing up my things. Arranging stuff in my car I shoved aside my massive LLBean canvas tote containing my plein air paint kit. I’ve been hauling it around all winter, thinking I might pull over somewhere here or there and knock out a quick painting.
So far?
Nothing.
I haven’t done a single plein air painting since August.
The voice that put the kit in my car weeks ago had said ‘get to it’ while another voice heavy with laziness countered every time with ….you don’t have time…it’s too cold….wait until spring….there’ll be more color…
In other words, put it off.
UGH. My head was pounding. I was in no mood to hit the highway and drive I-25 home to Santa Fe during Monday morning rush hour.
But Seth’s words nagged at me:
Leaping powers innovation, it is the engine….of a thrilling and generous life.
Of course, you can (and should) be leaping regularly. Like bathing, leaping is a practice, something that never gets old, and is best done repeatedly.
And it occurred to me, I should take the back way home….and paint along the way.
Screw waiting until spring. I should just do it. Leap in now.
The “back way home” is Route 14 along the historic and storied Turquoise Trail . I don’t know why I hardly ever go that route. I suppose because it’s a little slower and so a little longer. It’s also a whole lot more pretty and interesting than the Interstate, and has hardly any traffic this time of year. And—AND—there’s not one but TWO decent coffee stops: one in the village of Cedar Crest and one in the funky art hamlet of Madrid.
My Pup and I piled into my car and I drove.
An hour later as I sat sipping good coffee and twirling my brushes, my Pup asleep near me in the back of my car, the morning sunlight of a weirdly mild February warming us both along this peaceful stretch of New Mexico blue highway, all concern of my “problems” evaporated.
And I thought why the hell don’t I do this more often?
Too often I resist the urge to go out and paint en plein air because…. because…. because…. I don’t know why.
best to let sleeping dogs lie….
Because it’s a little bit of a hassle?
Because it involves time? a little bit of planning? and the arrangement of my stuff and inevitably getting paint all over me and my hands and just about everything I look at?
Because it’s actually really kind of fun and so doesn’t feel like work, and I’m constantly beating myself that I need to be working?
But that makes no sense because ALL the art-making I do—whether plein air or in my studio—is pretty much fun.
Bottom line?
ALL lame.
I think mainly it just comes down to making the decision to do it, to take the leap. To plan ahead, get all your gear together in advance and get in your car and drive. And then pull over, pull out your paint box, nuzzle your pooch, take a swig of coffee and leap into painting.
‘leap day along the turquoise trail’ ~ by dawn chandler ~ en plein air oil on panel ~ 8 x 10 inches
And that’s exactly what I decided to do two days later, on the 85th anniversary of my dear late father’s birth: To do it, to take the leap. To plan ahead, get all my gear together and get in my car and drive. And then pull over, pull out my paint box, nuzzle my pooch, take a swig of coffee and leap into painting. For what better way to honor my father, who loved art and the outdoors and who provided for me to be an artist. My Dad whose own life led directly to my charmed life—head colds and mold and car repairs and paw surgeries notwithstanding.
“midwinter ~ lamy, new mexico” ~ by dawn chandler ~ en plein air oil on panel ~ 8 x 10 inches
finding grounding in the new year
I never would have thought I’d find grounding in the sky; in flight.
This new year loomed for me with a feeling of. . . . . . lack of focus? Imbalance?
My birthday is lost in the week between Christmas and New Year’s—a weird time when I always feel kind of in limbo, what with a sort of post-Christmas deflation coupled with contemplation about the year’s end, and uncertainty of what the new year may bring.
This winter in particular, coming onto my 51st birthday and flipping through my new 2016 calendar, I felt oddly vulnerable by the blank pages, the lack of plans. I felt a little lost in the shadow of such big accomplishments and huge travel last year. In a rare wave of uncertainty, I felt unsure where to place my focus, both in my studio and really kind of life in general. This wasn’t a sharp uncertainty, but more a kind of sluggishness.
We—[My Good Man and I]—had plans to travel over my birthday and New Year’s, but the voice of frugality (which sounded uncannily similar to my dear late mother’s) whispered to me, and so with much disappointment I cancelled those plans.
But I like doing something special on my birthday, to make the day stand out. And so, Plan B:
We rose in the wee hours of the morning on My Day and headed down to the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge
, some 100 miles south of Albuquerque. Established in 1939 and comprising some 57,000+ acres on either side of the Rio Grande south of Socorro, ‘The Bosque’ is the wintering ground of thousands of migratory birds, especially snow geese and sandhill cranes.
I like birds, and always have. My mother used to feed them back in our New Jersey home with an almost religious fervor. If ever there were a question of who to feed first during a blizzard—her own children or the birds—she very well may have chosen the birds (fortunately for us her loyalty was rarely tested on this). She tended several feeders in our yard, including a beautifully crafted wooden one that sat front and center in a dining room window—a handmade gift from my father in the early years of their marriage. Nearly every meal of my childhood was spent in the company of birds dining on the other side of a thin pane of glass or veil of screen.
But I don’t think I ever really saw birds until a few weeks ago when the sandhill cranes of the Bosque glided into my awareness.
And now I’m infatuated.
I don’t know, but it was as though there was this tiny shadowed corner of my being that I didn’t even know was there, but when I witnessed these graceful, elegant birds soaring, gliding, cooing and flying close overhead, that shadowed corner in me suddenly became illuminated with pure joy.
And so we returned in January, again…and again…and again, making a total of five excursion to the Bosque, two by first light, three by last.
Because all I can think about now are birds—about cranes especially—and their movements and their staggering journeys.
4,000 miles.
That’s how far the sandhill cranes will travel this spring.
Think about that.
From New Mexico to the northern most reaches of Alaska and Canada. Some even fly from Mexico to Siberia. SIBERIA!
They can live 20 years or more in the wild.
They mate for life.
And in some western states in the US, it’s legal to kill them for sport.
~
~ ~
I’m kidding, right?
~ ~
~
I wish I were.
~
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The first book I read this year is Sandhill and Whooping Cranes: Ancient Voices Over America’s Wetlands, by Paul A. Johnsgard. This paragraph—like every crane I’ve had the joy of observing—takes my breath away:
Considering the incredible hardships that lesser sandhill cranes must undergo to complete their epic spring migrations, to raise chicks under the most severe environmental conditions, and to accompany them back [thousands of miles] to traditional winter grounds while enduring a threat of gunfire from Alaska to the southern United States or Mexico, one must wonder about the humanity of people who think that killing cranes can possibly be sporting.
Well, I’m bringing those cranes who have been shot back to life, if only with paper; if only with paint.
The cranes and snow geese and hawks and so many winged spirits of The Bosque are converging in great flocks in my studio, some in flicks and flecks of paint, some in inky calligraphic swirls, still others in folds and creases.
‘bosque morning rising’ ~ by dawn chandler ~ oil on panel ~ 12″ x 24″
‘finding community’ ~ by dawn chandler ~ mixed media on panel ~ 6″ x 12″
‘our spirits gliding’ ~ by dawn chandler ~ mixed media on panel ~ 6″ x 12″
‘evening dawns’ ~ by dawn chandler ~ mixed media on panel ~ 6″ x 12″
‘as they soar’ ~ by dawn chandler ~ mixed media on panel ~ 6″ x 12″
But of all the birds I’ve observed this winter, it’s the cranes who keep haunting me. . . .
Many cultures revere the crane as a symbol of good fortune, prosperity and peace. And yet the peace I find when I think about and observe these majestic beings leads me to understand that they are more than creatures, more than a symbol.They are peace in motion. And they’re moving across the pages of my calendar, the pages of my art, deep into my new year.
I can hardly wait until November, when they’ll soar back to New Mexico, grounding me again.
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To see more of my photos of the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge, check out my Instagram account at instagram.com/taosdawn/ as well recent posts at the Travel New Mexico instagram account at instagram.com/travelnewmexico/
prejudice and creative epiphany at the age of 13
I found myself kind of quiet the day I learned that David Bowie had died. Not that I’m ever really very moved by the lives and deaths of celebrities. Still, each is a reminder of the coming end to our own lives and therefore a reminder to “take kindly the counsel of the years….”
I wasn’t ever a big Bowie fan—he simply wasn’t on my radar very much. When I was a pre-teen and painfully unsure of myself and just about 
everything else, I did feel pretty sure that David Bowie was some sort of freak. I was confused by him and his outrageous costumes, his ambiguous sexuality. I didn’t know what to make of him, didn’t understand him. So at a pretty young age I wrote him off as someone not worth bothering with. I dismissed him as odd and with that dismissal I narrowed my mind.
But when I was on the brink of 14, David Bowie brought me an epiphany.
It was Christmas 1977 and Bing Crosby—one of my mother’s favorites—was having a Christmas show on TV. The special guest on Bing Crosby’s show was David Bowie.
Wait.
What?
There he was: Trim. Handsome. Downright respectable looking in his dark suit. And even though 
he was speaking a script, he seemed gentle. Kind. Soft-spoken.
And then he sang. . . . in that duet. . . . with Bing Crosby . . . I was. . . . I was . . . s t u n n e d.
His voice was b e a u t i f u l .
I was in awe.
And right then and there I had an appreciation and respect for David Bowie.
This brings to mind, a movie I saw some years ago at the Taos Film Festival. It was about a likable young man in his 20s who was an artist, struggling for expression with big bold abstract paintings. Somehow—likely through a minor traffic offense, though I don’t remember the details —he meets and falls in love with a lovely young woman who is a traffic cop. They seem completely different people—opposites attract, especially on film—but love each other. Throughout their relationship, he struggles with his abstract paintings, working into the wee hours of mornings, trying to express and share something inside him. But the going is rough in his studio, and he has many frustrations and failures. She’s confused by his paintings, and doesn’t like them. Tension mounts as it becomes more and more clear that she doesn’t “get” his art, but more importantly, that she doesn’t respect him as an artist; she thinks he’s a farce. Their relationship ends with an impassioned argument and his moving out.
And then she finds his sketchbook—something she’s never seen before. And when she opens it, she is breathless, for there revealed to her are the most beautiful, tender, exquisitely drawn portraits of her, sketched all those nights while she slept.
Of course what she realizes then is that he is not a farce at all. That he is more than capable of creating extraordinarily sensitive realistic renderings—but that he’s choosing not to right now, because another creative voice is calling him, demanding expression. He’s been trying to run with it—trying to honor it, and it’s proving challenging.
Those who’ve known me well know that for most of my art career (which means pretty much all of my adulthood) I’ve been drawn to at least two styles of art-making: “traditional” painting, which usually manifests as straight-forward recognizable landscape painting, and much more abstract expressions. For years and years I felt conflicted between the two. As though having two—(and sometimes even more)—creative voices made me some kind of freak and that really in order to be a “serious” artist I probably needed to pick one style, and make that my singular voice.
And yet that’s not what I learned that winter night of my 13th year, listening to David Bowie sing a holiday duet with Bing Crosby. What I learned then—and what I sometimes have failed to remember—is that most artists are decidedly not singular in their creative voice. Not only that, but this: That just because one chooses one form of expression, doesn’t mean they aren’t capable or desirous of others. It’s just that they have chosen—are compelled—to express themselves in this certain way now because this is the way that allows them to express what they need to express in this moment of creation. They’re not freaks, they’re just creative chameleons, deeply attuned to listening and honoring the voice(s) of their muse.
It’s why an artist named Pablo Picasso painted like this:
And later like this:
guernica ~ oil ~ by pablo picasso
Why an artist like Gerhart Richter has painted like this:
skull ~ oil ~ by gerhard richter
And and also like this:
6 january 90 (haus) ~ mixed media ~ by gerhard richter
It’s why some days I paint like this:
bosque del apache sunrise, ii ~ oil on panel ~ 12″ x 16′ ~ by dawn chandler
And other days like this:
bosque del apache winter, reconsidered ~ mixed media on paper mounted on panel ~ 6″ x 12″ ~ by dawn chandler
And it’s why I have a small portrait of David Bowie on my studio wall—to remind me that being a creative chameleon is a good and honorable thing.
