Sketching at the Muttart

On a grey day, I walked down the hill, through the forest, to do some very pleasant indoor sketching of plants at the local greenhouse - a small miracle of a place when the colour palette outside is so muted.

For my palette, I bought a $4 eyeshadow set, scooped out the makeup, and added watercolour paint - a much less expensive variation on those beautiful Art Toolkit sets.

The mixing surface is waxy palette paper affixed with double sided tape.

I’m working in a Hahnumuhle sketchbook with grey paper, and uncharacteristically am just going for it with no sketch and not much of a plan, which feels like the right approach for having fun with this today.

Along with the watercolour I’ve added a splash of fresh white gouache, but so far haven’t used it yet.

This palette with its muted tones is inspired by Nathan Fowkes. Yellow Ochre, Venetian Red, Sap Green, Cerulean Blue, and a granulating Lunar Black.

Hope you have enjoyed this post!

Steps in a reduction linocut

Creating a reduction linocut like the one pictured here takes many steps. At first, you carve away everything you want to remain white. Then, you print the next lightest colour - mixing the right shade of ink, rolling it onto the block, and printing each piece of cotton paper with that pale shade (here, of yellow).

Then, you consider what will stay this yellow colour, and what is destined to become darker? So you carve away the “to-stay-yellow” sections, consider the next darkest colour, and carry on.

At any step of the process, there is opportunity for change, both good and bad. A different colour can be mixed to enhance the final effect. A block can be knocked slightly off kilter, rendering a misprint.

A lot of trust is required, since you don’t know what the final print will look like for most of the journey. Below are the steps involved in this linocut.

The best thing about being a landscape painter

I was the kid who always asked to have class outside anytime there was a hint of sun and warmth. (It rarely worked out in my favour.)

Happily, that tendency remains. Painting outdoors has its challenges - my easel has crashed to the ground with a sudden gust, I’ve done the sweaty mosquito dance, and I’ve even forgotten my paintbrushes and chewed up a stick to paint with.

But there’s no better way I know of to become a better artist. There’s something about being out there that infuses your bones and spirit, and seeps out back in the studio.

That’s why, when I skied into Skoki Lodge this year, I carried a tripod and oil paints. SO HEAVY skiing up over Deception Pass and flailing my way down, falling in the deep snow, but worth it.

Before the trip, I worried the tripod would sink. And I was right to worry - when I got to this painting spot, I took off my skis… and immediately plunged hip-deep into the snow! So I crawled up out of the sinkhole, brushed the snow out of my boots and bindings, and painted wearing my skis.

Meanwhile, my tripod was sitting pretty with her snowshoes (re-purposed yogurt tubs I’d hastily scrounged just before leaving the house).

The tripod snowshoes worked! And it was a warm, windless, peaceful afternoon. I think this oil sketch captures the spirit of the day - and if I do make a studio painting from the photos I took, the sketch will provide valuable information - colours the camera doesn’t see.

The snow conditions were perfect for my light touring style of ski - a layer of fluffy snow on top of a crust meant it was even possible to skate-ski across this meadow.

The best thing about being a landscape painter, to me, is… searching for beauty outside is a defining characteristic of the job. That’s where it all starts, that is the source.