LEARNING TO SEE

Why I Paint With My Painting in My Lap

Sometimes the way you work finds you.

Learning to See • By Debra Davis

I didn't decide one day that I was going to become an artist who painted with her canvas in her lap.

I didn't even realize I was doing anything unusual.

It took a teacher at a workshop to point it out.

I was working on my painting the way I normally did when my teacher asked me why I was painting with the canvas in my lap. I don't remember thinking there was anything strange about it.

It was simply where the painting had ended up.

My teacher told me I would probably do better if I used the easel.

We both laughed.

And to this day, I still try.

I start with every intention of leaving my painting on the easel.

Sooner or later, though, I pull it right back into my lap.

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How Does a Painting End Up in My Lap?

A typical painting begins in my studio with everything around me—my paints, brushes, reference photo and supplies.

I'll put the canvas on my easel mount and get everything ready.

Then I take the canvas down.

When I'm drawing my image onto the canvas, I like to use pastel pencils because I can lift or erase them when I need to make corrections. Holding the canvas in my lap feels almost like sitting at a desk and drawing.

Once I have the drawing where I want it, I put the canvas back on the easel and step away.

I look at it.

Does it look right?

Are the proportions correct?

Is something off?

Then I pick it up again.

I'll begin painting in the sketch and put it back on the easel to look at it. Then I'll pull it close again and begin blocking in the painting.

Back and forth I go.

Lap. Easel. Lap. Easel.

For a long time, I didn't even notice I was doing it.

It simply became the way I worked.

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Why Do I Keep Pulling the Painting Closer?

The simplest answer is that it feels natural to me.

With the painting in my lap, I feel steadier. I can see the small areas better, and I feel like I have more control over what I'm doing.

That becomes especially important when I'm painting a still life.

I like the brushstrokes in my still lifes to be very smooth. That's not as important to me when I'm painting a landscape, where the brushwork can have a different feeling.

But when I'm painting something with precise shapes, smooth surfaces and small details, I want that control.

One of the best examples is the clarinet in my painting When the Last Note Fades.

That clarinet was difficult.

The shiny reflections were difficult. Keeping the instrument straight was difficult. Getting the proportions right was difficult.

Really, all of it was difficult.

Working close to the painting helped me concentrate on those small areas and make the adjustments I needed to make.

But being close wasn't enough.

I also had to step back.

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Why Do I Keep Putting the Painting Back on the Easel?

When I'm working close to a painting, I can become focused on one small area.

The easel gives me distance.

At first, I'm simply looking to see if everything looks right. I check the proportions and look for anything that seems off.

As the painting develops, I start looking at the composition, the shapes, and the lights and darks.

A detail can look good when it's six inches from your face and still not work as part of the entire painting.

So I need both views.

I need to get close enough to do the work.

Then I need to step back far enough to really see it.

That's probably why, even after that teacher told me I would do better using my easel, I never completely stopped painting in my lap.

The easel helps me see the whole painting.

My lap helps me get close enough to work on the parts that need me.

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Does Painting Something Difficult Feel Peaceful?

Not always.

That's something you might not expect from someone who calls her style Peaceful Realism.

When I begin a difficult painting, sometimes I feel overwhelmed.

I look at what I'm trying to paint and that old negative thought shows up:

I can't do this.

Even after years of painting, it's still there sometimes.

I have to make myself continue.

So I start.

And somewhere along the way, something changes.

I become determined.

I begin concentrating on what is in front of me instead of thinking about whether I can do it.

Then I lose track of time.

Little by little, the painting starts developing into something that looks like what I've been studying.

That's when I begin to feel peaceful.

And encouraged.

I experienced that with When the Last Note Fades.

There wasn't one single detail on the clarinet that suddenly made everything work. It was when the proportions, reflections, smooth surface and all those little pieces finally began working together.

I stepped back and it looked like what I had been trying to paint.

It looked like a shiny clarinet.

That was the moment.

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What Does It Take to Paint That Kind of Detail?

If someone looks closely at When the Last Note Fades and asks me how I painted that clarinet, my answer isn't very complicated.

It takes time. You have to really look at your subject.

Maybe that's one of the biggest things painting continues to teach me.

You can't paint what you aren't willing to see.

You have to look at the shape.

Then look again.

Look at where the light changes.

Look at the reflection.

Look at the dark area that isn't quite the color you assumed it was.

Look at the relationship between one part and another.

And sometimes you have to get very close.

Then step back.

Then get close again.

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Maybe There's a Reason I Paint This Way

I've thought about that workshop teacher over the years.

I still hear that advice in the back of my mind sometimes: use the easel.

And I do.

I just don't seem to leave the painting there.

Maybe I've developed a way of working that gives me what I need from both perspectives.

I bring the painting close when I need control, steadiness and detail.

Then I put it on the easel and step back when I need to see the painting as a whole.

And there's something interesting about that now that I think about it.

It's very similar to what I hope you'll do when you see one of my finished paintings.

I want something about it to catch your attention from across the room.

Then I hope you'll come closer.

Look at the brushwork.

Notice the reflections.

Find the little changes in color and light.

See something you couldn't see from farther away.

Maybe you'll even wonder:

“Wow. How did she do that?”

The answer might be simpler than you expected.

It takes time.

And a lot of looking.

Sometimes, in my case, it also takes putting the painting in my lap.

Look closer. There's more to see.

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The Bottom Line

I didn't set out to develop an unusual way of painting.

I simply discovered that bringing a small painting close to me helps me feel steadier, see the details better and have more control. Stepping back to the easel helps me see whether all those details work together.

I've learned that I need both.

Close enough to notice. Far enough away to see.

Maybe that's part of Learning to See, too.

Thank you for spending a few moments with me today.

Until next time, keep learning to see. I hope you notice something beautiful along the way.

Warmly,

Debra Davis
Original Oil Painter | Creator of Peaceful Realism
Cusseta, Alabama | Near Auburn/Opelika, AL