How to buy a brush

By Al R. Young 

These are the tenets of our brush-buying:

     Ignore categories
     Buy in person
     Buy quality


Ignore categories

I frequently oil-paint with watercolor brushes.  In fact, I would oil paint with a broom if I thought it would give me the result I wanted.

However, it was not always thus.  For someone who dreaded school every day of the long years of secondary education, lest an unwitting infraction of an unwritten rule result in a trip to the principal's office, the categories in which paint brushes are typically arrayed in art supply inventories implied boundaries not to be breached.

While neither professionals nor serious hobbyists are likely to be hindered by such things, anyone new to the wide world of art supplies might assume that brush categories are part of some greater "right way" of doing things.  And while it's true that in a mass-market-averaging-sort-of-way various brush categories are more or less suited to certain media and techniques, the bottom line (i.e., the greater "right way" of doing things) is simply a matter of "whatever works."


Buy in person

Even though painting is classified as a visual art, that classification focuses on the viewer.  From the artist's standpoint -- at least the standpoint of this artist -- painting is a tactile art.  And the paint brush is the tactile tool by which the artist is engaged.

I buy brushes on the basis of a tactile examination of the tool.  I would like to be able to buy brushes on the Internet, but I have to grasp the brush, make strokes with it in the air, and thumb its bristles.  A brush is the baton by which I conduct the orchestra of thoughts and feelings and substances that join in the music of my painting.

Every characteristic of a brush -- the way the contours of its handle balance weight and weightlessness when joined with hand and eye, the smoothness of the handle's finish, the thickness and responsiveness of its bristles, etc., etc. -- must meet in terms of touch so that the brush is both present and altogether absent, just as the hand becomes an invisible extension of mind and heart (invisible because it becomes one with them, disappearing in the achievement of their purpose).


Buy quality

Quality is best judged by experience with a style or brand of brush.  Price sometimes indicates quality, but not always.  Experiment with brands and styles, and don't be afraid to pay for the privilege.

How do you look when you hold a pencil?

By Al R. Young

This installment of Studio Windows looks in to the studio windows instead of outward through them, but learning how to see with an artist's eye is still the focus.

In school, where words and numbers were infinitely more important than the making and viewing of artworks, I was taught to hold a pencil in a vise-like grip between the thumb and middle finger; the forefinger being placed on the pencil to steady it.  So strict were these requirements that in the hush draped over our first grade classroom the teacher paced up and down between the wooden tables where we strained and bowed our heads above our work, and struck our hands with a wooden ruler if she spied us holding the pencil incorrectly.  With our nerves sharpened to a piercing point, we learned to move the pencil about the paper, making symbols that we didn't even know were pictures.

To draw with a pencil, at least the way I do, I not only sharpen it like a scalpel, but hold it as I was taught at school.  This is the result:

Detail from unfinished pencil drawing
of the Manti Temple

To sketch with a pencil, however, it is usually best to hold the tool under the palm of the hand, and between the thumb and forefingers.  In this arrangement, the vise-like grip of writing or drawing loosens, and the origin of motion naturally moves from wrist, to elbow and shoulder.  The larger radius of motion also usually requires a larger surface on which to work, even a larger space in which to do so.  This is the result:

Detail from a pencil sketch

The way the pencil is held while sketching facilitates visual summary, and significantly affects the mind's view and expression of what it sees.

The way in which a person holds a tool changes what can be done with it, because it changes the way the mind sees, knowing that it must render within the tool's limitations.  Seeing as an artist sees involves groping for visual expression from within the blindness at the end of whatever tool the mind takes up in order to render a visual interpretation of something.

Picking up a brush and thinking pencil-used-to-write or pencil-used-for-math produces a very different result from picking up a brush and thinking something like pencil-used-to-sketch.  (I mention pencil because a pencil is not only one of the first implements we pick up as children, but because the intense training associated with it affects the way we pick up such tools ever after.)

My third-grade teacher (who did not strike our hands with a wooden ruler) taught us art, and because she didn't like to discard all the crayon bits we produced, she took the fragments home, melted them, poured the liquefaction into rectangular bar-molds, let them cool, and brought the larger, chubbier, clunkier crayons back to school to be used up.  Because of their shape and size, we could not hold them in the "pencil manner."

The lesson?  To broaden the way you see, particularly when the tool you use in rendering is too familiar, change the way you hold it.  You might even change the surface on which you draw or paint.  For example, the following is a charcoal sketch on dry joint-compound, troweled onto a panel to suggest the uneven and rugged surface of the daub part of wattle-and-daub.  Drawing in such conditions can help in the discovery of what one's eye and hand are capable of creating -- far beyond the narrow limits of pencil-used-to-write or pencil-used-for-math.

Untitled charcoal sketch of a cityscape

International Competition Features Artists at Al Young Studios

The 9th International Art Competition and exhibit, sponsored by the Church History Museum, will feature three oil paintings from artists of Al Young Studios.  The exhibit opens Friday, March 16, 2012 and lasts through Sunday, October 14, 2012.

The original oil paintings to be included in the exhibition were selected from among 1,156 entries.

I Will Send Their Words Forth (Jacob the Teacher)
by Elspeth Young

A Damsel Came to Hearken (Rhoda)by Ashton Young

The Miracle of Forgiveness
by Al R. Young

"We'll start the war from right here!"

By Al R. Young

As part of the first wave of Allied troops to go ashore at Utah Beach on D-Day, and upon being informed that--because the landing craft had drifted off course, the 8th Infantry Regiment and 70th Tank Battalion were more than a mile from where they were supposed to be--General Ted Roosevelt personally surveyed the unexpected circumstances into which misfortune had thrust him.  He did so while walking with the assistance of a cane and armed only with a pistol.

Having determined that the topography of the area was suitable for the landing of those waiting to follow the initial assault, he returned to the troops waiting where they had come ashore and declared:  "We'll start the war from right here!"

His stirring invitation to courage is truly inspiring, but it is his example that provides valuable insight in any attempt to do likewise when confronted with a problem.

First, it seems doubtful that with the rest of the invasion waiting at his back the General really had much of a choice to do otherwise than he did; at least, not without potentially costly consequences to his men and to the invasion as a whole.

I do not say this to disparage the magnificence of his words and actions; indeed, my point is just the opposite:  To the degree that General Roosevelt may have felt compelled to do what he did in the face of such circumstances, his heroism is the greater. To do what he did is courage indeed when circumstances seem unpropitious, when no real alternative presents itself, and when those in your charge are counting on you to lead them to victory.

Second, Roosevelt showed up to the conflict with only his personal resources:  Integrity, wits, experience, preparation, and other qualities of character.  He also showed up with all of his personal limitations and vulnerabilities.  When it comes down to it, that's all any of us really have with which to face the moments of our lives.  And whatever resources we may think we have beyond those that are strictly personal (resources analogous to regiments and tank battalions), even assets can constitute not only strengths, but weaknesses or vulnerabilities that must be factored into our conduct.

Third, the General did not lose his head.  He did not engage in an emotional response to circumstances demanding reason.

Fourth, Roosevelt studied his situation, and when he announced to his men that they would start the conflict from where they were, it was not bravado.  It was, instead, the simple and informed declaration of the only thing they could do -- and succeed.

Leadership is the use of one's character for the good of others.

The diptych easel

By Al R. Young

I built the Diptych Easel several years ago in order to complete a commission to create an entablature featuring a diptych consisting of two, 4 ft. x 8 ft. painted panels.  Even though the easels were created for a specific commission, the design can be modified or adapted as needed.

Each of the two matching easels in the set leans against the wall.  And since the lightweight framework of each easel is (when in use) clamped to the back of a 4 ft. x 8 ft. sheet of 5/8-in. plywood, the plywood doesn't so much rest on the easel as become part of its structure and stability.

I might have simply leaned each plywood sheet for the diptych against the wall of the studio, but I wanted to get the panels up off the floor so that I might paint more conveniently.  Unused wall space in the studio was also a premium, which is part of the reason the top of each easel stands 2 ft. out from the wall -- allowing access to windows and furniture behind the paintings.

The following diagram shows the front view of the top part of each easel.  Building each easel in two parts (an upper unit and a lower unit) simplified the problem of storing the easels when not in use.  This two-unit approach also made it possible to use 8-ft. long stock (readily available at home centers) to achieve more than 8 ft. of height in the framework..

The top unit consists of five pieces that are fastened together by nut-and-bolt so that disassembly is simple, and does not damage (weaken) the framework.  These pieces include:  Two vertical sides, two braces constituting the X between the uprights, and a single brace mounted across the top of the easel.

Front view of top unit

The 1x2 upright of each side is perpendicular to the plain of the panel.

The following photographs show the fixed arms, atop each vertical side, that rest against the wall.  The elbow for each of these arms is sandwiched between two pieces of 1/4-in. hardboard, glued and stapled to the 1x2s of the vertical and horizontal members.

The angle at the elbow (at the upper left of the image) is 94 degrees

Detail of the horizontal arm atop each vertical side

 The disk resting against the wall at the back of each arm is covered in cloth to protect the wall.  The disk is fastened by a grab screw installed in the center of the disk.

The following diagram is a front view of the base unit for each easel.

 
The following photograph presents a detail view of the assembly of the 1x2s and 1x3s of the base.

C-clamps (see the following photograph) were used to secure each panel to its easel.  The cord draped over each X-brace was secured to the wall as a precaution against the easels being pulled away from the wall.

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.