It began with attending life drawing sessions at the Saint John Art Centre, starting last fall, which reminded me that NSCAD indeed taught me to draw, something I still marvel at after having believed forever that I couldn't do it. I've been working on large sheets of newsprint, which allows the drawing experience to be very physical... large gestures... and that has led to its own artistic journey that will await another post.
The next impetus was an opportunity I had to observe artist Paul Mathieson at work, painting in acrylics. Last fall I had started work on an acrylic painting that eventually underscored what I already knew: that I have much to learn about handling the materials of painting, acrylics especially. Because Paul works in acrylics and there are techniques in his paintings I admire, I asked for an opportunity to watch over his shoulder. Here's a link to his website for an image that gives some examples of the gradation in shadings he achieves http://paulmathieson.com/the_wall.htm. Check out the woman in the long coat, centre-left.
Unexpectedly, I got something extra out of that session with Paul. He assembles his compositions out of individual figure drawings that he cuts out and arranges on paper before settling on the final image. In other words, although the individual elements of his compositions are careful drawings, the eventual scene arises from his imagination. My NSCAD training focussed heavily on observational drawing and painting... but I remembered an assignment I'd done in which I drew the image in my mind by working from poses in several photographs. What if I were to go back into my mind for images again?
The other thing Paul does that stuck with me is he outlines each element of his compositions with black lines. Unusual for a painter, but that -- along with the fact that my fellow life drawing artist, Peter Salmon, had taken to using pen and ink -- reminded me of the graphic possibilities of black and white.
I decided to try a linocut print. I've had tree swallows nest in my backyard most summers since I've been in New Brunswick, have learned to recognize their flight and have grown attached to them in some way, so I started with a photo from the internet of a perching swallow. I knew there would need to be features in the background to complete the composition and settled on a mackerel sky, thinking that the diagonals would work well with the diagonals already present in the bird's pose on a wire. I found a suitable photo of a mackerel sky... and the lessons began.
The first issue in creating a black and white image, I found, is to decide what information is essential and what must be discarded. The photos consisted of darks, lights and a whole range of mid-tones; what must stay and what must go when you're condensing the image down to the essential darks and lights, and exaggerating them to the extremes of black and white? I worked very hard with the first image, posting it on the wall once I felt it was done to see whether it would stand up to repeated viewing over time. After a week or so, I eventually felt satisfied. But sometimes, one is too close to one's work, as I'll eventually explain.
The next challenge involved deciding how to transfer the image onto the linoleum block. I was experienced enough to know that it would have to be reversed onto the block in order to print the right way around. But different transfer techniques proceed differently. I photographed the drawing, flipped it 180 degrees digitally, then got it copied on a laser copier and ironed it onto the lino. The heat transfers the ink. But the image had already been flipped and doing the transfer that way flipped it again... so now, facing me from the lino was the image I expected to see in the finished print. The penny failed to drop and I started carving.
The process of preparing a lino block for printing involves carving out the white areas of the drawing and leaving the black areas. I had the right tools for the job and was enthusiastically on a roll before I realized the image would be facing the "wrong" way, but heck, it would be a mirror image and what would be wrong with that, I reasoned. When the block was finished, I got out the rest of the tools -- paper, ink and a glass plate to put it on, a roller for distributing ink onto the block, and a tool called a baren for rubbing the paper by hand against the inked block.
For me, printing presents a moment of truth that has all the excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning when I was a child. You peel the paper back from the block and discover whether you've succeeded or.... Oh, I thought, that isn't quite what I had in mind.
Tree Swallow, the first draft
The drawing of the bird was mis-proportioned, I saw for the first time, and there was too much detail in the mackerel sky, so the bird was getting lost. And the orientation mattered; it didn't look right to me. What clinched it was Peter Salmon's immediate comment when I showed it to him: "Did you print it backwards?" Peter has been a practicing artist and art teacher for his entire adult life, so now, at 73 years old, he has an experienced eye. Still, it staggered me that he immediately knew that the image was facing the wrong way. Being too close to the drawing initially blinded me to its problems; and the mirror-imaging I had casually brushed off turned out to matter.
Back to the drawing board, as they say. This time, I changed the format of the drawing, worked to correct to proportion problems with the bird and after the meticulous carving of the first version, decided to try a much more casual approach to the sky, just to see what would happen,
Tree Swallow, second draft
After the great care taken with the first draft, I had dashed this second version off and it certainly showed... but it helped me get a clear idea of where I had to go with the drawing. Finally I understood what had to be present and what could be stripped away. It underscored an important lesson that I won't forget: in printmaking, the initial drawing matters enormously.
Tree Swallow, final draft
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