Creating without critiquing

I was born a people pleaser. I get it from my mother (shout out to Janelle!) and it’s both a blessing and a curse. On the positive side, I am considerate of others and value empathizing perspectives outside of my own. On the flip side, I can let what others think have too much weight when I’m making decisions and let my viewpoint get tossed by waves of opinion. It is what it is and I’m working through it. Painting helps.

Fun bowling with my ma. Can’t believe she didn’t let me win.

When I’m in the studio, I do my best to block my people-pleasing tendencies. I quiet the critics, both inner and outer, real or imagined, and try to get into the zone of creating without critiquing. Thoughts will always creep in about whether folks at the next festival will like this painting or whether Ashley will like it or if the average Joe will think it’s cool or weird or whatever. But I’ve gotten pretty astute at noticing these thoughts and stopping them at the doorway. They have no place in my creative process because I think my work is best when they’re held at bay.

Looking back at the past 250+ paintings I’ve done in The Jobs of Yesteryear Series, I notice a gradual shift towards abstraction. What I mean by this is that things are less clearly defined in my paintings, in particular in the background. Instead of a crisp building with clean edges and carefully laid out windows, I will use a blocky brushstroke and leave it at that. Rather than painting in the sky full of clouds and the forest recessing into the distance, I will use a simple but pleasing gradient to capture the mood of the morning light and paint the silhouette of trees into the negative space on the horizon. I suggest a scene rather than explicitly showing a scene and I’ve found that the end effect is better, more engaging work. The viewer meets me halfway and we tell the story together.

I haven’t always appreciated abstract art. A big blob of color on top of a contrasting color and that’s it? Painting done? Now to some people, that composition does something and I’ve read accounts of viewers describing their visceral, emotional responses to what I consider simplistic abstract art. It just doesn’t do that to me but that doesn’t make my response or their reaction correct. Art is just art and the reaction you have to a piece is what it is.

Mark Rothko | Untitled | 1957 | Not my favorite.

But the more I paint, the more I see the value of abstraction as a tool. In my latest work, my backgrounds have been becoming more abstract. Blobs and swooshes of color, drips and wild gestural movements: it’s all loose and instinctual, pure expression in the moment. Go with the feeling.

This background is contrasted by the sharp, clear lines of the figures, their rich detail and texture jumping out at the viewer, especially when set against a more muted, abstract background. My wife/muse/boss Ashley has said all along, “You don’t need a scene”, and as I’ve found out countless times during our almost twelve years of marriage, in the end, she’s spot on. It just took me 200 paintings to get there.

The Milkman | 2016 | Showing a scene.

The Milkman VII | 2023 | Suggesting a scene (or not).

I just completed five new paintings for the Ann Arbor Summer Art Fair taking place this weekend and if you have the chance to come and see them in my booth, you’ll notice that I cranked the abstraction knob to 11 (they are also available exclusively to our patrons right now on Patreon to view and purchase). I wanted to find the edge of where the abstraction goes too far and something is lost in the final piece. In creating these five new originals, I don’t think I’ve gone too far just yet. The contrast works magnificently and I thoroughly enjoyed the wild, expressive process of splattering in the backgrounds. It felt good. It felt right. And most of all, it was just plain fun.

I don’t what the average Joe (or even Ashley) will think of this latest work, but when it feels that good during its creation, then it’s time well spent at the easel. And for now, I’m going to sit back and be pleased with that.

Thank you for continuing with us on our adventures in art. May you find the quiet places in your life to create without critiquing.

The Process

{ READ ABOUT IT or SCROLL TO THE END TO WATCH ABOUT IT }

Where do ideas come from? Heck if I know! But there is one question I can answer: Where do paintings come from? Sit back while I reveal the complete process behind The Jobs of Yesteryear.

It begins with wood. The wood panels I paint on are composed of maple plywood and a pine frame. I order most of my panels from my (almost) twin brother Lucas, who has set up shop selling panels (www.oddjobpanels.com). The first step is to stain the panel and coat it with a couple of layers of polycrylic.

The said almost twin brother, Lucas.

Next comes the dream phase. I get out my sketchbook and draw little sketches of the planned painting, figuring out the overall composition. “Stay loose,” I tell myself, for this is not the time to sweat the details.

After sketching out a general direction that I like for the painting, I start with a workers. I lay a piece of watercolor paper on top of the panel and begin to draw the shape of the workers, using reference photos and my little sketch to get the scale and posture right.

Once the drawing looks right, I fetch my trusty X-acto knife and cut the character out. Using the cutout to get the correct perspective and scale, I then lightly sketch in the background using a white china marker.

Now it’s time to cover the workers in torn pieces of brown kraft paper. I use PVA, a book binding glue that is acid-free and very sticky, both for the collage process and for the later step where I glue the workers onto the panel.

After the workers are entirely covered, I put them aside to dry and get to work painting the background. I only use three tubes of acrylic paint when I paint The Jobs of Yesteryear: mars black, titanium white, and unbleached titanium. For these three hues, I mix all of the wonderful warm grays I can dream up.

Once the background is in ship shape, it’s time to trim the excess paper off the workers and paint them up. I trim from the back where I can carefully follow the shape of my cutout drawing. What’s left when I flip it back over is the silhouetted shape of the worker I drew, but now covered in a nice brown tone and subtle torn-edge texture. I paint in the details of the workers, their lifeless silhouettes coming to life in full regalia, long pants and all. Almost there!

The last step is to glue the worker onto the background I’ve painted. I shplurp out some PVA, quickly cover the entire back of the collaged figures, and swiftly flip the workers over into place on the wood panel. Speed is necessary as I need to get them in place before the glue has a chance to set. Go go go!

Once this technical hurdle is overcome, I put the painting back on the easel and give it a looky-loo. I’ll add shadows and any other finishing touches my eye decides on before cutting out a little TV and pasting it into the corner for my signature. Then it’s time for a victory dance! Hooray, hoorah, la-dee-dah! Another painting in the books!

As final finishing steps, I coat the entire painting with an isolation coat (thinned gel gloss medium) and then add a satin varnish to protect the finished painting for generations to come. Hot diggity dog, that’s how it’s done!

Now that I see my process all written down, it sure seems like quite a to-do but in practice, it’s very fluid and a (mostly) enjoyable process. I’ve now used this process for 200+ paintings and it’s a new adventure every time I pick up the paintbrush.

Thank you all for coming along on this journey in art and life. Please feel free to reach out with any questions about how it’s all done. As for where ideas come from, well, you’re on your own.

This painting, The Grape Crushers, along with a handful of other new paintings will be available exclusively to Patrons on Patreon next week - join HERE to get access to all new paintings first along with other perks.

Power's Out

The wind came like a freight train that night, gaining speed as it pummeled into the shores of Lake Michigan. Dark and angry waves crashed in an unending drum of rage as the rain fell in sheets and then buckets. As the wind continued to howl its lonesome blustery tune and the temperature continued to drop, ice began to accumulate on every exposed surface.

Ash trees, long rendered lifeless by the insatiable emerald ash borer, lined the shores and began to grow weary in the effort to support their icy limbs. Their rotted roots were no match for the roaring gusts and it’s only a matter of time…

Michigan ice storm in April 2018

Suddenly, a strong gust sends a towering ash to its horizontal grave. On its way down, it crashes into a helpless power line, the rural wire no match for the weight of the ice-laden tree. Instantly, hundreds of warm, illuminated homes are plunged into darkness: yard lights go out, furnace fans stop blowing, and panic rises up in their inhabitants as the storm rages on. How long will the power be out this time? And where did I put those damn candles?

Ivan kept warm by the propane heater while the battery slowly died on the iPad.

Luckily the pizza store had a generator.

Why won’t this flashlight turn on Daddy? Because you left it on for days son.

Can you get the power back Mr. Lineman? I left the flashlight on.

Ashley taped flashlights to the light fixture as night approached.

Scrabble battle illuminated by Ashley’s genius flashlight fixture.

Into this cold, dark fracas steps the lowly lineman, having been summoned from his warm slumber to restore power and safety to the neighborhood. He is a mechanic, electrician, woodsman, acrobat, carpenter, gadgeteer, and first-aider all rolled into one. But tonight, he is simply the lineman and he knows that when the weather gets nasty, he goes to work.

Within an hour, the lineman has found the break, cleared the dead ash tree, and climbed atop the icy pole to repair the line. The climbing spurs on his boots are perfectly filed and they bite deeply into the wooden pole as he steadily hauls his trusty toolbelt some 40 feet up. On his waistline workshop, he has his lineman’s pliers, skinning knife, wrenches, parts bag, screwdriver, folding rule, connectors, and a bag containing his all-important rubber gloves. He wraps his safety belt around the top of the pole, the length of it swaying in the inky night, and gets to work.

Just as the residents finally find the candles and matches, their lights flicker to life as they let out a collective sigh of relief. The lineman has restored power, but he will work long into the night to fully repair the damaged line. His hours are long and his work can be thankless, but he didn’t get into this line of work for glory; he just likes fixing things and helping folks out. Thank God for the lineman.

Telephone lineman Bob Lawrence circa 1950

The lineman’s occupation began in the 1840s with the widespread use of the telegraph. Telegraph lines needed to be strung coast to coast and the linemen would plant poles and string the lines that connected communities like never before. Thirty years later in the 1870s, these same lines were replaced with telephone lines as our communication took another innovative leap. When the push for residential electrification began in the 1890s, the linemen were again called up and their profession took a dangerous turn.

As a result of the inherent but relatively unknown dangers of working with electricity, nearly one in three linemen died from electrocution during the forty year period 1890-1930. ONE IN THREE. Needless to say, it was considered the most dangerous profession in existence at the time. Safety equipment and better practices followed, as did unions to fight for the workers’ rights and working conditions. The most prominent, the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, still exists today.

Linemen amidst the chaotic lines

When FDR’s New Deal pushed for access to electricity for rural folks in the 1930s, there was a huge expansion of the lineman’s profession. “Boomers” was the colloquial name for the roving workers that traversed our great country to bring electricity to the farthest outposts of rural America. They were known to be rowdy risk-takers but they got the job done and many of their poles are still in use today.

An Ansel Adams photograph of linemen in Manzanar, California

The profession changed a great deal during the 1940s and 1950s as the maintenance of existing lines became the main focus. This allowed the “boomers” to settle down in one place and be on-call, ready to repair damaged lines often taken out by storms and other natural disasters. Being a lineman was still incredibly dangerous as they were often atop forty-foot poles in terrible conditions trying to repair high-voltage wires, but at least they could enjoy the comforts of home when they were done.

Also during the 1950s, one of the lineman’s most useful innovations was invented: the cherry picker. In 1951, Walter E. Thornton-Trump invented The Giraffe, a hydraulic boom lift that has become a staple of a modern lineman’s arsenal and is now collectively known as a cherry picker. This machine allows linemen to quickly and safely access overhead lines, rendering the classic pole-climbing prowess of the lineman obsolete.

Linemen repairing a line in Seattle, circa 1952

To me, the lineman embodies a classic example of an underappreciated worker. Most of us take it for granted that our homes are powered each and every day with a steady stream of silent electricity, failing to realize the tireless work and hours of dedication (not to mention countless lives) that went into making that possible.

When our lights flicker off in a power outage, it’s easy to think of our own minute discomforts as we struggle in the dark to find the batteries for the flashlight, cursing our children for leaving them on in the drawer (does this happen to anyone else?). Next time, stop for a minute and think of the dedication of the men and women who go into those storms to repair the broken lines and bring light back into our homes. They are heroes worth celebrating and workers worth honoring.

The Lineman was a commissioned painting and has a home in Kansas, but prints are available HERE. Here’s to The Lineman!

The Lineman | acrylic, kraft paper on stained maple panel