Choosing Your Subject - by Scott Burdick

One of the most common questions I'm asked is "how do you decide what to paint?" or "what should I be painting?". Once any artist has begun to gain some degree of control over the technical aspects of their chosen medium, this becomes the dilemma. In fact, this is probably the main reason why it is so terrifying for any artist to finish school. No longer is the model already set up or the weeks assignment spelled out in detail; gone is the comforting notion that everything you do is merely an exercise with the main goal simply technical improvement. Like the writer who has learned spelling, grammar, and all the styles of the past, people will now want to know what you have to say. You imagine them looking at your paintings, shrugging and saying, "Sure the nose is in the right place, but what's the point?". And then when you do get excited about something new, you fear that others will laugh at it (I won't lie to you, this has happened to me many times). Consequently, you may retreat into the subjects that you see as "safe" or even ask an "expert" or, even worse, a gallery owner for advice on what to paint.

The most confusing thing of all is that other artists will actually answer this question so specifically! Sometimes without even being asked! Sue Spero, an exceptionally talented landscape painter here in Chicago, once told me of how much pressure she has gotten to paint figures, both from instructors and galleries. She's been told repeatedly that she couldn't be a "real" artist unless she could paint people. The good thing is that once you recognize how ridiculous such statements are, you are no longer in any danger form them. Sometimes, though, the effects can be even more subtle, almost unconscious. My wife, Susan Lyon, has always been attracted to still-lifes and for a long time only did compositions and objects of things she had seen painted before, because that's just what she assumed you were "supposed to" paint. Even when she began getting original ideas of her own, she hesitated for a time because she felt people would see her setups as too "feminine" and not take her seriously. Once she overcame this, however, her work improved much more rapidly because she was so much more excited about her subject. This is really the bottom line. "Nothing great was ever created without enthusiasm," is what my teacher, Bill Parks, repeated to us at the beginning of every class and this is why you should never listen to anyone else's advice concerning your subject or style. Rembrant, Sergent, or Monet, themselves, could merely tell you what they would do, not what you should do.

But how do we recognize our own individual subject or style? This is not at all as easy as many make it out to be. The cliché "be yourself" can be one of the most frustrating bits of advice to an artist since finding that specialness inside is a journey that takes a lifetime and is far more difficult than anything we encounter in school. It's akin to the scientist who, having learned something new every day since childhood, finally reaches the end of what is known and realizes it might take the rest of their life to add the next little bit. For some, this can seem overwhelming and the only way of advancing is by being brave. Don't confine yourself only to painting, but be a student of life and a keen observer of both the world around you and your own reactions to it. Follow the thread of your interests wherever they may lead, no matter how impractical or unrelated they may seem at the time. Take chances! It's a good sign when you have no idea what the end will hold. Sometimes the result will be disaster and sometimes a revelation. I have long noticed at the Chess Club I go to, that there are two types of players; those that only play people they know they can beat and those that search out players stronger than themselves - and guess what, only the second type ever get better.

It's all a matter of attitude. When you go into a gallery, always compare yourself to the best, not the worst. Instead of criticizing the mistakes, look to the good parts and learn from them. Just because something isn't drawn perfectly, don't dismiss it and walk away; maybe there's something innovative in the subject, or the color?

When it comes to your own work, however, do exactly the opposite. Recognize what has worked and thank your lucky stars, but don't get complacent; search out the mistakes and be constantly striving to improve - remember, there's no such thing as a "perfect" painting, as any truly great artist will tell you. When I first started Art School, I was amazed at how unhappy all the best students were with their work (apparently even more so than those of us beginners who rejoiced if we just got it looking vaguely human). I actually thought that they were either putting on an act or were extremely spoiled - since I believed that I would be the happiest person in the world if I could do what they could. It wasn't until I reached that level myself that I finally understood. It sometimes takes a tremendous effort, even now, when someone compliments me not to go into a tirade of how bad the edges are, or how that purple just didn't work the way I had hoped, and why can't I keep from setting up such boring compositions! Luckily Mr. Parks pulled me aside early on and told me that while he understood, others would not and it was best to simply smile and say thank you as humbly as possible.

Much of art is that way. The struggle is within and you must have enough confidence to ignore both the compliments and the criticisms if they run contrary to the vision your imagination holds up before your eyes. There simply is no way that anyone else can see or understand what you are striving for until you have actually reached the destination on your own. Don't ever consider whether or not something is "sellable" - regardless how "hot" a particular subject is at the time, if it stirs no emotion within you to start with, it will never come to life no matter how technically well done; whereas, if you are excited about it, you are bound to find someone else who is as well.

Conversely, don't avoid subjects just because you've seen someone else do them. I can't tell you the number of times I've shown someone a painting and had them lament, "Oh, I always wanted to do a painting of that - now it's too late!". Through the long history of Art just about everything's been done; if you're true to your vision your rendition can't help but reflect your unique viewpoint. The next time you paint the same model with a group of other artists notice how completely different each painting comes out (even with relative beginners this will be true, but the more experienced the group, the more divergent the interpretations become since they will be more precisely reflecting the way they see the world). A work done purely for novelty's sake will always fall flat and seem contrived.

When deciding what to paint, there are generally two sources we all draw upon - the internal (the imagination) and the external (the observed physical world). While, in their final form, all works of art are a mixture of both these, they usually start out from one or the other. The two paintings on the opposite page are examples of both.

The idea for "Wonderland" occurred at the moment I saw this scene in New York's Central Park. The final painting was very much molded by my internal imagination and is significantly different than the actual place or photos, but the initial inspiration came from an entirely external source (I never would have envisioned this painting before seeing the actual place). Other paintings, on the other hand, are formed fairly completely in my mind before actually occurring in real life. Once I have my idea clearly resolved, I schedule a model and assemble the props and reference material that most closely resemble the picture in my head. The final painting, of course, also then drew upon many of the interesting things that the model, lighting, and setup suggested to me which I hadn't expected.

The real key here is the combination of observation with imagination. Had I simply copied the scene in the park literally or tried to paint an inner vision without relation to reality, both would have fallen short of my expectations. An artist must strike a balance between interaction with the world around them (in order to draw inspiration and understanding from the infinite variety of nature) and isolation (so as to connect with your unique, inner creativity and avoid simply reflecting what you observe without any personal interpretation). The particular mixture will be different for every painter and every painting; when you find yourself in a rut, this can be an especially effective area to experiment with. If your paintings seem to be repeating themselves, get out with a sketch pad, French easel, or camera (Sergent used to go outside, set up, and simply paint what ever randomly happened to be directly in front of him as a break from his extremely thought-out commissions). If you feel you are simply "copying" reality, lock yourself in the studio with nothing but your brushes and see what evolves (Leonardo Davinci sometimes got ideas for paintings by staring at cracks on a wall - thus freeing his eyes from the literal and allowing his mind to fill the abstract patterns with images from internal sources). No two artists will approach a painting in exactly the same way; this is both the wonder and the challenge of it.

Demo - "Wonderland"

I started this painting out with a very detailed drawing both to capture the character of the figures in the statue as well as because it allowed me to plan out and visualize the final painting in my mind. Even when I skip the drawing stage altogether, I generally take a while staring at the model, scene, or photos - mentally "painting" the subject in dozens of techniques, color combinations, etc until hitting on the one that excites me. When this isn't enough, I do thumbnail sketches to work out any problems. Many unexpected things will occur while you are painting, but you don't want to dive in without any vision at all and hope that you'll get lucky.

Next, I go right into painting, and finishing, the center of interest. This keys the entire painting, giving me something to compare subsequent parts to since nothing else should be quite as powerful as this central point. In this case, I envisioned an overall cool painting with the two girl's red hair the warmest points. Though other warms will occur, I will be careful to keep them well under the intensity of the hair - hopefully drawing the eye there. The other advantage to this approach is that, should I screw up this most critical area (the center of interest will generally be the most detailed and subtle), I can simply start over without having invested too much time in everything else. Sometimes when doing a complex painting in watercolor you can be quite hesitant with experimenting the further along you go since any major error will ruin hours of painstaking effort. The conservatism that results can be especially fatal to a center of interest but less so to areas that the eye won't be drawn to in the first place.

Once this is done, the rest of the painting is relatively easy, progressing out from the center. It's not until most of the raw white of the paper is covered up that the painting begins to hold together. This rarely bothers me as I work since I am already filling in the blanks mentally and visualizing the end result. Others, however, don't have this advantage and so you will want to be extremely careful of showing a work in progress since a negative or even luke-warm reaction can sometimes hurt your own enthusiasm for the painting.