Artist's Oil Painting Process on 4 ft. by 4 ft. Landscape of the Charleston Battery, South Carolina
An art talk about the journey through the four feet by four feet realism painting of architecture, water, land, and sky.
I don't know any better way of describing the painting process than calling it an adventure, a journey road traveled. As with all adventures, you have a starting point and somewhere you know there has to be a happy ending.
But to get to your ending, you have trails to trek, streams to cross, hills to climb, mountains to summit, cliffs to repel, rivers to raft, towns to detour, oceans to sail, skies to soar, and so much more.
Wow. Sounds like a lot. But one of my favorite artists describes it perfectly.
“Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.” ― Vincent van Gogh
And there were many small details required of such a large painting with so many tiny elements added together in just the right way for a successful mission. A painting to come out looking coherent, clear, and quite honestly, something I was proud to call mine, on the other side of this journey.
One might call this dramatic, but these are simply the feelings of creating, especially with something so big, a new road never traveled before. Each layer comes together, from beyond the horizon and works your way forward, bit by bit, stroke by stroke.
Here. Let me show you.
The first step with this big project was to select the reference photo. What would the collectors want? What view makes them happy? That was discussed first thing. We found a photographer who licensed his photos for artists to use. We purchased the license, received the photo, and I also followed up with the photographer. The first step, done. We had our destination, the end of the adventure, in mind.
The next step was to build the rig that would get us there. According to the collector's desired size, I purchased the materials and built this four feet by four feet canvas and had help with stretching it out for a tight surface and measuring the corners. The next layer was several coats of gesso and oil paint primer.
I had my variety of paintbrushes, new and old, Winsor & Newton Water Soluble Oil Colors, my trusty glass palette, my brush, and water basin. Everything was ready for the journey.
Because architecture was involved with this commission, I decided to start with a grid, any little road map to keep me heading in the right direction. I drew out the under sketch with a watercolor pencil. (You don't want pencil marks showing through years later. Graphite will always come to the surface. Watercolor pencil disappears into the pigment of the paints.) And with that, the trip's plans were set in place. It was time to take off.
After soaring through the sky, flying through the clouds, we pass over the trees on the horizon and the faraway waters, landing in town, taking in each tree, admiring the old architecture of the homes built in the 1800s. Layer by layer, the ghosts were coming alive.
As much as it was tempting to apply cheap tricks to speed up this part of the painting, I knew it would compromise the outcome. It wouldn't be mine. It would be unrecognizable. I stuck to my gut, working patiently along, keeping all of the different layers in mind. Which tree is swaying in front of which house? And at which point in the journey should I paint it next?
As with any travel, behaving quickly and recklessly can cause accidents. I kept my slow pace. And some moments it was too slow. But the patience in myself and the patience in the painting pulled through, lending a cohesive style, honoring the destination in mind.
Another aspect of oil painting is letting the layers dry. To add a fresh palm tree on top of a soaking wet house was asking for disaster to strike. In moments like those, I had to move on to another house, a different layer, staying patient and methodical with each step. No speeding here.
When I reached the point where the houses and town foliage were complete, I knew I could start jumping around in the different layers. The landscape is always more forgiving. I started the defensive seawall and the fence that stood atop it. And as you can see in the photo below. I went back to the skies, adding wispy clouds, bringing our gaze to the focal point.
I loved the depth of the seaside. One of the unique parts was the golden sand coming through. I wanted that warmth beneath the sea to be seen under the water. To get that effect, I layered in a simple imprimatura toning wash with the paint color, burnt umber.
Here you can see the progression in the painting’s journey as it evolved and matured. Little did I know, it was changing me too. Somewhere on this adventure, I discovered myself, my goals, joys, and something else unexpected. Freedom to be me. Not what is trendy. Not what is popular. Not what‘s cool. Not poised and perfect. But to just be.
The transformation wasn’t just felt inside of myself but was visible on the outside. From my hair and style to my art studio space. A metamorphosis was underway. I was coming home to myself.
The longer I write, I lament not making more posts along this journey, documenting my discoveries, blogging more along the way. But what's done is done. I have so much to share with you now. And I'm excited about that!
“I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance.” ― Vincent van Gogh
Full focus forward, 2020 became the year of this painting. With the world shutting down, pandemics and protests rocking the planet, I kept my eye on Charleston’s peaceful waters, painting the tranquil ripples and rigid shore. As if I walked along the Battery itself, my client’s happy place became my happy place, a refuge during a chaotic and stressful year.
And I was on a roll! And it was thrilling! From the next day to the next day, the communication between my brain and the brush was amazing. I knew where the painting needed more love, more care. I knew what each layer needed to say.
But on August 19th, 2020, it soon came to a screeching stop when my body had different plans. Stabbing pain led to an emergency appendectomy. The painting was put on pause till I recovered. During that time, I felt defeated and frustrated. My body gave out again. Why does this always seem to happen to me? I thought. When I start making progress, something wants to throw me off course. I suffer from chronic migraines, ME/CFS, Fibromyalgia, and more, so being thrown for a loop by my own body was nothing new.
Sure, I needed to stay put for a while and rest. But surgery was A) Not going to stop me forever. And B) I wasn't going to be tempted to rush through the process just to "catch up." The painting and I got some space from each other until I was ready to work at my original pace. Some might call this perfectionism, waiting for the "perfect moment." Again. But I call it consistency and coherency.
As we advance in life, it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties, the inmost strength of the heart is developed. - Vincent van Gogh
The last thing I wanted was a section to blare, "Hello, Ge rushed here!" You want the artwork to flow as if the journey went from one phase to the next exactly as it was meant to. No jumping ahead. No cutting corners.
And eventually, I did what all artists do after a break, I picked up the paintbrush and got back to work.
As soon as a section was completed, I moved on to the next, giving myself a guestimate on how long it would take, and usually, it took two to three times that amount of time. Things that aren't so complex were still complicated. Simple objects still had numerous layers and complex colors. And like I stated before, I didn't want anything to feel out of place. I moved at a steady, manageable pace.
Within several months of sculpting the seaside, adding the details and finishing touches, the painting was complete. The journey was over. I sighed, soaking it all in, grazing my gaze across the canvas countless times, looking for anything that felt off or overlooked. So much joy and satisfaction swept through me as I felt the waves of peace, knowing I gave it my all and did my ultimate best. The painting was finished. Or so I thought.
In the months leading up to the painting's transfer to its owners, I was able to contemplate if it was missing something, anything. And after long enough, I was determined to add extra life to this sunrise scene. A sailboat, birds in the distance, a crab, and a fish made their appearances. (But alas, the little fish wasn't to stay.)
That's when I signed the painting. It was finished. Truly. I promise, after that, I didn't touch it, other than to add the textured white paint to the sides and help straighten the painting on the wall in its new home.
And so ended an epic journey, this one with an undeniable "happily ever after" - a completed oil painting I am more than proud to call my own, all grown up and off in the world, leaving me with an empty art easel and fresh paints awaiting the next big adventure.
I am still far from being what I want to be, but with God's help, I shall succeed. - Vincent van Gogh
I'm so grateful to my wonderful clients for believing in me, for my husband with all of his support, for my children who gave so much love and high fives through the process, and for my sisters who cheered me on every step of the way, and for my friends who encouraged me through the happy and hard times.
And I'm thankful for YOU for reading this today. If you made it this far, here's a gold star. ⭐ And please let me know you read it by leaving a note in the comments. It means so much to hear from you! And I'm happy to answer any questions.
If you want to see more of my painting process, please head over to my Instagram: @_gepennington. Look for the Story Highlights called "SC Painting" and "SC Painting 2."
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Thank you for being here!
Even though the little fishy didn’t stay I’m glad he had a tribute to this post. :)