Transcribing the Masters

Transcribing from Degas

My last post was about the discovery that Edward Hopper had copied some of his early paintings (previously believed to be originals) from paintings photographed in magazines. Since then, I have been thinking about the difference between "copying" and "transcribing".

"After Degas I'

12 x 10.5, Oil on Linen

(c) Lesley Powell 2020

"Copying" could be called an attempt to make an exact replication of the original. "Transcribing", on the other hand, is not aimed at replicating the original, but rather at getting into the mind of the master.  The goal is to see how the master painter saw the subject, to understand how his composition worked, and to feel how he applied the paint to the canvas. This type of transcription is an important part of the curriculum at many art schools.

Along those lines, I just watched "The Queen's Gambit" on Netflix (worth a watch, by the way).  I learned that serious chess players spend time re-playing the matches of grandmasters.  They don't just study the moves from a book, but actually set up the board, and touch and move the pieces. The physicality of the process is an important element in retaining the concepts. 

Transcribing Vermeer

Twyla Tharp, the great ballet dancer and choreographer, used a similar approach. As a young dancer, she would stand behind every great dancer then in New York, and literally mimic him or her. She said that this process imprinted their movements into her own creative DNA. I love the idea of developing mastery this way! 

"After Degas II"

12 x 12, Oil on Linen, Mounted on Cradled Panel

(c) Lesley Powell 2020

In case I needed another prod, I happened to attend a talk by the talented painter Elizabeth Geiger.  She discussed her practice of copying from masterworks. Geiger advised that all painters should study a variety of masters whose work they admire.  Each painter will draw a different "thread" from each master.  As a result, the tapestry that any particular painter weaves with those threads will be different from that of any other.  We all draw on our predecessors, but each of us is unique.

I'm illustrating this post with a few transcriptions I've been working on.  Enjoy!

Keep Going!

"Keep Going!"  It's the title of the latest book by Austin Kleon.  The subtitle is "Ten Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad". This is a little book that you can practically stick in your pocket. It measures only 6 x 6 inches, but the messages it contains are far, far bigger. (And the messages pertain to  many life endeavors, not just painting or artistic ones).

Photo (c) Getty Images

I love Kleon's refreshing, no-nonsense way of thinking and writing. He has a certain irreverence that appeals to me. I wanted to stand up and cheer when I read the first sentence: "Whenever someone starts talking about 'the creative journey', I roll my eyes."  As Kleon says, it sounds too lofty, too heroic. Instead, the artistic life is really a non-glamorous, up and down path, and progress depends largely on finding a daily routine and sticking to it, through thick and thin. 

Some of Kleon's key ideas are ones I've written about before.  He notes that prolific artists have figured out a daily practice. Their practice is repeatable, and it insulates them from success, failure and the chaos of the outside world. It keeps them going. This message is very similar to that of Twyla Tharp, in her book The Creative Habit, which I've written about here. I am definitely a believer!

I also loved Kleon's suggestion to keep an ongoing list of ideas to work on in the future--because you never have time to pursue every idea at once. And they slip away if you don't jot them down. Kleon quotes people who call their lists "Someday/Maybe" lists, or "spark files". Twyla Tharp keeps her ideas in cardboard boxes. She pulls them out for inspiration. I keep a small notebook in my purse, so I can put my hands on it at a moment's notice and capture an idea before it fades.

Kleon also writes that "Silence and solitude are crucial". In this notion, he is on the same page with a number of other artists. Perhaps the most eloquent of them is Ranier Maria Rilke, whose book Letters to a Young Poet is a "must read".

Hope I have inspired you to check out Kleon's new book. Put it on your list!

Copying the Masters

I recently read a wonderful essay by Maggie Siner. The essay touched on many different issues of painting, and is well worth reading (and re-reading!). The concluding paragraph  addressed one of my favorite topics--copying the Masters. Maggie wrote that a painter does not copy the Masters in order to "paint like Cezanne" or "paint like Monet", but rather "to learn how different perceptual minds work by re-living the visual experience and world of that painter." I love the idea of re-living the visual experience of Degas, or Manet. What a way to learn!

Maggie wrote that the practice of studying and copying the Masters lets a painter learn which of many approaches to painting truly resonate with him or her. By "copying", I believe that she did not mean actually reproducing the Masters' paintings, but rather mimicking their styles. Learning to see the world as they saw it.

The practice of mimicking the Masters is not limited to painters. The novelist Raymond Chandler admired Ernest Hemingway as the greatest American novelist of his time. So he wrote imitations of Hemingway's prose, in order to absorb what he liked about it. Likewise, Proust wrote a series of articles imitating the styles of the great literary figures Balzac and Flaubert. 

Twyla Tharp, one of the greatest ballet dancers and choreographers of the 20th century,  used a similar approach. As a young dancer, she would stand behind every great dancer then in New York and literally mimic him or her. She said that this imprinted their movements into her own creative DNA.

Yes--we all have our own "creative DNA", which leads to our individual painting styles. Maggie makes a persuasive argument that studying the Masters, far from making one a copycat, helps one harness his own unique predispositions. Here's to learning from the Greats!

Fear and Hesitation

I had a friend who coached swimming at the collegiate level. He told me that even the superstar swimmers would arrive at the pool for early morning practice, then pace restlessly around, putting off as long as possible the actual plunge into the water. I believe that there is sometimes a similar delaying phenomenon among painters. It was described very eloquently by James Lord in his book A Giacometti Portrait. Lord said this about Alberto Giacometti:

[Giacometti] seemed to be avoiding desperately the moment when he would have to start work on something new. He is so poignantly aware of the difficulty of making visible to others his own vision of reality that he must be unnerved by the necessity of having to try to do it once more. Thus, he would naturally delay as long as possible the decisive act of beginning."

Ah, yes. The "decisive act of beginning". That's a moment fraught with pain and danger. The legendary choreographer Twyla Tharp has written that it is the most fragile moment of the creative process, the time that we are most likely to chicken out. 

Lately I have been experiencing the discomfort of beginning. I have even chosen to clean my studio (usually the very last task of all) before approaching the easel. I have found that the best cure is to get outdoors with my easel, and paint my surroundings. Even if the subject is one that I drive by every day, as in the photo above. It's all about learning to see, and translating what you see with paint and brushes. Here's to overcoming the fear of beginning...

The Blank Slate

We often hear the expression that someone or some thing is a "blank slate". Being a blank slate is viewed as a positive thing, because it means that anything can be written, and that all options are open. When it comes to painting, every canvas is a blank slate--literally and figuratively. And sometimes (maybe always!), stepping up to the blank canvas can be frightening.

Twyla Tharp writes in The Creative Habit about the empty white rehearsal room--the blank space waiting for the dance to be choreographed. She says it symbolizes something "profound, mysterious, and terrifying: the task of starting within nothing and working your way toward creating something whole and beautiful and satisfying." She talks about how hard it can be to get started. No wonder that people can become paralyzed with terror when confronting the blank slate.

As is the case in many things in life, experience and hard work can help overcome the terror of the empty room. Tharp has worked as a choreographer for many years and has a long track record of outstanding dance pieces. Many successes. As a result, she now enters the white room feeling not only trepidation, but also peace and promise. Now that's the attitude we all want when we confront the blank canvas! I doubt I will ever achieve the mastery of a Tywla Tharp, but I hope I can gain the confidence to face the blank slate with her sense of peace and promise.

What's Your Focal Length?

Much is written and discussed among painters about "finding your style". I have come to believe that our style finds us, and we cannot escape it. What people often call your "style" is an expression of your artistic DNA that is inescapable. As Kevin Macpherson has said, a person's painting style is like his handwriting: it is absolutely unique, and  cannot be disguised, even if he tries.

Twyla Tharp writes that a key aspect of a person's creative personality is his preferred "focal length". I had sensed that concept for a long time, but

Copycats?

"Self Portrait with Vase of Flowers"
Emile Bernard, 1897

I recently saw a wonderful exhibit at the Musee de l'Orangerie in Paris--a retrospective of the works of the French painter Emile Bernard. Bernard lived from 1868 to 1941. Lots of water went over the artistic dam in that time period, and Bernard did his fair share of experimentation with various styles that came in and out of vogue. Eventually, he developed a strong affinity for 

The Creative Habit

This year, am re-reading one of my favorite books, The Creative Habit, written by the great choreographer Twyla Tharp. From practical guidance to philosophical reflections, this book has it all. And it applies to every reader, whether he is a painter, a doctor, a musician, a lawyer, or a candlestick maker. One of the themes of the book is

that to excel, you must have a combination of passion and skill. Only work, work, work will help you reach your creative goals. 

Tharp writes, "If art is the bridge between what you see in your mind and what the world sees, then skill is how you build that bridge." She points out that Mozart had to practice his scales before he could write the great symphonies. With this notion, Tharp is on the same page as Malcom Gladwell, who wrote in his popular book Outliers that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to achieve mastery in a field. That's a lot of hours.

But skill alone is not enough. Tharp notes that "Without passion, all the skill in the world won't lift you above craft, Without skill, all the passion in the world will leave you eager but floundering. Combining the two is the essence of the creative life."

So what about some practical tips for unleashing your passion, and developing your skill? One idea that has stuck with me from The Creative Habit is the importance of rituals. In Tharp's book, a ritual is a pattern of behavior that becomes so routine as to be "automatic", and yet constitutes something very "decisive". She writes that rituals are especially crucial at the beginning of the creative process. Beginning is the point of greatest peril--the moment at which you are most likely to chicken out, or turn back, or go in the wrong direction. The ritual serves as a reminder that you are on the right path ("I've done this before. It was good. I'll do it again."). It wipes out procrastination, and jump starts the creative process.

Tharp describes "triggering rituals", which make the actions to follow feel comfortable and routine. Used at the beginning of the creative process, these triggering rituals start the creative juices flowing. They increase confidence, and reduce distraction. For some people, the ritual may be turning on a certain type of music. For others, it may be lighting a candle. Or cleaning your tools. For some painters, the simple act of squeezing out fresh new pigments in a preordained pattern on the palette is a triggering ritual.

Tharp says that faithful use of a start-up ritual has a guaranteed outcome. She even goes so far as to call it Pavlovian: "Follow the routine, get a creative payoff." Tharp makes it sound as if the routine yields the desired payoff as surely as night follows day. I think she may be onto something. So......here's to a New Year's resolution to cultivate routines that pave the way to creativity!