The other day, in my high school painting class, I was talking to my students about the underpainting technique of Leonardo Da Vinci. We were discussing the difference between direct and indirect painting. One of the students wanted to know why Da Vinci didn't just paint Mona directly instead of fussing around with all that underpainting. I grabbed up a tube of paint and said "because he didn't have this!". I then proceeded to explain how Leo would have had to make his own paint by grinding up rocks and then mulling it together with oils. I could see that they weren't rolling their eyes back into their heads yet so I continued to explain further that not only did they have to mix their own paint but that the only way to preserve it for a short time was to stuff it into a pig's bladder. "eewh! That's nasty" I also explained that if I was teaching this class during the Renaissance they would all be involved in mixing my paint and sweeping up my studio on a daily basis."yeah, right!"
               Of course a lack of commercially prepared paint was not the sole reason that Da Vinci used underpainting. He was a big fan of glazing and was probably trained at a time when artists were making the transition from egg tempera painting techniques into oils. It's interesting to speculate about that time. Did Da Vinci ever let his hair down and just blast the paint on without preparation? He did write extensively about light and color so he probably did do some color notations that haven't survived. My students always want to know what's so great about the Mona Lisa and I tell them that it's a beautiful painting of an ugly woman. I tell them that the magic of the painting doesn't really come across in reproduction but that when you stand in front of it the painting has an inner light that transfixes the viewer and is not an effect that could be achieved through direct painting.
           Many artists today still prefer to mix their own paints and will give some pretty good reasons for doing so. Marc Dalessio and Anthony Velasquez are two artists with blogs that give some pretty good insights as to why they prefer to mix their own. It's not really about being a traditional purist, as you might assume. It's more about taking control of the product; it's viscosity, intensity, lack of fillers etc;. Some of the ateliers have that as part of their training. The Florence Academy of Art, John Angel Academy. Water Street atelier does not.
            I don't really have anything against mixing up my own paint it's just not part of my training. I will admit to having had a certain skepticism when it comes to using old fashioned recipes. For years I resisted working on oil primed linen because I didn't feel that the expense justified the hype. When they kind of forced me to use it at Grand Central Academy I realized that there's a good reason why artists like to paint on linen. It's better. Once you try it you'll realize it immediately, it's a no brainer. Cotton duck canvas just doesn't compare. At least not for classical painting techniques. I've also had to use some paint that was a little different from my usual brand, Winsor and Newton. Like many artists, I prefer Winsor and Newton for their consistency. You know what you're getting and it's going to be the same every time. Recently I've been experimenting with Old Holland Cremnitz white and Vasari Ivory Black and Burnt Umber. These paints are clearly made to seem more like paint that you might have mulled yourself. They definitely have a richness and buttery quality that's missing in the more commercially prepared paints. But they are expensive. Which is a pretty good reason for making your own I guess. Hopefully. I remember when I first started flyfishing my friends talked me into learning to tie my own flies and the big money that I would be saving. I soon started to realize that by the time I'd bought hand picked plumes and silk from India, it was ending up costing me more. But still theres a satisfaction in creating and using your own lures and I would imagine it's the same with painting.
               When I first taught myself to paint, over thirty years ago, my method was to make a drawing and then paint it directly, top to bottom. I spent quite a few years in college being taught why this was the wrong approach. No one area of a painting should be developed at a time. The whole painting should gradually emerge. Like a face emerging horizontally from a lake. One of my professor's told me that if you wanted to learn how to paint you should watch the original version of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". The way that the seed pod eventually turns into a human clone is exactly the way that your painting should progress. And for many years I cultivated my "seed pods" and made sure that they didn't ripen too quickly. But it never felt natural. I felt kind of like a duck being trained to bark like a dog.. When I decided to enroll myself part time at the Long Island Academy of Fine Art, I was pleasantly surprised to find that not only was my preferred way of painting acceptable, it was encouraged. My instructors philosophy was to go for broke in the first pass and if you don't get it, go back in and fix it, but you'll be that much closer to getting it the next time. I couldn't get over it. My "wrong" way of painting was suddenly right. And now that I'm painting at Grand Central Academy in the cast painting class I'm surrounded by artists who all, with varying degrees of approach, use a similar wet-in-wet painting method.
           It's not that I have anything against more layered approaches; many of my favorite artists both living and dead, use methods that require gradually building up the paint to a finish. For me theres something very Zen in trying to get it right as I go along. It's hard to explain, but paint is so elemental and mercurial, that when I'm working my mind goes into this place of extreme calm and inner peace. I know the stereotype of the artist is to be tortured and moody while working. I get that way after I'm done with a day's work, never while I'm working. It's one of the few times when I can feel all the engines of my brain firing at once. I have to consider so many factors simultaneously; the shape of the stroke, does the stroke read as form, does the color have light, hard edge or soft? It's quite a list. Yet when everything is going right somehow it all comes together, which I find completely astounding. Every time.