Tips and Techniques: The Perfect Black

For artists, like me, who lean to the Caravaggistic in lighting, the phenomenon of the perfect “black” for a mood-setter within a painting, can be a bit of a pigment puzzler.  While many artists have a favorite black as part of their palette, I purposefully pass by the black section of the paint tube world—perhaps it’s the loyal watercolorist in me—but I just don’t accept the idea that black is simply #000000—zero color.  In my book, black is as rich and full as any other color, and as deeply reflective as white can be.

In 2006 while working on the concept for my first truly tenebristically lit painting, A Lamp Unto My Feet (picture below), I found myself checking out copious works on color theory from the library, hunting opinions from the Renaissance to the present for “the perfect black"--the ideal pigment to envelop the viewer in a richly darkened background.  I didn’t want a glossy black, or a matte black, or a non-colorfast black, or a brittle black--the list goes on.  After much reading, however, I still felt wary of one cure-all black pigment.  The result:  The genesis of a Studio secret:

Mix equal parts raw umber and Payne’s gray, and you’ll have a deliciously lush “black” every time—“perfect” for base coats of black, such as that which I needed for A Lamp Unto My Feet.  (This particular mixture is pictured, above, from the time in 2010 when I was painting Go Forth To Meet The Bridegroom.)

Even this blend, however, isn’t complete on its own.  True to form, my father provided the other part of the “perfect black” recipe: glaze, glaze, glaze.  No black is truly perfect at our Studio without glazes of pure color—usually based on the other elements in the painting, but often comprising transparent glazes of ultramarine blue, quinacridone rose, or olive green—and generally all three.  Tried for years in painting after painting, it's a tried and true recipe--my own "perfect black" ever since.

A Lamp Unto My Feet by Elspeth Young; All Rights Reserved

The Spirit that moves artistic endeavor

By Al R. Young

Late one Saturday evening, after a long and intense week of painting, I came across these images while browsing through the Studios' archive. As first one and then another of these pictures filled the screen, I found myself instantly captivated and rejuvenated as I stepped into the miniature worlds inside each frame and found myself surrounded by nameless shapes and infinite hues.

The few minutes I spent looking at these pictures were as restorative as a stroll in the park. Even though I had spent a week rendering such things by means of paint blobs at the end of a brush, I wasn't even loathe to muse upon the techniques and phases by which I would approach the task of painting these images. I knew, of course, I would not paint them, but not because I was tired: I simply had other things to paint, more suited to the kind of visual stories I like to tell.

I never cease to be amazed at the resilience of that Spirit that moves artistic endeavor. It never tires. I do, but it doesn't. Somehow, no matter how many thousands and thousands of brushstrokes will be involved in even the tiniest painting, that Spirit embarks with boundless enthusiasm and remains undaunted. It never flinches at the number and complexities of problems encountered along the way.

No matter how much I plan and prepare, there always comes a point at which that Spirit is ready to begin or re-commence, and, at that point, it does not matter how much or how little I know about what lies ahead: It is simply time to be up and doing, and no other course of action or inaction will suffice. And, like the few minutes I spent lost in wonder with these simple images, that Spirit is also the Spirit that provides beauty everywhere, and is just as much about rest and renewal as it is about striving.

Photograph by Ashton Young

Photograph by Ashton Young

Photograph by Ashton Young

9th Anniversary of the Women of the Bible Collection

By Elspeth Young

John Steinbeck once said:  "We do not take a trip; a trip takes us." Throughout the years in which I have been a professional artist, I have found that every painting is a “trip,” and that each artistic endeavor is an exodus to new realms of understanding, delight, challenge, and opportunity.

Pencil study for Lydia (2003) by Elspeth Young

Today commemorates the ninth anniversary of the beginning of the Women of the Bible Project—a collection of oil paintings celebrating women of the Old and New Testaments.  Among the many things I've discovered on this particular artistic journey is how much of the extraordinary can be found in the every-day.

One of the most delightful parts of each painting is the hunt for the perfect model.  While Vogue and Cover Girl search for models whose perfection lies in an unattainable airbrushed and digital flawlessness, my search for perfection has been a search for the soul within.  At the outset of this project, I decided that I wanted to paint ordinary women from all walks of life and circumstances—not surreal figments of my imagination.  At the time, I even wrote that the object of my search was to find “real people with real flaws and defects that, I think, make them all the more beautiful . . . real people with real struggles and real heroism.”  In casting a painting, I search for beauty both at and under the surface; a countenance bright with the luminescence of that which is inherently divine in everyone.

I spent countless happy hours hidden away on the 5th floor of a university library, surrounded by copious volumes and skinny paperbacks filled with insights into the manners and customs of Biblical peoples.  With field sketchbook in hand, I carefully copied everything I could find and began creating a collection of notes, sketches, and musings.  I pored over face after face among the brilliant photo essays to be found in National Geographic — a gallery rich in stories of the kind of real-life courage I wanted to portray in my paintings.  My hope was to learn enough from arm-chair travel to prepare me for the daunting task of finding the same story etched in the faces of people who lived nearby.

My first model resulted from a visit with Dr. Camille Fronk Olson, professor of ancient scripture at Brigham Young University and the mentor who, along with my parents, first encouraged me to paint women in the scriptures.  As we looked through the student photographs among her class rolls for that semester, we came upon an ethnically-featured, dark-eyed freshman named Amy.

She was surprised at my request when Dr. Olson asked her about modeling for a painting, but was wonderfully willing to accept the part of Shiphrah—the Hebrew midwife who partnered with Puah in saving infant Hebrew males from Pharoah's decreed genocide. As it turned out, I could not have asked for a better model.

On February 1, 2003, with camera and inexperience in hand, I snapped 74 pictures of Amy, draped in costume and "playing pretend"—as she put it.  She was not only generous with her time, but with her own insights into the subject.  Since that first photo shoot, I have learned that as models step into the story they not only express their empathy and understanding by their countenance, but by their actions, which, of course, lends an indispensable realism to the way the figure(s) are posed.

Study for Shiphrah (2003)

Many pencil and oil sketches, pastel drawings, and conceptualization-hours later, I commenced and then completed my first oil painting in the project—The Protector—only the fifth oil painting I had ever painted.

As part of this commemoration of the anniversary of the Women of the Bible Collection, I recently interviewed Amy—now a university graduate, wonderful wife, and capable mother of two—regarding her experience as a model nine years ago, and how her involvement in the painting might have influenced her perceptions of herself and the scriptures, as well as any other impact on her life's experiences.

Perhaps more remarkable to me than anything else was the influence of Shiprah and Puah's story on Amy's own experiences in childbearing.  Inspired by these noble, God-fearing midwives, Amy chose midwives to deliver her own little ones.  "I think," she said, "that I became more convinced of the love that women can show for each other in that especially difficult time because of this story from scripture."  She also said she was "amazed at the strength of these women, and their loving compassion for the Hebrew mothers; all the while they needed to take care of their own needs and protect themselves from the hand of Pharaoh. I love to think of all that we can accomplish if the Lord is on our side."

Another influence on Amy's life has been those times when people have recognized her as the model for the painting.  “I’ve been told my whole life," she said, "that I look Middle Eastern,but I didn’t expect my professor to pull me aside, and say that’s how I looked, and, ‘Oh, would I like to model for some paintings?’  It sure took me by surprise that day!”


Amy also said that “after the book [Women of the Old Testament (2009), featuring The Protector] was published, my women’s church organization held an evening meeting to talk about a few of the women mentioned in the book.  Shiphrah was one of the featured segments.  I blushed, and quietly leaned over to the woman seated next to me and whispered, ‘That's me.’”

Unsure of Amy's meaning, the woman supposed that Amy felt a particular affinity for Shiphrah’s character.  "No,” said Amy, “that's really me."  A closer look at Amy, and the painting, and the woman's hand shot up and she exclaimed, "We have the model right here!"

Amy was only the first of many to be surprised by my request that they model for a painting.  “Are you sure you want me?” has been a strangely typical response because very few people realize just how extraordinary they really are.  I have truly found that, "We have the model right here!" in the humble, devoted women we meet every day.

The circle of creativity

By Al R. Young

Some time ago, I received an inquiry from someone asking about the business end of being a full-time artist. The first question on the list asked how to go about selling one's artwork without "taking too much time away from the creative process."  The question is surely high on the list of any artist who  "turns professional," and if it isn't, it will be.

A lifetime of endeavor can be devoted to answering the question, but the following excerpt from my attempt to reply may be useful as a beginning:

Over the years, I have had to persevere in re-defining "creativity" so that my personal definition includes work involved in delivering originals and reproductions to the public. That effort really does take a very great amount of time away from what we usually think of as creativity. And the only way I know of to deal with that "lost time" is to define creativity in such a way as to include all of the "non-creative" work.


As a professional artist I am not simply creating when I paint. I am creating whenever I do anything that helps establish and further the cause of the studio. That means that taking out the garbage is as much a part of my work as painting, sewing costumes, bookkeeping, filing, washing the windows, or writing a blog post.


Having a studio is not simply having a place to paint or draw, but a place where the necessary support services cluster around what is typically thought of as the creation of artwork.


If the definition of "creating artwork" were thought of as a circle, and everything inside the circle is what the artist does to create it and everything outside the circle is what the artist depends on someone else to do, then the artist must consider everything inside the circle to be part of his or her creative endeavor; otherwise, the cognitive dissonance involved in spending time "away" from painting, drawing, etc., can be overwhelming. Of course, not everything inside the circle requires the same amount of time, but, given that distinction, everything inside the circle is of equal importance.

Like the top, middle window in the following photograph, the business end of studio art may neither look nor feel like all the other facets of an artist's endeavors, but it is essential to the symmetry of the whole.

Photograph by Ashton Young

Bracket for the A-frame Easel

By Al R. Young

Because the angle at which the A-frame Easel holds a panel cannot be changed, we recently built a bracket that adds this functionality to the basic easel.  The sides of the easel hold panels at an angle of 76 degrees; however, Elspeth frequently prefers to paint with the panel at or near a 90-degree angle.

This photograph shows the bracket in use (at the top of the panel).

Photograph A

With the panel resting on the ledge, a C-clamp holds the bracket in place so that its arm extends over the top of the painting.


The following photograph shows a close-up of the front of the bracket.

Photograph B

Photograph C shows the bracket from the side and designates its three pieces:  (a) arm, (b) brace, (c) stop-block.  As shown in Photograph B, a C-clamp holds the arm (a) against the center plank of the easel.  Another C-clamp holds the brace (b) against the bottom of the arm.  The stop block (c) is a piece of 2-in. stock also held against the bottom of the arm by a C-clamp.

Photograph C

The arm of the bracket is first secured against the center plank of the easel.  Then the brace is secured to the bottom of the bracket-arm, the panel is placed on the ledge of the easel, the top of the panel leans against the brace, and the stop-block is put in place (but not so close to the surface of the painting as to damage it).

Photograph D shows the 2x2 bracket arm.  The angle at (a) is 76 degrees, which matches the angle of the easel (see Fig. 1 in the A-Frame Easel blog post).

Photograph D

Photograph E presents the front of the brace that attaches under the arm.  The purpose of the brace is to provide a stable backing for the top of the panel during brush work.  The trough, created by the space between the two 1x2s on top of the brace, stabilizes the position of the brace perpendicular to the arm, and therefore parallel with the easel's ledge.  The brace is made of 1x2 and 1x3 stock.  Pieces are glued and nailed, and the small 1x2s are also fastened with grabbers.

Photograph E

31st anniversary of the studio

By Al R. Young 

January 6th is an anniversary at Al Young Studios; the anniversary of my first attempt to set aside and equip a place dedicated to creating artwork. We celebrate the beginning of that ongoing effort because the task of configuring, equipping, maintaining, using, and improving a fine art studio is an amazingly multifaceted and demanding endeavor; at least, it has proven so for us.  It's an endeavor that never ends.

My journal entry for January 6, 1981, says simply:  "This afternoon, I started building a drafting table – which I hope to complete tomorrow."  At the time, pencil drawing was my primary medium, and a drawing table was the largest and most involved piece of equipment I lacked.  I had been drawing for many years, but I did so by "camping out" with my drawing board and tools on a dining table or a desk, on the floor, or wherever I could find a place.

Today, as we take a moment to look back at the beginning of "the studio" part of Al Young Studios, and focus on the fact that from the very outset (as the journal entry says) do-it-yourself has been an important part of "the studio."  I'm convinced that a major part of any artist's life is discovered and attained only by do-it-yourself.

The artistic gift seems to inhere in the ability to see what's missing in the world and to be able to supply the want.  Having these abilities often means that not only must the artist make the missing artifact, but the very tools by which to make the artifact.  Such is the work of creating a studio.

The drawing table mentioned in the journal entry was not only homemade, but made from scraps -- another foreshadowing of the artistic life.  The 2x4s in its base came from the wall that had recently been removed from the garret where I worked as a freelancer.  The tabletop came from surplus remaining from a brother-in-law's restaurant.

The table served very well for many years, but like all custom-made equipment, it has been modified many times to accommodate both artist and projects.  And when I became involved in lithography, the table and accessories changed even more.

The drawing table as it appeared in 2001, having been modified to accommodate not only my drawing technique, but slabs of Bavarian limestone used in lithography.

Creativity and garbage in the Magic Kingdom

By Al R. Young 

I have been to Disneyland only twice: Once, in 1957, as a boy too young to remember much more than fright at the sight of alligators swimming toward our boat for the sole purpose of eating me, followed by water buffalo approaching us in hopes of dessert. The second visit came in 1988 when Nancy and I took Ashton and Elspeth to visit the park while I attended an industry conference nearby.

I was working in an advanced product research group at the time, and having been primed by intensive inquiry into such topics as creativity, user interface design, error handling, etc., my experience at Disneyland once again caught me entirely by surprise: Disneyland is actually a dreadful place to visit.  Imagine saving up precious vacation time to visit a super-crowded place to pay for the privilege of standing in line, enduring heat and glare, noise and -- above all -- garbage.

If anyone were to describe such a place without naming it, and then ask whether I wished to go there, my refusal would originate not in my brain, but my autonomic nervous system. On the other hand, my reflexes would respond enthusiastically at the mere mention of “Disneyland.”

What makes the difference?

The answer: Good design. Of course effective promotion is also important. Cruise lines, for example, seldom advertise itineraries in terms of the low incidence of various disasters and illnesses to which passengers may be exposed; instead, they follow the well known adage: “Sell the sizzle instead of the steak” -- let the aroma and the crackling of juices dripping into the flames beneath the grill play upon the senses, and all the work of selling is done.

The importance of expectation can hardly be overestimated in terms of visitor response to Disneyland or anything else; nevertheless, it is ultimately the experience with the thing desired that matters most. And in terms of our visit to Disneyland, it was the genius inherent in its design that entirely captured my imagination. The imaginative ways in which lines were configured remains a marvel of diversion from the reality of boredom induced by waiting. Noise and everything else are features of the park exploited in one way or another, but, to my mind, the penultimate design achievement focused on garbage.

My fascination began with the realization that no trash was in evidence, and yet almost everyone was eating something, purchasing food, or just finishing a snack. The eating alone would have produced enough used cups, plates, plastic forks, and half-eaten hot dogs to transform the Magic Kingdom into a dump within a couple of days. In thinking about the garbage problem that must have confronted park designers, these possible solutions came to mind:

Fail to recognize the problem

Ignore it

Prevent it

Allow it and remove it

Turn it into an asset

Failure to identify a problem usually results from insufficient homework. Lack of imagination, insufficient experience, too little time, ignorance of the creative process, and other factors can cripple a design project from the outset.

Ignoring a problem is always dangerous, but sometimes the wisest thing to do. Few decisions are more momentous, and require the best wisdom and greatest integrity that can be brought to bear on the situation. Some artifacts or deliverables can be improved over time (iteratively) while other products offer only one chance to “get it right.”

Preventing garbage at Disneyland would have turned a world-class amusement park into something akin to a living room -- not synonymous with magic or fun in my experience.

Alternatively, the design might have sought to constrain eating and drinking to specified areas in order to facilitate trash management. Such an approach could have created things like rules, making trash-handling not only visible, but prominent. Imagine a policing effort, complete with penalties for infractions and rewards for more responsible behavior. Instead of stepping into a magic world where Mary Poppins utters a sentence and clutter magically disappears, visitors would have been confronted with infrastructure. Regardless of what such a park might have offered, its spell would have been broken. Real magic takes care of trash all by itself.

Design activity at this level is informed and responsible, but unimaginative because the original problem remains not only visible, but prominent. Successful design transforms problems into assets, woven into the design so deftly that without them the whole design falls apart.

It seemed to me that two simple things made garbage-handling in the Magic Kingdom truly ingenious:

First, every “elf” with a broom and dust pan wore a polo shirt with Disneyland emblazoned on it. Second, every elf smiled. As a result, wherever trash appeared outside of where it belonged, Disneyland and magic were already on the scene to take care of it. In the real world, smiles are almost never associated with the creation of trash, and whenever an accident occurs, resulting in something to clean up, all the fun stops.

Since my experience at Disneyland, I can't claim to have actually been a better designer, but I believe I've had a clearer idea of what design and development ought to achieve. It's still easy to feel threatened by design problems. It's easy to label a problem as a problem and thus keep it in tact throughout design and implementation.

The name we give to a thing is a declaration of what we intend to do with it, a statement of how we intend to act toward it. For a problem to undergo the transformation that is part of truly creative design, we have to find another name for it. This renaming is the essence of creative design. To achieve it we have to be believing: We have to believe that the design problems we face are not necessarily inimical to our objectives; that they are, instead, assets.

In most cases, the destructive thing about such problems is the way we treat them. We have to believe that solutions will present themselves; that with all the knowledge, imagination, time, labor, and patience we can focus on the task, problems can be transformed. And we have to be open to the probability that really creative solutions will be simple, even inexpensive -- like the cost of a smile and a polo shirt with a logo on it.

Tips and Techniques: To mix, or not to mix . . .

By Elspeth Young

My every-day pigment palette

I can remember, as a small child, eagerly watching my father get out his palette, paint tubes, medium, and palette knives to carefully mix colors for a day of intense painting.  In fact, one of my earliest memories is watching him mix thick oil paints for a wall mural he painted in my bedroom.  I watched from the perch of a stool--with my elbows practically in the paints--while he mixed and matched and mixed again.  I became so intrigued that my long pigtails dipped right into the colors.  (A problem I still battle, now that I have my own paints and palette!)

When the time came for me to try my hand at my own oil painting, I assumed the same strategy of mix first, paint later. It didn't take me long, however, to discover that I had trouble second-guessing both the color mixes required, as well as the actual amounts of paint needed.

Having begun my artistic sojourn as a watercolor artist, I soon realized that my water-coloring habits of mix-on-the-go would quickly control my oil painting habits as well. Satisfied with my homemade alla prima mixing technique, I decided to pour my paint out on the palette and only "mix" with my brush during the painting process--"wasting" (as I thought at the time) none of the precious creative juices on "needless" premeditated mixing: no time or paint wasted. Or so I thought.

Such a mantra was all well and good for small parts of small paintings, but it wasn't long before I realized that my "seamless" strategy was flawed. While I might not waste much paint during a session of glazing or scumbling details, while painting large surface areas of the panel or color patches of a similar hue, I was wasting all sorts of time endlessly mixing and remixing the same color over and over, minute by minute.

So, such became the dilemma at the outset of each painting session:  To Mix, Or Not To Mix? My creative energy seemed to rebel at the idea of having to pre-mix colors, as I had seen my father do.  But then again, my artistic conscience knew that from time to time, I was wasting precious time throughout the painting session when I mixed colors as I went, a particle at a time.

Example of a "mix as you go" palette

After years of experimenting, I've found a very happy, workable medium for my color conundrum: Combine the two processes. When painting a face, or any other texture which reflects a symphony of infinite color temperature changes within a small area, mix as you go--whether you use just your brush in hand, or a small palette knife as well. Allow the very serendipity of such a color strategy to make the hues painted as varied as nature itself. This enables complete versatility with little waste of either time or paint.

Example of a "pre-mix" palette

When, on the other hand, a good deal of the day's efforts will be devoted to a color "block," take the time at the outset of the painting session to premix some helpful hues in the color range perceived--mid-tones, highlights, shadows, and a few variables in between. I often find that under-layers in landscapes, stone surfaces, pottery, and especially fabrics, are best handled by generous dollops of pre-mixed paint, ready for shoveling on to the panel or canvas. This is an effective strategy for all kinds of painting techniques--alla prima, indirect painting, or wet-in-wet techniques.

So the next time you step to your easel, simply assess what you will spend the majority of time painting that day--large areas where paint will be shoveled on with a painting knife, or small intricate glazes softly blended with a breath of brush.  Then mix, or don't mix, accordingly.

(Of course, there are yet more alternatives to these two color mixing strategies.  During my childhood years, I always saw my father pre-mix his colors, but it has been many years now since he has used that process.  Rather than relying on his brush or knife to mix his colors (either before or during each painting session), he now prefers to let his colors of mix themselves, on layer at a time.  Most of the time, he applies color in stages--each color layer is allowed to dry before he glazes new color over the top--a method which allows for a whole world of colors that, quite literally, could not be mixed beforehand.)